Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night was too quiet for a city like this.

The kind of quiet that presses against your ribs until you forget how to breathe. No cars. No wind. Just the crunch of gravel under cheap sneakers, the hum of faraway neon signs bleeding light into the dark. Jimin didn’t look back.

Minjun was heavy in his arms, not because he’d grown , he was still so small , but because Jimin was too thin to carry him like this anymore. His arms trembled. His legs ached. But he kept walking.

It was only fifteen minutes to the shore.

Maybe twenty, if he kept slowing down to check if Minjun was still warm.

He hadn’t told him anything. Just said, “Let’s go for a walk.” Wrapped him in both his hoodies. Told him to bring the toy car he’d found on the street last week and loved like it was gold. The kid had blinked up at him, tired and confused, but didn’t say no.

Jimin wondered if he knew anyway. Kids feel things. Especially when they’re too young to protect themselves from knowing.

The sea always looked different at night. Black, flat, endless. Not like postcards. Not like it wanted to be loved. Just quiet and wide and waiting.

Jimin liked that about it. How it didn’t lie.

The sand was damp. Cold soaked into his shoes the second he stepped off the concrete. His socks stuck to his toes. Minjun shifted in his grip and let out a soft noise, the kind toddlers make when they’re half asleep and dreaming of something small.

He kissed the side of the kid’s head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

He didn’t cry. He had cried earlier, in the shower, when there was still shampoo in his hair and the water wouldn’t heat up. Minjun had been outside the door humming to himself. Jimin bit his hand until the sob stayed in his throat and swallowed it like a secret.

The apartment was done for. Rent unpaid for months. The landlady had been kind until she wasn’t, and kindness doesn’t make up for an empty account. Jimin couldn’t even blame her.

Debt collectors had stopped threatening and started promising.

And Jimin had nothing left to sell except time, and even that was running out. No one wants an omega with no heat suppressants, no job, and a kid who isn’t even his by blood.
Minjun’s breath hitched once, soft and wet against his shoulder.

His shoes slipped once on the incline. He kept going.

If he’d eaten properly in the last two days, he might’ve hesitated. If he had a blanket at home, a heater that worked, a job offer, someone to call , anyone , he might’ve turned back.

But he didn’t.

There was nothing behind him except cold tile and silence. And men who’d shown up with sunglasses and laughter and too many teeth, asking him if he knew what happened to pretty boys who owed too much and ran too slow.

He remembered the sound of the door closing after they left.

The next morning, he made a choice.

The water reached his ankles. He waded in slowly. Not dramatic. Not like a movie. Just step by step. Careful, so Minjun wouldn’t wake.

The boy shivered. Jimin adjusted the hood around his ears and held him tighter.

He whispered a sorry that didn’t have words.

Minjun stirred. “Hyung?”

Jimin stopped. Water at his knees. He bent slightly and rocked them both.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Minjun blinked against his chest. “Are we swimming?”

Jimin almost smiled. Almost.

“We’re going somewhere nice.”

He didn’t know what that meant. It just sounded better than the truth.

Minjun yawned. “Okay…”

Jimin kissed his hair again. He could still turn back. Still walk away. Maybe find a place under the bridge and try again tomorrow.

But Minjun was losing weight. His cheeks were hollowing. His feet didn’t fit in his shoes anymore, and Jimin had to stuff newspaper inside so he wouldn’t trip.

Tomorrow wasn’t a solution. It was a sentence.

And he couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t watch Minjun fold in on himself while the world pretended not to see.

One more step.

The water reached his thighs. A wave licked up his calves and made him gasp. The cold crawled into his bones like it belonged there.

He closed his eyes.

Let it take us. Let it end.

There was a sound.

Jimin froze. He didn’t turn, didn’t breathe.

In front of him, the sea whispered.

Behind him, a voice cut the quiet like a blade.

“Is this really your big exit plan?”

He turned.

The man stood where the sand turned to stone, dressed in all black, wind ruffling the hem of his coat. His hands were in his pockets like this was a joke. Like he’d walked in on a badly staged play.

There were tattoos, just visible where his sleeve rode up, black ink cutting across skin before disappearing again, deliberate lines, not the kind you got on a whim. A brow piercing caught the light when he shifted, and the silver at his lip made his mouth look sharper than the smile sitting there.

His hair was slicked back, severe, but his eyes didn’t match, dark and soft, those wide doe eyes that made it hard to pin down if he was mocking or just… watching.

Jimin didn’t speak.

“Really?” the man asked again, smiling this time. “The sea? That’s your move?”

Jimin’s arms tightened around Minjun. “Who,?”

“You can call me Jungkook.” The man shrugged. “I’m the guy your dad owes money to.”

The breath caught in Jimin’s throat.

He stepped back, water at his waist now.

Jungkook didn’t chase him.

He knelt, instead. Right on the sand, resting his arms on his knees like they had all the time in the world.

“I figured you'd run,” he said conversationally. “Didn’t think you’d try to drown the kid, though. That’s new.”

Jimin flinched.

“I wasn’t,”

“Sure you weren’t.” Jungkook’s tone was light. “Come out of the water. You’re freezing.”

He didn’t move.

Jungkook’s head tilted. “You want him to die like this? Cold, scared, in the dark?”

Minjun whimpered again. Jimin’s body betrayed him , his knees buckled, and his breath caught.

“I can help,” Jungkook said.

Jimin looked up, wet hair stuck to his cheeks.

“I don’t want your help.”

Jungkook smiled like he’d won something. “Tough luck, baby. I didn’t ask."

The sand was freezing against his knees by the time Jungkook grabbed his arm.

It wasn’t violent, not really. Just firm , a grip that said, I’m done watching.

Jimin’s body locked up. Minjun stirred again, a tiny groan pressed against his neck. He didn’t fight. Not because he didn’t want to , but because his legs wouldn’t work right, and the cold had numbed the part of him that still had a voice.

“Okay,” Jungkook muttered, more to himself. “Let’s get the family out of the damn sea.”

He pulled. Jimin stumbled forward, soaking and shaking, still cradling Minjun tight to his chest. The boy wouldn’t wake up fully, just shifted sleepily and made soft, wet noises like the cold was slipping into his dreams too.

The car was parked on the side of the beach like it belonged there , matte black, expensive, out of place in every way. The driver was gone. Jungkook opened the back door with one hand and jerked his head toward it.

“In.”

Jimin didn’t move.

“You want me to carry you, too?” Jungkook asked, one brow lifting. “It’s a short ride but I’m not into that whole bridal-style thing. Bad for my back.”

Jimin didn’t laugh, but something about the way Jungkook said it, like this was a late-night comedy sketch instead of a kidnapping, made his stomach twist.

“I’m not leaving him” Jimin croaked, his throat raw from cold and salt.

Jungkook blinked. “You think I’m gonna separate you now? After you two just auditioned for a tragedy special?”

He sighed and looked down at Minjun for the first time. Really looked.

“Huh,” he muttered. “That yours?”

Jimin’s spine stiffened. “What?”

“The kid.” Jungkook tilted his chin toward the bundle in Jimin’s arms. “Yours?”

“No.”

Jungkook stared. “You sure? He’s clinging to you like you’re the last omelette in a starving village.”

“He’s my stepbrother.”

That made Jungkook pause. One corner of his mouth lifted like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite make it.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Stepbrother. Cute.”

He looked between the two of them again, then added under his breath, “Fuck, I really thought you were gonna be one of those tragic teen dad types. That was gonna make this whole thing awkward.”

Jimin flinched. “What whole thing?”

“You’ll see.” Jungkook smiled with too many teeth. “Get in the car.”

Jimin hesitated again. But Minjun whimpered, and the wind was biting through his clothes, and the weight of the sea still clung to his skin like salt-soaked regret.

So he got in.

The car was warm. His skin burned as the heat hit it, but he didn’t complain. He just curled tighter around Minjun and stared at the window like it might offer an escape route.

Jungkook got in beside him instead of the front. Elbow propped on the windowsill. Legs spread like this was his living room and Jimin wasn’t shaking inches away from him.

He glanced at Minjun again, who was still nestled in Jimin’s chest, breathing shallow and fast.

“Poor kid,” Jungkook said. “Doesn’t even know his big brother dragged him into the sea for a murder-suicide. That’s trauma with seasoning.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He pressed his lips to Minjun’s hair.

Jungkook leaned in a little, just enough to make Jimin flinch.

“You always this dramatic?” he asked. “Or was tonight a special occasion?”

Jimin turned his head away.

Jungkook grinned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

The drive wasn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Jimin stopped tracking time the moment the city lights gave way to something quieter. Older buildings. Fewer signs. Everything felt too clean. Like someone had scrubbed the life out of the streets.

When the car finally stopped, Jimin didn’t ask where they were.

He knew he didn’t have that right.

Jungkook opened the door, stepped out, then looked back.

“Well?”

Jimin didn’t move.

“You want to sleep in the car? Fine by me. I’ll send someone to check on the corpse in the morning.”

That got him to move. Slowly.

He slid out of the seat, shoes squelching as they touched the pavement.

A woman was already waiting at the entrance of the building , tall, red lipstick, black coat.

Jungkook motioned her over. “Take the kid.”

Jimin froze. “No.”

The woman didn’t reach for Minjun. She looked at Jungkook.

Jungkook gave her a nod.

She approached with the softness of someone who’s used to calming skittish animals.

Jimin backed up.

Jungkook stepped in.

“You want him safe?” he asked, low. “Then listen.”

Jimin swallowed.

“Don’t touch him,”

“I won’t,” the woman said calmly. “I’m not here to hurt him.”

Minjun stirred. Blinked blearily at her. Jimin whispered something into his hair, just a goodbye that wouldn’t sound like goodbye, and gently handed him over.

His arms felt wrong without the weight.

The woman turned and disappeared through the doorway with Minjun held tight.

Jungkook didn’t wait for Jimin to process it.

“Move.”

He walked ahead, expecting to be followed.

Jimin hesitated. Then he stepped after him, body numb, stomach twisting.

The building was darker inside than expected. No receptionist. Just a long hallway with black floors and walls that looked too clean to be safe.

Jimin’s skin prickled.

Jungkook opened a door at the end of the hall. It wasn’t a bedroom.

It was an office.

Large desk. Minimalist shelves. A coat thrown over a leather chair. Window with no view. It smelled like something expensive. Something chemical and sweet, like lacquer or wood polish.

Jungkook stepped inside and turned.

He was smiling again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Take off your shoes.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

Jungkook pointed at the mat near the door. “You’re dripping all over my floor. Don’t be rude.”

It was stupid. Everything that had just happened , and somehow, that was what made Jimin’s hands start to shake. The absurdity of it. Like any of this was normal. Like manners mattered when you’d dragged someone out of the sea and separated them from the only thing keeping them alive.

Still, he toed off his shoes. Socks came off next , soaked, clinging like skin. His feet felt exposed against the cold floor.

“Sit,” Jungkook said, nodding toward the leather couch by the window.

Jimin didn’t move.

Jungkook’s voice dropped. “I said sit.”

Jimin didn’t sit when Jungkook told him to. He stood by the window, dripping onto the tile, arms folded like armor, the edge of the sill digging into his spine.

Jungkook let it slide. For now.

The man leaned back in his chair, loose-limbed and relaxed, like he hadn’t just dragged two half-dead bodies out of the sea. Like this was a business meeting and not… whatever this was.

“I’ll keep it short,” Jungkook said, voice casual. “You owe me.”

Jimin didn’t answer.

“Your father’s debt. Big one. He’s gone, you’re here. You follow?”

A small muscle in Jimin’s jaw twitched.

“I’m not him.”

“You’re not,” Jungkook agreed. “You’re quieter. Thinner. Better hair. But debt’s debt.”

Silence.

Jungkook leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk. “I’m not asking for money. You don’t have any.”

Still nothing.

“I’m offering you an arrangement,” he continued. “A roof. A job. Food in that kid’s mouth. And you pay me the only way you can.”

Jimin’s eyes didn’t move.

“I want you,” Jungkook said plainly.

The words hung there. Not vulgar. Just factual. Like a contract term.

Jimin blinked once. “You want to fuck me?”

Jungkook raised a brow. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“No.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. “Think about it.”

“I said no.”

Jungkook stood. Walked around the desk slowly, deliberately, like he was testing the weight of the room.

“Jimin,” he said. “I’m not asking you to fall in love with me. I don’t even care if you like me. This is about survival.”

He came closer. Close enough that Jimin could smell the spice on his breath, the faint burn of cologne under sweat and smoke.

“You came into the sea ready to die. I gave you a car ride instead. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It tells me you’re a manipulative bastard.”

Jungkook grinned.

“I get that a lot.”

He reached for Jimin’s hoodie.

The reflex was automatic.

Jimin grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

Jungkook’s mouth quirked. “You’re wet. You’ll catch cold.”

“Try me,” Jimin snapped.

Jungkook’s smile dropped just a little. He grabbed Jimin’s collar anyway and tugged.

Jimin didn’t think.

He swung.

The crack of knuckles to jaw echoed like gunfire in the quiet.

Jungkook stumbled back a step, hand flying to his mouth. His lip split cleanly, red blooming across his palm.

For a second, no one breathed.

Then Jungkook looked up, stunned, and then… amused.

“You punched me.”

“Want another?”

Jungkook laughed. Actually laughed. Wiped the blood on his sleeve like it didn’t matter.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You hit harder than half the alphas I’ve put down.”

“Then maybe you should stop putting people down.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was soft now. Mocking. “You really think I’m gonna let an omega talk to me like that?”

Jimin didn’t back away. Didn’t shrink. Just stared at him with hollow defiance, fists still clenched, shoulders squared.

Jungkook’s eyes dragged over him, darker now. Calculating.

Then he moved fast.

Jimin hit the wall with a dull thud, wrists caught above his head in one rough grip. Jungkook’s other hand braced beside his face, body pressed too close, too solid.

“I like you like this,” Jungkook said, breath warm against his cheek. “Angry. Mouthy. Full of teeth.”

Jimin didn’t say anything. His heart was hammering, but his eyes didn’t leave Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook tilted his head. “What, no comeback?”

“You want a fight or a fuck? Pick one.”

The smile came back, slower this time. “That’s the thing. I think you want both.”

“I want you to let me go.”

“You hit me. You think I’m gonna give you space after that?” Jungkook leaned in until their noses almost brushed. “You’ve got guts. But you’re broke, freezing, and hanging by a thread.”

“I’d rather starve.”

“You might.”

Jungkook’s hand slid from Jimin’s wrists to his jaw, thumb grazing his mouth. Jimin jerked his head away, but Jungkook didn’t stop smiling.

“You’ll come back.”

“I won’t.”

Jimin shoved him.

Not hard enough to knock him down, but enough to earn space.

Jungkook stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. Bloody lip, gleaming eyes. Like this was a game and Jimin had just made it fun.

“You done?”

“For now.”

“Then get out.”

Jimin didn’t need to be told twice.

He walked barefoot down the hallway, fists shaking, throat dry.

Behind him, Jungkook called out, “Check your mailbox when you get home. I covered rent. Just in case you change your mind.”

He slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Rain hit his face like spit. Didn’t matter. He had to get to Minjun before the world caught up again.

The hallway lights flickered like they were about to give up. Third floor smelled like burnt curry and cigarette ash. Same as always. Same as yesterday. Same as the night Jimin carried Minjun down those stairs for what he’d thought was the last time.

The door was still rusted. The lock still wiggled when he turned the key. He half-expected it to fall off in his hand.

It didn’t.

He pushed the door open.

The heater was on.

That was the first thing that hit him. Not warmth, just the shock of it. That something in this box of peeling wallpaper and stained tiles was working for once.

Then he saw her.

The same woman. Tall, sharp-shouldered, in a coat too clean for this neighborhood.

Minjun was curled on the futon under the ratty quilt, a bowl of noodles in his lap and cartoons playing low on the TV.

He looked fine.

Jimin didn’t move.

The woman noticed him first. She gave a small nod, like they were coworkers on shift change. No surprise. No smile.

Just, “I did what I was told.”

Jimin stepped inside slowly, half-drenched, still barefoot, his body buzzing with cold and shame.

She walked past him without a word. Closed the door behind her softly.

Gone.

Only then did Minjun look up.

His face lit up. “Hyung!”

The bowl wobbled on his knees. Jimin rushed forward, barely caught it before it tipped. Set it aside. Grabbed Minjun into his chest so hard it made the kid grunt.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin choked out.

Minjun blinked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

His arms locked around the tiny body like a vice. His forehead pressed to Minjun’s shoulder. He couldn’t stop shaking.

Minjun’s fingers clutched his hoodie.

“It’s okay, hyung,” the boy mumbled. “Don’t cry.”

Jimin didn’t realize he was.

He tried to swallow it down. Failed.

Minjun squirmed in his grip, trying to see his face.

“You’re cold,” he said.

Jimin forced a breath through his teeth. Let the boy go just enough to cup his cheek.

“You’re okay?”

Minjun nodded.

“Did she hurt you?”

Another headshake. “She gave me soup.”

Jimin exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for three lifetimes.

The apartment was the same, cracked paint, buzzing fridge, dead plant by the window. But now there was a clean blanket folded on the floor. A plastic bag near the sink with food inside. The rent notice on the door had been peeled off.

Minjun tugged his sleeve. “Where did you go?”

Jimin froze.

He brushed hair out of the boy’s face. “Just had to take care of something.”

“Did the bad men come back?”

Jimin’s chest cracked. “No.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m not.”

Minjun frowned. “But-”

Jimin hugged him again. Tighter. Like if he let go now, the earth might split under their feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, barely audible.

He didn’t say for what.

Didn’t say “sorry for walking you into the sea with nothing but a lie and a borrowed hoodie.”

Didn’t say “sorry for not being enough- not strong enough, not smart enough, not fucking useful enough to give you the life you deserve.”

Didn’t say “sorry I almost ended both of us because I thought I was doing you a favor.”

He just kept holding him.

Minjun made a soft, confused noise and hugged back.

“It’s okay, hyung,” he said again, smaller this time. “I’m not mad.”

Jimin’s throat burned. His eyes burned. Every part of him screamed.

How do you explain to a kid that you tried to erase them?

How do you say, I brought you into the sea and planned to never come back?

You don’t.

You sit there on the floor of a shitty apartment with the heater rattling in the corner and the noodles getting cold, and you hold on to the only thing in the world that still wants to be held by you.

Minjun eventually wriggled free to finish his dinner.

Jimin didn’t move.

He watched the kid slurp soup and giggle at something on screen, like his entire existence hadn’t just been one heartbeat away from being rewritten in water.

There were new socks folded on the windowsill. A pair of sneakers in the corner that actually fit.

Jungkook had been here.

His people. His money. His fingerprints all over this life that didn’t belong to him.

Jimin sat back against the wall. Let the cold soak into his bones. It felt more honest than the heat.

Minjun turned to him halfway through the cartoon and said, “Did you fight the bad guys?”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“You’re bleeding,” Minjun said, pointing to his cheek.

He reached up. There was a scrape on his temple he hadn’t noticed. Must’ve happened in the struggle.

“Yeah,” Jimin said quietly. “A little.”

“Did you win?”

Jimin smiled. It was more teeth than joy. “No.”

Minjun offered him a fish cake from the bowl like it was a medal. Jimin took it without speaking.

Later, after Minjun fell asleep with his toy car tucked under his chin, Jimin sat by the window in silence.

There was a note on the floor.

He didn’t notice it until the light hit it just right, pale scrap of paper near the door, folded in half like a secret someone forgot to hide.

He picked it up.

Jungkook’s handwriting was messy. Sharp.

“Don’t worry, I’m not charging you for the soup.
You’ve got one free pass. Use it wisely.”

No signature.

Just that.

Jimin crumpled it.

Didn’t throw it away.

The first week was survival.

He didn’t care about the smell, or the night shift, or the drunk men who lingered too long by the instant noodles. He didn’t care that the backroom flooded when it rained, or that the old freezer buzzed like it was dying every hour. Jimin just needed to keep the job. That was all.

He’d knocked on sixteen doors. Got laughed at four times. One woman told him he was too small, another said he looked like he’d faint if he lifted a box of water bottles. By the time he reached the convenience store at the end of the block, his voice was hoarse and he could barely stand up straight.

The manager hadn’t even looked up when Jimin spoke.

“I’ll work double,” Jimin said. “No break. No days off. Please.”

The man was eating crackers behind the counter, crumbs everywhere. He chewed loudly, eyeing Jimin’s soaked shirt and trembling hands.

“You desperate?”

“Yes.”

The man blinked, shrugged, and said, “Fine. Start now.”

The first night was bad.

His body wasn’t used to standing that long. By the end of it, his legs were shaking so hard he had to sit down on the curb before walking home.

He still made Minjun soup when he got there. Let it boil too long because he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Sat beside his brother and watched him sleep while his hands cramped around the chopsticks he forgot to set down.

The second week was worse.

The morning shifts bled into the evening ones. He only went home to check on Minjun, wash up, and bring back whatever was expired from the shelves. Crackers. Milk. Instant rice.

He stopped answering unknown numbers. Let the voicemails pile up until the red notification light on his phone blinked like it was laughing at him.

He didn’t cry.

Even when he coughed up blood one night and had to rinse it down the staff sink.

Even when the back of his ankle cracked open from standing too long in wet shoes.

Even when a customer called him a slur for ignoring a lewd comment and the manager didn’t say a word.

Jimin didn’t cry.

By the third week, it got easier.

His body adjusted. He stopped feeling the ache in his thighs. The bruises on his arms faded. The voices in his head got quieter, like they were bored of repeating the same things.

He started to like the late-night shift. It was quiet. Just him and the sound of the automatic door opening every now and then, the soft chime of a distant bell. No one expected him to smile. No one touched him.

Sometimes, he’d sneak out close-to-expired snacks and sit in the alley behind the store with a bottle of warm water. It wasn’t peace, but it was something close. Stillness. Silence.

He thought maybe... just maybe, he could do this.

Minjun was eating more. That was the best part.

Jimin left him drawings inside the fridge. A little note with each meal.

Eat all of it, Minjun-ah.
There’s candy in the pocket of the blue jacket.
Don’t forget to wash your hands. I’ll be back soon.

The notes came back with smiley faces scribbled on the back. Messy, childish, uneven.

He kept them all in his wallet.

By the fourth week, Jimin started thinking ahead.

It wasn’t a dream. He didn’t have time to dream.

But he let himself imagine things:

If he could stay here three months, he could pay rent again. Maybe buy proper shoes. Get Minjun a winter coat that didn’t belong to someone else first.

If the manager trusted him enough, maybe he’d be allowed to close alone. If he closed alone, maybe he could take a second job early mornings.

If he managed to stay healthy, maybe... just maybe, he could make a dent in the debt.

He didn’t think about Jungkook.

Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.

In truth, there had been a night- one of those endless, quiet shifts when the curiosity itched too much to ignore. He’d slipped his phone out, kept the screen low behind the counter, and typed Jungkook’s full name into the search bar.

The results made his stomach drop.

Not just the money. Not just the cars and the beach houses and the high-end clubs with velvet ropes. It was the rest of it—the photos with men whose faces were blurred out in court cases, the whispers in news articles about “unregistered imports” and “exclusive private security.” A string of shell companies, each one dirtier than the last. Rumors about debtors who’d disappeared after missing payments, their families vanishing along with them.

And Jungkook’s face in every photo, smiling like he owned the air around him.

Jimin clicked the screen off so fast he almost dropped the phone.

He didn’t need to know more.

It was enough to understand one thing: among all the people his father owed, Jungkook was by far the most dangerous. The kind of man you didn’t owe at all if you wanted to live easy. The kind you didn’t take favors from, even if they glittered in the light.

So Jimin stopped thinking about the beach. Or the car. Or the offer that tasted like poison even when it promised safety.

He didn’t want safety that came with strings.

He wanted a life that didn’t belong to anyone else.

𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪

It happened on a Thursday.

The rain was light. The air was thick. His hands were sticky with shelf dust and he was halfway through rearranging the cup noodles when the door opened.

Three men.

Not customers.

He knew.

Before they even spoke, he knew.

One stepped behind the counter. The other leaned into his space.

“Pretty little omega,” the man drawled. “Thought you could hide here?”

Jimin didn’t speak.

He’d stopped being afraid of words.

The one near the shelves knocked a stack of chips over with a loud crash. Another tipped the display rack of drinks. The register drawer was pulled open, no money. Jimin had cashed out already.

They didn’t care.

“You got guts, I’ll give you that,” the first man said, pushing a hand into Jimin’s chest, just hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Running off and acting like your deadbeat father didn’t dig your grave for you.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched.

“You hiding just like him now?” the man sneered. “Next time we come looking,”

He leaned in.

“we won’t be so polite. We’ll drag your skinny little ass out by the hair. And maybe give your kid brother something to cry about while we’re at it.”

Jimin moved.

Faster than he meant to.

His fist shot out, a clean hit aimed at the man’s cheek, but it didn’t land. The second guy caught his arm mid-air and shoved him back, hard enough that his ribs rattled when he hit the edge of the shelf behind him.

The ramen toppled. A few cans rolled.

Jimin stayed on his feet. Barely.

The man smirked, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.

“Feisty little bitch,” he muttered. “You better learn some manners before someone teaches you the hard way.”

They left like they’d only stopped in for gum.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

The manager came out ten seconds later, half a sandwich in his hand.

“What the hell was that?”

Jimin didn’t speak.

“You know them?” the man snapped.

“No,” Jimin said. His voice sounded wrong. Too calm.

The manager scoffed. “Don’t lie to me. You’re neck-deep in something, aren’t you?”

“I thought hiring you’d bring in customers. Omegas always do. Especially the tragic-looking ones.”

Jimin’s shoulders twitched.

“But all you’ve brought is bad luck and garbage. I’m not risking my store because some pretty-faced debt magnet decided to play house here.”

He tossed the sandwich into the bin. Didn’t look Jimin in the eye.

“You’re done. Get out.”

Jimin didn’t move.

He heard the beep of the fridge door behind him. The quiet hum of the AC above. Something sticky beneath his shoe from a dropped drink he hadn’t had time to mop.

He stared at the floor.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t speak.

Just turned and walked out before the air could press down any harder.

Outside, it rained harder.

Jimin didn’t put up his hood.

He walked slowly, one step at a time. Not because he wanted to be dramatic. Just because he didn’t know where to go.

The city didn’t notice him.

The people passing by didn’t see him.

He could’ve collapsed on the sidewalk and the world would’ve stepped over him like a crack in the pavement.

When he got home, Minjun was already asleep.

A crayon drawing was taped to the wall with old candy wrappers, two stick figures and a cat. Jimin wasn’t sure if they even had a cat, but he smiled anyway.

He peeled off his wet shirt. Washed his hands. His face. Didn’t look in the mirror.

Sat down on the floor next to Minjun’s mattress and stared at the wall.

He was supposed to bring dinner. He was supposed to bring candy. He was supposed to bring back a little more hope.

His phone rang. He stared at it.

No name. Just a number.

It rang again.

He thought about ignoring it.

Letting it ring into nothing.

Then he answered.

“…Hello?”

He came back in the same clothes he almost died in.

Not because he didn’t have others, but because it felt fitting. Like wearing the bruise to the execution.

The office was warm. His body had stopped shivering an hour ago, but the heat still sat wrong on his skin, like something borrowed. Back straight. Jaw locked. Hands twisted in his lap, white-knuckled and clean.

The door opened behind him, and Jungkook walked in like this was his living room. Like he hadn’t dragged Jimin’s voice out of him over the phone last night with just one sentence.

“You ready to stop pretending?”

Jimin had said yes.

Not because he was. But because there was no other word left.

He didn’t say anything when Jungkook entered, didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. The man moved like a shadow stretched across polished floor, jacket undone, hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed. He closed the door with his foot.

“Well,” Jungkook said, slow and smiling. “Look who finally remembered my address.”

Jimin stared ahead.

Jungkook walked closer, hands in his pockets. “You even wore the same outfit. Sentimental.”

Still no answer.

“Not gonna say hello?”

“I’m not here for small talk.”

Jungkook let out a soft whistle, crouched a little in front of him, elbows on his knees.

“God,” he muttered, voice warm. “You really are pretty when you’ve got nothing left to say.”

Jimin’s fingers dug into his thighs.

Jungkook didn’t reach for him yet. Just looked. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of wound he was dealing with. Not if it would bleed, just how fast.

“You came fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t even let me finish my coffee.”

“You told me to.”

“I did,” Jungkook grinned. “I just didn’t think you’d listen.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You are,” he agreed, standing slowly. “Which means we’ve got an understanding.”

“No,” Jimin said. “We have a deal.”

That made Jungkook chuckle.

“I forgot how sharp you are. It’s cute.”

Jimin looked up at him then, for the first time, something flickering just behind his eyes. Not hate. Not submission either. Just that awful, raw clarity of someone who knew what they were worth, and what they were being bought for.

Jungkook took a step closer.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he said softly. “Help me out a little, and I’ll make sure the kid never has to feel this kind of cold again.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to talk about him here.”

Jungkook raised his hands, mock-innocent. “Alright, alright. Business only.”

He leaned in.

“You ready to earn your keep, baby?”

Jimin didn’t answer. He stood.

His knees didn’t buckle. His voice didn’t shake. But there was a way his shoulders lifted, just slightly, just enough, like he was bracing for something that wouldn’t be soft.

Jungkook’s eyes dropped. Raked him slow, from chin to knees.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You really don’t get it. I’ve been thinking about this since you walked into the sea.”

Jimin didn’t move.

Jungkook stepped behind him, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air shifted. The faintest pull, the echo of heat.

“You nervous?” Jungkook asked.

“No.”

“You should be.”

Jungkook’s hand slid up under the hem of Jimin’s hoodie – not rough, not even hurried. Just a palm on bare skin, warm and slow and deliberate.

Jimin flinched, but didn’t move away.

“Soft,” Jungkook murmured. “God, you omegas. You’re all fucking silk and secrets.”

His other hand came up to rest against Jimin’s waist.

Jimin didn’t look at him. Didn’t turn around. Just closed his eyes, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

“You hate me right now, don’t you?” Jungkook whispered. “You’re standing here thinking, if I just let him touch me, he’ll leave me alone. He’ll give me money. He’ll leave my brother out of it.”

Jimin’s lips parted. But nothing came out.

Jungkook leaned in, mouth near his ear now. “You think that makes you strong.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Jimin said, voice low, steady.

“Yeah, you do,” Jungkook said. “You care enough to be here.”

The hand at his waist slid down, fingers grazing the band of his pants. Not pushing yet. Just there. Hovering.

“You can still say no,” Jungkook said softly.

Jimin said nothing.

“I won’t stop,” Jungkook added. “But you can say it.”

Jimin’s eyes opened. Sharp. Dark.

“You don’t want a no,” he said.

Jungkook smiled behind him.

“No,” he agreed. “I want obedience.”

He kissed the back of Jimin’s neck, just once. No pressure, no passion. Just a claim.

Jimin shivered.

Then Jungkook’s hands slid to the front of his pants. Undid the button slowly.

Jimin stood still, eyes forward.

Jimin didn’t breathe when the zipper came down.

He felt the shift, the slide of cold metal, the release of tension, and still, he stood there, back straight, heart a thud against bone. His thighs tightened, his hands curled into fists, but he didn’t move. Not when Jungkook pushed the fabric down, not when his knuckles grazed bare skin, not when he exhaled a low, satisfied hum against the nape of Jimin’s neck.

“Good boy,” Jungkook murmured.

Jimin flinched like it burned.

The sweat that rolled down his temple wasn’t from heat. The heat was artificial, pumped from vents, too sterile to mean anything. The sweat came from something older, something deeper. Something primal.

Jungkook didn’t undress him fully.

Just pushed the pants low enough to expose what mattered. Ran his hands over his hips like he was feeling the shape of a purchase. Like he was measuring what was his now.

He licked his lips and dropped to his knees.

Jimin’s breath caught.

A warm palm slid along his inner thigh. Fingers curled beneath his ass. A hot breath ghosted over his cock, not quite touching.

“You smell sweet,” Jungkook said absently, as if to himself. “Must be the slick.”

Jimin wanted to die. Or run. Or hit him again, but his arms wouldn’t move, and Jungkook was already mouthing along the crease of his thigh, tongue flicking cruel and slow.

A whimper slipped out.

It was small. Barely a sound. But Jungkook grinned.

“There we go.”

He didn’t waste time.

One moment he was teasing. The next, his mouth was around Jimin’s cock, warm and wet and unrelenting. Jimin gasped, a sharp, punched-out breath like he had been struck and instinctively reached back for balance, fingers catching on Jungkook’s shoulder.

He didn’t grip.

He didn’t dare.

Jungkook sucked him down hard, no gentleness to it. His pace was greedy, practiced, like he knew exactly how far to push, how long to pause, how deep to go before Jimin’s knees would threaten collapse. His tongue was wicked, circling the head, pressing under, dragging wet and thick along the vein.

Jimin bit his lip. Hard. Drew blood.

The pressure built fast. Slick beading where it shouldn’t. His body betrayed him before his mind could keep up. Heat pooled low in his gut, electric and humiliating, and he hated the way his thighs trembled.

He didn’t want it.

But his body did.

Jungkook pulled back with a loud pop and looked up.

“Sensitive,” he said. “I like that.”

He stood again. Not slow. Not fast. Just inevitable.

His belt came off with a snap. Jimin flinched again, not at the sound, but the implication. Jungkook was already hard, bulge pressing obscenely through his briefs, and he didn’t hesitate to free himself.

Thick. Heavy. Slick already from his own arousal.

Jimin looked away.

“Face me.”

He didn’t.

Jungkook grabbed his chin, forced him to. The grip was rough, fingers digging just enough to leave a mark.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Jimin met his eyes. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Jungkook stared back like he was reading him, or maybe just admiring the damage.

Then he turned Jimin around, shoved him back against the desk.

It was cold under his palms. Hard. Unforgiving. Jungkook kicked his legs apart, one knee pressing between Jimin’s thighs to keep him open.

“Bend,” he said.

Jimin didn’t.

So Jungkook bent him.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. One hand on his back, the other pushing his hips into place, and suddenly Jimin was bare, exposed, bent over a desk that smelled like ink and money and power he would never have.

“Pretty little hole,” Jungkook muttered. “Knew you’d be wet for me.”

Jimin wanted to bite through his tongue.

There was no prep. Just spit. Fingers. A crude stretch of wet heat and burning pressure that made his whole body jerk. Jungkook didn’t pause to ask if he was okay. Didn’t wait for a yes or a nod. He just opened him with two slick fingers and groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

Jimin choked on air.

He hated the noise he made when Jungkook pushed in his cock, slow only because it was tight, not because he was being kind. The burn was sharp, tearing, raw. And Jungkook moaned like he was being worshipped.

“You feel that?” he breathed. “That’s what you gave up your pride for.”

Jimin turned his head into his arm and squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn’t help.

He felt every inch.

Jungkook bottomed out with a grunt. Stayed there for a second, breathing hard against Jimin’s back, sweat already slicking his chest.

Then he started to move.

The desk scraped against the floor. Jimin’s hips jolted with every thrust. Jungkook held his waist like a handle, dragging him back to meet every stroke. The rhythm was merciless. Deep. Fast. Brutal.

Jimin gritted his teeth and tried not to make a sound.

It didn’t work.

The slick made it worse, obscene, wet noises between every thrust. Jungkook cursed under his breath, hips slamming into Jimin’s ass like he was trying to break something.

“You’re taking me so well,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Jimin couldn’t speak. His hands curled into fists on the desk.

When Jungkook leaned forward to bite his shoulder, Jimin didn’t react. When a hand slipped around to stroke his cock, fast and rough, he jerked once, then went still again.

Jungkook came with a groan and a twitch of muscle, fingers bruising Jimin’s hips as he emptied inside, breath hot against Jimin’s neck.

No tenderness. No whisper. Just heat, and silence, and the slow pull of skin against skin as he withdrew, careless.

Jimin didn’t move.

The air was thick. Sweat and come and the echo of slick against hardwood. His body ached in places he didn’t want to name. His thighs were trembling. His stomach turned.

Behind him, Jungkook exhaled, zipping up with a lazy hum.

“Well,” he said, smug. “You didn’t die.”

Jimin grabbed his underwear from the floor. Pulled it on without a word.

“You want a towel?” Jungkook offered, breezing past him toward the cabinet. “Or maybe a shower? I’ve got eucalyptus soap. Very five-star.”

“No.”

“No?” Jungkook turned, holding a small pack of tissues like a peace offering. “C’mon, you’re dripping. You’ll ruin the hallway carpet.”

“I said no.”

His voice was flat. Steady. Unapologetic.

Jungkook blinked. Then grinned.

“You’re feisty after getting railed. I like that.”

Jimin didn’t respond. Just reached for his coat, stuffing his shirt into his pants, not bothering to fix the buttons right.

Jungkook leaned against the desk, watching him like he was entertainment. “So what now? You gonna limp out in silence like a noir protagonist?”

“I want my payment.”

“Wow.” He whistled low. “Romance is dead.”

“You never offered romance.”

“No,” Jungkook said, tilting his head. “I offered comfort. You just didn’t want it.”

Jimin held out his hand.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he pulled open the desk drawer and slid out a thick envelope. Tossed it into Jimin’s palm like a dealer handing off chips.

“First night’s pay,” he said. “You earned it.”

Jimin tucked it into his coat pocket.

Jungkook stepped forward. Just a little.

“You coming tomorrow?”

“Is that part of the deal?”

“It’s part of what I want.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. “What’s the job?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I want a clean one.”

Jungkook grinned. “Relax, sweetheart. No back alleys. No handcuffs, unless you ask nicely.”

“I won’t.”

“Shame.”

Jimin turned toward the door.

“Oh,” Jungkook called, just before he reached it. “Bring your pretty mouth back too. Might have use for it.”

Jimin didn’t look back. Didn’t say anything.

Just walked out, sore and silent, the envelope warm in his coat.

The job was a joke, and the uniform was the punchline.

The shirt was black, skin-tight, and did nothing to hide the curve of Jimin’s waist or the smooth line of his hips. The slacks were worse, clinging to him like sweat, fabric thin enough to broadcast everything and protect nothing. Whoever designed the uniform had either been blind or horny, and Jimin was willing to bet on the latter.

He hated it. Hated the way it made him feel watched. Wanted. Like a toy behind glass.

But he showed up anyway. Every night, sharp at seven, because the paycheck came in cash and the rent was late and his little brother still needed a roof.

The first night, he’d told himself it was just waiting tables.

By the seventh, he’d lost count of how many times Jeon Jungkook, the boss, the owner of this whole sleazy excuse for a bar had grabbed his ass.

Tonight, the place stank of sweat and cigarettes and something spicy burning in the kitchen. A light flickered in the corner. The jukebox glitched halfway through an old rock song. Somewhere behind him, someone was vomiting in the bathroom.

Jimin balanced three drinks on a tray and made his way across the floor.

“Evening, baby,” came the voice. Low. Warm. Dangerous.

Jungkook.

Black button-down open at the chest, sleeves rolled up, a gold chain catching the light just beneath his throat. His grin was sharp. His fingers were already twitching.

Jimin didn’t even look at him.

But he walked past a little slower.

Jungkook’s hand landed on his hip. Not subtle. Not soft. Thumb grazing the waistband like he had every right in the world.

Jimin stopped dead in his tracks. Glanced down at the hand.

“Do you want that broken?” he asked.

Jungkook laughed... low and delighted.

“You’ve been threatening to break it all week,” he said. “Yet here we are. My hand still fully functional. Your ass still fully touchable.”

“Touch me again,” Jimin muttered, “and I’ll knee you so hard your ancestors will limp.”

Jungkook leaned in close. Breath warm on the back of Jimin’s neck.

“Promises, promises,” he whispered.

Jimin shivered. Hated that he shivered.

It had been a week.

One long, humiliating week of dodging hands and smirking grins and shameless offers. Jungkook didn’t need to show up, the place was his. He lived in the back office when he wanted to, ran shady numbers through the register like clockwork, paid staff in thick envelopes with no names on them.

But that didn’t stop him from loitering out front, third booth from the back, perfect view of the bar. He’d order nonsense cocktails just to make Jimin bring them. Would invent new reasons to call him over. Would rest his palm on the small of Jimin’s back like he owned the rights.

Once, he’d tugged Jimin into his lap.

Jimin had elbowed him in the ribs.

The next night, Jungkook tipped him five hundred.

Jimin dumped the tray on the counter and picked up another round. He could feel Jungkook’s eyes on him like a handprint between his shoulder blades. Every time he bent down, turned, twisted, he felt it.

“Hey,” came the whisper as he passed by again.

He ignored it.

“Hey.”

A little louder.

Still ignored.

Then,

Smack.

Loud. Sharp. Right across the ass.

He dropped the tray. The drinks shattered.

“Oops,” Jungkook said, not even bothering to look guilty.

Jimin turned around slowly.

“You have five seconds,” he said, voice low and lethal, “to get your hands off me before I staple them to your fucking forehead.”

Jungkook looked delighted.

“You know,” he said, stepping closer, “you get prettier every time you threaten me.”

“And you get dumber every time you breathe.”

“You’re cute when you’re mean.”

“You’re unbearable when you exist.”

Jungkook’s grin widened. He stepped right into Jimin’s space.

“You dodged me all week,” he said softly. “One more time and I might think you’re playing hard to get.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Oh, baby. You’re playing everything.”

His fingers brushed Jimin’s waist again, casual, cruel, like a dare.

Jimin slapped his hand away.

“Touch me again,” he hissed, “and I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

Jungkook leaned in.

“I already regret letting you leave after one round.”

Jimin’s breath caught.

Jungkook’s eyes dropped, slow, hungry, down the line of his body.

“You know I’m serious, right?” he murmured. “You want to keep this job, you show up. Fully. No more running off the second I start touching.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “That’s not what I agreed to.”

Jungkook shrugged. “You agreed the night you let me fuck you and took this job. You’re paying off a debt, remember?”

“I’m paying off your debt the same way I’m paying off the others....with work.”

Jungkook leaned in. His breath was warm. His grin wasn’t kind. “No, baby. You’re paying off theirs with drinks and dishes. You pay me with something else.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched.

“Then fire me.”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. “Not a chance.”

Later, behind the bar.

One of the other waiters nudged him, eyes flicking toward the third booth in the back.

“You okay?” he asked. “Boss has been staring at you all night.”

“He’s annoying,” Jimin muttered.

“Yeah, but he’s hot.”

Jimin gave him a look.

The waiter shrugged. “If you’re not gonna fuck him, I might.”

Jimin scoffed. “Be my guest. Just don’t cry when he bites.”

The waiter blinked. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not if you end up marked.”

The guy paled.

Jimin smirked and turned away.

Jungkook caught him outside the freezer, cornering him with both palms flat on either side of Jimin’s head.

The scent was stronger than usual. His voice was low.

“Still pretending I didn’t wreck you last week?”

Jimin didn’t answer.

Jungkook tilted his head, chain glinting at his collar.

“I can wait,” he said. “But not forever.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “This is you being patient?”

“This is me being generous.”

His hand slid down Jimin’s chest, over the shirt, no rush. Just enough contact to raise goosebumps.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” Jungkook murmured.

Jimin shoved him back.

“Touch me again,” he said coldly, “and I’ll scream.”

Jungkook winked. “You didn’t last time.”

End of the night,

Jimin’s tips were thick in his pocket. Jungkook was still at his booth, legs spread, arms lazy, watching him like a meal that hadn’t finished cooking.

Jimin didn’t go over.

Didn’t look back.

But he could feel it.

Eyes on him like a promise.

The minute the clock hit six, Jimin’s stomach twisted.

Minjun was home alone.

He hadn’t wanted to leave. Spent the entire walk to the bar fighting the urge to turn back, to call in sick, to find some excuse that didn’t sound like: my stepbrother is seven years old and too precious to be left with an empty apartment and a deadbolt. But Soojin, the friend who usually stayed over during Jimin’s night shifts, had a family emergency. And there was no one else. Just him. Just the job. Just the debt.

He’d made Minjun promise not to answer the door, not even for the neighbors. Told him not to touch the stove. Not to open the window if someone knocked. Not to fall asleep with the TV on because it gave Jimin heart attacks when he came back to flickering lights and no sound.

Minjun had said okay. Had hugged him too tight, like he knew Jimin didn’t believe it would be enough.

And now here he was, on shift, shoulders tight, tray in hand, with nothing but noise and shadows for company.

The bar felt hotter tonight. Sweat sticking to his back by the second hour, fake smiles stitched too tight across his face. Orders blurred in and out of his ears, people laughed too loud, the neon sign behind the counter buzzed like a headache that wouldn’t quit.

He hadn’t checked his phone in twenty minutes.

That had to be a record.

Jimin forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t afford a panic attack here. Not in the middle of a Thursday night rush, not while still two hours away from the end of his shift, not with the memory of Minjun’s little voice echoing: I’ll be good, hyung, I promise.

He wiped down a table, ignored the wandering eyes from a group of men near the window, and turned around to scan the booths, then froze.

Still no Jungkook.

It wasn’t that he wanted the asshole around. If anything, he’d spent the first hour of his shift bracing for it, the flash of a knowing grin, the casual press of a hand too low on his back, the way Jungkook whispered lewd things under his breath like Jimin was the only one who mattered in a room full of people.

But he wasn’t here. Not in his usual seat. Not leaning against the wall pretending not to stare.

Nothing.

It was... strange.

Not comforting. Not even close.

Jimin wiped his palms against his apron, throat dry.

Because two nights ago, when he’d ducked into the storage room to grab a new bottle of tonic, Jungkook had followed. Locked the door behind him. Laughed when Jimin flinched.

“Relax,” he’d said, voice like warm metal. “You know how this works.”

And Jimin had tried to say no. Had tried to shift away. Had even told him, “Not here,” voice tight, breath shorter than it should have been.

But Jungkook hadn’t touched him with hands at first. Just words. Close enough to ghost heat down the side of Jimin’s neck without lifting a finger.

Then came the grip. Firm. Undeniable. Like gravity.

And somehow, impossibly, Jimin had ended up on his knees.

Even now, standing in the middle of the bar with sweat beading on his spine and Minjun’s safety clogging his lungs, he could feel it, the sting of humiliation behind his teeth, the way his jaw had ached after, how Jungkook had said, laughing, “Best blowjob I’ve ever had,” like that was a compliment Jimin should be proud to wear.

He hadn’t stayed after that shift. Had gone straight home, kissed Minjun’s forehead while he slept, and cried into the bathroom sink until he couldn’t see straight.

And now?

Now the man who called him baby with a bite in his smile was nowhere in sight.

Jimin grabbed a pitcher, filled it, and walked it to table nine. Smiled. Said thank you. Took the tip. All muscle memory now.

Still no call. Still no text. Still no Jungkook.

Which would’ve felt better if it didn’t also feel like bait.

Because Jungkook didn’t do disappearances.

He did control.

And silence, prolonged, intentional silence, was just another way of pressing his hand to Jimin’s throat.

By hour three, Jimin’s focus was gone. He spilled a drink on himself, got cussed at by a drunk woman for mixing up her order, and barely blinked when a guy near the back tried to grab his ass.

He dodged it. Politely. Mechanically. Then excused himself to the kitchen, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection like it might offer an escape.

It didn’t.

When his shift finally ended, he peeled off the apron, grabbed his phone, and bolted out the back door without saying goodbye.

It was already dark. Cold in a way that made him want to run, faster than footsteps, faster than thought, faster than Jungkook’s voice in his head.

His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone.

No new messages.

Just the screen, and the time, and a wallpaper of Minjun holding a plastic sword like it was the coolest thing in the world.

Jimin walked faster.

The door creaked open.

Jimin stepped in quietly, bag slipping off his shoulder.

Minjun’s laugh shot through the dim apartment like a firecracker.

His heart stilled.

No music. No TV. Just giggles and the low rumble of a voice that did not belong here.

He turned the corner....

And stopped cold.

Jungkook was crouched on the threadbare floor beside Minjun, holding two mismatched spoons like swords. A few coins were scattered on the tiles. Bottle caps. Some rubber bands. Makeshift treasure.

Minjun was mid-laugh, clutching his stomach.

Jungkook looked up. Smiled like he hadn’t just broken and entered.

Jimin’s voice was cold. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Minjun blinked. “Hyung, this is my new friend! He’s so funny, he said he’s the—”

Jimin strode forward, yanked Jungkook up by the collar. “Get out.”

“Missed you too,” Jungkook said, unbothered. “Careful, baby, I’m holding a high-stakes spoon.”

“Get out.”

“Why?” Jungkook said, grinning. “I’m bonding.”

“With my brother.”

“With the coolest seven-year-old I’ve ever met. You should’ve seen his defense strategy, he nearly wiped me out with a bottle cap.”

“Hyung,” Minjun frowned, tugging at Jimin’s sleeve. “He brought noodles. And juice. And a new puzzle. Why are you mad?”

Jungkook wiggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, why are you mad, hyung?”

Jimin’s glare sharpened. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Oh come on,” Jungkook said, stepping closer, still annoyingly calm. “He was bored. You were working. I figured, why not keep him company? I’m great with kids.”

“You have no right—” Jimin cut off, then hissed, “How did you even get in?”

Jungkook didn’t blink. “Made a copy of the key. Weeks ago.”

Jimin’s eyes flared. “You....what?”

“And I knew your babysitter friend was gone tonight,” Jungkook added. “So someone had to step in, right?”

“You’re insane.”

“No,” Jungkook said with a grin. “I’m responsible.”

“You have no right-”

“I made dinner.”

“Get out.”

“Minjun liked me.”

“I don’t.”

Jungkook leaned in just enough to invade space. “You liked me fine last time I had you bent over my office couch.”

Jimin’s expression cracked in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” he hissed. “You’re saying that, in front of him?”

Minjun was still on the floor, blinking up at them with big eyes, clearly confused.

Jungkook just smiled. “He doesn’t know what that means.”

“That doesn’t make it okay, you absolute—”

Minjun yawned, rubbing his eyes.

Immediately, Jimin’s tone softened. “Go to bed, baby. I’ll be right there.”

“But you’ll say sorry to my friend, right?”

Jimin looked at Jungkook like he wanted to shove him through a window. “...Sure.”

Minjun nodded seriously, like peace was restored, and padded off toward the bedroom.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jimin turned back to Jungkook. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I was just leaving,” Jungkook said, straightening his sleeves. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Keeping him safe. Feeding him. Giving him someone to laugh with.”

Jimin’s lip curled. “You want a medal?”

“No,” Jungkook said. “I want a thank you.”

Jimin shoved him toward the door.

Jungkook didn’t resist. Just let himself be marched to the stairs, smirking like this was all part of the plan.

“You don’t get to play house,” Jimin hissed.

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re not his friend.”

“I could be.”

“You’re not mine.”

Jungkook stepped down to the next stair, turned to face him.

His voice dropped. “Not yet.”

The air tightened. Cheap hallway light above them flickered. Somewhere, a faucet dripped.

Jimin didn’t move.

Jungkook tilted his head. “What’s wrong? Afraid I’ll come back?”

“I know you’ll come back,” Jimin snapped. “That’s the problem.”

Jungkook studied him for a long second. No grin this time. Just eyes dark and curious. Calculating.

Then he leaned up one step. Closed the space.

Jimin should’ve stepped back. Should’ve said something.

He didn’t.

Jungkook’s voice was low. “You still smell like me.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You came to me.”

Jimin hated that he couldn’t breathe right.

“Your lips are trembling,” Jungkook said, almost amused.

“Because I want to slap you.”

“Try.”

Jimin didn’t move.

Jungkook moved first.

The kiss wasn’t soft. Wasn’t polite. Just a clash of teeth and control, heat against anger, a mouth full of tension and restraint.

Jimin shoved him back.

Jungkook’s hand slipped into Jimin’s pants like it belonged there.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just heat. Just pressure. Just ownership.

Jimin jerked, breath catching in his throat, panic rising sharp and hot.

“Don’t,” he spat.

But his hips twitched, involuntary, useless and Jungkook saw it. Felt it.

Grinned.

“Always so reactive,” he murmured. “That little body knows who it belongs to.”

Jimin grabbed his wrist, grip shaking. “I said stop.”

“You’re hard,” Jungkook said flatly, as if it was an argument he’d just won. “You’re wet. Dripping through your fucking boxers. Don’t insult both of us by pretending you don’t need this.”

Jimin’s heart thundered. His throat felt too tight. “I hate you.”

“You hate needing me,” Jungkook whispered, brushing his mouth against Jimin’s cheek. “That’s different.”

Another stroke, slow, cruel and Jimin’s head hit the wall behind him with a soft thud.

“This is part of your payment,” Jungkook muttered. “You want the debt gone, don’t you?”

“I’ll pay it some other way.”

“No, sweetheart. You won’t.”

Jungkook spun him, shoved him face-first into the wall. Jimin tried to push back, elbows, fists, anything but Jungkook was already undoing his pants, already lowering them, already crowding in.

“Don’t-” Jimin’s voice cracked.

“He’s inside,” Jungkook murmured. “So stay quiet.”

The waistband was yanked down. Cold air rushed over his thighs. And then Jungkook’s fingers were between his legs, sliding through the slick like they owned it.

“So fucking wet,” he breathed. “And you want me gone? Liar.”

Jimin squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. He wasn’t supposed to let it happen again.

But Jungkook was already lining up behind him.

“You’ll take it,” he said. “Just like before.”

The stretch burned. Jimin bit his tongue so hard it tasted like metal.

Jungkook sank in slowly, inch by inch not gentle, just possessive. And when he bottomed out, he exhaled like it was relief.

Jimin didn’t make a sound. His fingers curled against the concrete, white-knuckled.

“God,” Jungkook groaned. “You fit like you missed me.”

Jimin said nothing.

Jungkook pulled back and slammed in again. And again. And again.

The rhythm wasn’t tender. It wasn’t earned. It was punishment.

“Every time I fuck you,” Jungkook muttered, panting, “you act like it’s the end of the world. And then your body begs for more.”

Jimin shook his head, maybe in denial, maybe just to keep from collapsing.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Jungkook growled. “Nobody fucked you after me, right?”

“You’re sick,” Jimin hissed. “And it’s none of your business. I am not yours.”

“You say that now.”

Jungkook adjusted his angle sharp, brutal and Jimin gasped before he could stop it. The sound bounced off the stairwell walls.

“There it is,” Jungkook whispered. “Knew I’d find it.”

He picked up the pace, every thrust cruel and sure.

Jimin bit down on his fist, trying to stay silent. Trying to disappear.

But the orgasm hit fast and ruthless, ripped from him like a betrayal. He came untouched, body shaking, forehead pressed to the wall.

Jungkook followed with a growl, slamming in deep and stilling as heat flooded inside him.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Just breath. Just sweat. Just shame.

Then Jungkook kissed behind his ear, not sweet, not gentle. Just a stamp.

When he pulled out, cum and slick spilled down Jimin’s thighs.

Jimin didn’t speak.

He pulled his pants up slowly, hands trembling, eyes fixed on the floor.

Jungkook zipped up, smiled faintly.

“You’re welcome.”

Jimin didn’t answer.

Didn’t look back.

Just climbed the stairs one at a time, like every step was punishment for not fighting harder.

The bar was loud enough to drown out most thoughts. Most, but not the ones that mattered.

Jungkook sat in his usual seat at the far end, a vantage point that gave him the whole place in a single sweep of vision. Tables pushed too close together, chairs scraping against scuffed wood, the hum of conversation layered with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter. The kitchen was a furnace in the back, the air hot with grease and spice. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons toward the ceiling fans that barely bothered to turn.

And there he was.

The only thing worth looking at.

Jimin moved through the crowd like he wasn’t touching the ground, like the noise bent around him. His black uniform shirt hugged the lines of his waist, the soft curve of his hips. The slacks clung in all the wrong places for someone who wanted to go unnoticed, every step a reminder of shape, of softness, of something no one else in this room would ever be allowed to touch. Not while Jungkook was here.

Not while Jungkook was breathing.

Three months.

Three months since that night.

Three months since Jimin’s mouth opened for him for the first time, since his body trembled under Jungkook’s hands, since he’d taken the deal, the real deal, the one that kept him in this job and in Jungkook’s reach.

Three months of showing up when called. Of letting Jungkook in, even if it was only through the front door of that tiny apartment at ungodly hours. Of that practiced silence between them after, where Jimin would disappear into the shower and Jungkook would sit there half-naked on the couch, scrolling his phone like he owned the place. 

Sometimes Minjun padded out from his room in cartoon pajamas, rubbing his eyes, asking if Jungkook was “sleeping over again.”

Jimin hated that. Snapped at the kid to go back to bed. But Jungkook couldn’t stop smirking, because the brat never looked afraid of him, just curious. Like Jungkook had already become part of the scenery.

It wasn’t love. Jungkook wasn’t a fool. He knew what Jimin thought of him, the narrowed eyes, the clipped words, the way he walked off like every second spent near him was a second wasted. But there were moments. Fleeting things. Moments when Jimin forgot to be angry, when he didn’t shake Jungkook’s hand off his hip, when he lingered half a second too long after a kiss. Those were the ones Jungkook kept. Hoarded. Turned over in his mind until they felt like proof.

Sometimes he wondered if he was acting like Jimin’s boyfriend. The way he always ended up in Jimin’s apartment after, sprawled on his couch, eating takeout while Jimin showered. The way Minjun tried to rope him into helping with homework, which Jungkook inevitably ruined by giving ridiculous answers just to watch Jimin fume. The way he picked up groceries without being asked. The way he knew the size of Jimin’s shoes, the scent of his laundry detergent, the exact temperature he liked his tea.

One-sided. Of course it was. But maybe not forever.

Once, at the grocery store, Minjun had pointed at a pack of candy and looked at Jungkook instead of Jimin. Jungkook had bought three, just to be an ass. Jimin had called him irresponsible, smacked his arm in the parking lot. Jungkook had laughed the whole way back, because for a second, it had felt like something stupid and normal.

He should’ve been other places. He had other places. Businesses that needed his signature, meetings that would’ve lined his pockets faster than this place ever could. But lately, he spent more time here than anywhere else. Enough that even his men had started to notice.

Boss, why are you always there?

Because.

Because the view here was better.

Because the air tasted different when Jimin was in it.

Because he could keep an eye on him. On who looked too long, who stood too close. He’d already put one bastard in the hospital for letting his gaze wander too far south. The memory made his jaw tighten, not from regret, but from the deep, satisfied certainty that he’d do it again.

It was strange, though. He hadn’t planned it like this.

The day he found out the old man had run, he’d been furious. Not because the man was gone, people ran from debts all the time. But because of the sheer audacity. He had told his men to dig up everything. Family, friends, anyone stupid enough to be within arm’s reach. It hadn’t taken long to get a file. Names. Addresses. And then, a photograph.

One look at the boy in the picture, and he’d made up his mind.

Pretty. That was the first thought. Pretty enough to sell. He’d been ready to put Jimin on the floor of one of his brothels, to make every cent back with interest. Pretty omegas made good money. Especially ones with eyes like that. Too big, too bright, the kind that made men think they were seeing something pure, and lips, plump and pouty, the kind that would make customers pay double just to taste.

But then came the sea.

The cliff of rocks, the crash of waves, the sight of Jimin holding that kid like they could both disappear if they just went under deep enough. Jungkook had stood there, water soaking through his shoes, staring like an idiot. Because he’d never seen anything like it. Not the desperation, he’d seen plenty of that but the beauty. Raw. Unfiltered. The kind of beauty that made you want to ruin it just so you could be the one to put it back together.

That’s when the plan changed.

No brothel. No strangers’ hands. No sharing.

He had given the boy a different offer. Exclusive. Private. Jimin would work here, in his bar, where Jungkook could see him. Where Jungkook could have him. No one else.

And the money? Fuck the money. He barely thought about the debt anymore. The math didn’t matter when he could have this, when he could look up from his drink and watch Jimin glide past, watch him tilt his head when he laughed at some customer’s joke, watch the way his hair fell into his eyes and the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Jungkook’s fingers drummed against the table.

Two months. And still, Jimin looked at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. But he didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t quit. He didn’t stop showing up to Jungkook’s bed when he was called.

And maybe that meant something.

The music was low tonight, but the hum of the bar still pressed against the walls, clinking glasses, muted laughter, the shuffle of cards in the back room.

Jungkook sat at one of the corner tables, the one he kept for himself, where no one dared sit unless invited. He leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Across from him sat Choi Do-hwan, one of his oldest business partners. The man was older, broader, a predator in a tailored suit. They’d made millions together. They’d also nearly killed each other twice.

Do-hwan was talking about something, shipment schedules, the next casino deal but Jungkook’s focus was fractured. His ears kept tracking the sound of footsteps, the soft scrape of a tray against the counter, the familiar rhythm of someone weaving through the crowd.

Even before he saw him, he knew Jimin was coming.

There was a shift in the air, subtle but undeniable, the faint, addictive sweetness of omega scent, the kind that clung to Jimin no matter how much he tried to hide them. Jungkook’s own Alpha instincts flared, chest tightening.

Jimin appeared between two tables, black uniform crisp, hair falling into his eyes, that unbothered, distant expression that only made people look harder. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t need to. Omegas like him didn’t need to work for attention, they dragged it with them like a tide.

And Do-hwan noticed.

Jungkook saw it in the shift of his eyes, the sudden curve of his mouth. That look. The slow, measuring drag from Jimin’s face to his hips, like he was already unwrapping him in his head.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed.

Jimin stopped at their table, setting down two fresh glasses without looking at Do-hwan. “Your drinks.”

Do-hwan’s gaze didn’t lift from him. “Pretty thing, isn’t he?”

Jimin stiffened almost imperceptibly. Jungkook’s hand tightened on his glass.

Do-hwan smirked and leaned back. “What’s his rate, Jungkook?”

The words landed like a slap in the air. Jimin’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp. “I’m not a whore.”

Do-hwan’s smile turned cruel. “Shut up. I’m not talking to you, omega. Let the Alphas talk.” His voice dripped dominance, his own Alpha pheromones seeping out, bitter, musky, a deliberate display of power meant to press down on the room.

Jimin’s nostrils flared, his own scent spiking sharp and angry, like crushed blossoms.

Jungkook’s spine went rigid.

Do-hwan looked back at him, lazy as a cat. “Come on, Jungkook. Give him to me for one night. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was still deciding whether to kill him here or outside.

Do-hwan chuckled, mistaking the silence. “Fine. I’ll pay double.” He reached out and put his hand on Jimin’s ass.

Jungkook saw red.

The chair screeched back as he surged to his feet. His fist connected with Do-hwan’s jaw before the man could blink. The crack was loud, heads turning all over the bar. Do-hwan hit the floor, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.

He tried to get up but Jungkook kicked him back down.

Then it was a blur. Knuckles splitting against skin. The taste of copper in the air. Do-hwan’s own pheromones flooding thick with fear now, sharp and sour.

“Boss!” Someone grabbed Jungkook’s shoulder. “You’ll kill him—”

Jungkook shoved them off, dragged Do-hwan up by his collar just to slam him into the wall. “Touch him again,” Jungkook snarled, voice low enough to scrape bone, “and I’ll rip your fucking hands off.”

Do-hwan spat blood, half-laughing, half-wheezing. “All this-” He coughed, “over one whore? You’ll pay for this, Jungkook.”

The word whore snapped something else inside him. Jungkook hit him again, enough to split the man’s brow.

It took three men to pull him off.

Do-hwan staggered toward the door, wiping his face, glaring. “You’re dead to me. And so’s your business.” He left without looking back.

The second the door swung shut, Jungkook turned and grabbed Jimin’s wrist.

“Come.”

“Let go—”

But Jungkook’s grip was iron. He pulled him through the bar, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the thick, lingering cloud of Alpha pheromones he’d thrown into the air during the fight. He shoved open the door to his private office and kicked it shut behind them.

The quiet hit hard. Only the sound of both of them breathing, pheromones still heavy between them, Jungkook’s laced with possessiveness and rage, Jimin’s bitter with humiliation.

Jungkook turned to him, eyes still black around the edges. “You know what?” His voice was too calm. “You don’t have to do this job.”

Jimin stared at him, chest still rising fast.

“If you just sleep with me. Regularly.” Jungkook stepped closer. “I’ll forget your debt. No more shifts, no more customers. Just me. You’ll be my permanent whore.”

The word hung there. Thick. Ugly.

For a moment, Jimin didn’t move. Then, slowly, his scent changed from sharp humiliation to something colder, dangerous.

His palm cracked across Jungkook’s face.

The sound echoed in the room.

Jungkook’s head turned with the force of it. His cheek burned, but he didn’t move.

Jimin’s voice shook, but it wasn’t weak. “I’m already sleeping with you sometimes so you don’t kick me out of this job. And now you want to strip away even the pretense?” He took a step forward, their chests almost touching, eyes blazing. “At least before, I could tell myself I was earning my keep. That I was working. And now,” His voice cut sharper, “this is just prostitution. You made me feel like I’m a whore.”

Jungkook opened his mouth, but Jimin wasn’t done.

“You think I don’t notice?” His pheromones flared, a bitter, acidic bloom of omega anger that hit Jungkook in the lungs. “The way you sit out there like you own me. The way you watch. The way you think you can buy my dignity just because you own this place.”

Jungkook’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“Well, guess what?” Jimin’s voice cracked on the next words, but they came out steady enough to land like a blade. “I don’t need this job. I’ll pay you back your money some other way. Our deal is done.”

The words hit harder than they should have, knocking something loose in Jungkook’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Jimin’s eyes didn’t waver, though there was a tremor at the edge of his mouth, a flicker of hurt buried under the steel.

For once, Jungkook had nothing to throw back. No smirk. No cruel line to pin him in place. Just the hollow weight settling in his gut as he watched Jimin turn away.

He brushed past, close enough for the warmth of him to linger for a heartbeat, and then he was gone, leaving only the faint echo of his footsteps and the cold space where he’d been.

The new place smelled like old beer and fried oil that never quite left the air. The kind of smell that clung to clothes and hair no matter how many showers you took. It was louder here, too not the classy hum of conversation and low jazz like Jungkook’s bar, but the tinny screech of an overworked speaker in the corner, the slam of glass bottles against chipped countertops, and the sharp, grating laughter of men who had already had too much before they walked in.

It was work. Not good work. Not safe work. But work.

Jimin told himself that was enough.

The tips were… fine. Not the kind of tips he used to get when serving expensive cocktails to people who could afford them, not the kind that came with a boss who would casually slip him a wad of cash just for “staying late” in his office, but enough to keep the fridge from going empty. Enough to keep Minjun’s school lunches from being instant noodles every day. Enough to stop the electricity from cutting out in the middle of the night.

Small victories.

But there was no extra deal here. No safety net. No alpha hovering in the corner to make sure no one got too close. Here, if someone’s hand brushed too far up his side when they passed, no one broke that hand for them. He had to glare, swat it away, keep moving.

He was alone here. He’d chosen that.

The choice didn’t feel as noble at midnight when his feet ached and his back hurt from carrying trays too heavy for his frame, when he counted the money in his apron pocket and realized it would barely cover rent after groceries.

He had left Jungkook’s bar with his head high. Now, most days, he walked home with it down, just to avoid meeting the eyes of the drunk men leaning against alley walls.

Minjun had been quieter lately.

Not silent....just quieter. Jimin could feel it every morning over breakfast, the way the kid’s eyes kept flicking to him and away again, like he wanted to ask something but didn’t want to push.

Yesterday, hehad pushed.

“Hyung… is Jungkook-hyung mad at us?”

The question had landed in Jimin’s chest like a punch.

“No. He’s not mad.”

“Then why—”

“Minjun.” His voice had come out sharper than he meant. “Don’t ask me about him again.”

The way Minjun had flinched still made Jimin’s stomach turn.

He had left for work that night feeling sick, came home feeling worse. This morning, he had made pancakes just to say sorry without saying it, but it wasn’t enough. He’d bent down, ruffled the boy’s hair, murmured a real “Sorry” before walking him to the school gates. Minjun had smiled like it was fine, like he always did, but Jimin knew that look too well, it was the same one he wore when telling people he was okay.

The truth was, he’d been cranky for days.

Not just cranky. Wound tight. Jumpy. His body felt like it was buzzing under his skin, restless in a way he didn’t have the energy to fix.

It was the suppressants.

He had started taking them the second he got this job. His heats were inconvenient here, no paid leave, no one to cover for him, no cushy arrangement with a possessive alpha who’d use them as an excuse to keep him in bed for three days straight. Heat here meant lost wages, and lost wages meant bills he couldn’t pay. So he swallowed the pills and ignored the way his body hated him for it.

The headaches, the bone-deep fatigue, the constant low burn under his skin, price of survival.

It was stupid, maybe. Jungkook would have paid for everything if Jimin had let him. Jungkook would’ve thrown money at every problem until they disappeared. But that was the point. Jimin didn’t want his problems fixed by someone else’s wallet. He didn’t want to feel like he owed anyone more than he already did.

And yet,

The nights were the worst.

When the apartment was too quiet, when the city outside had gone still enough for his mind to wander. He told himself he didn’t miss Jungkook. That what he missed was the stability, the financial ease, the safety. That he didn’t think about the way Jungkook used to fill the doorway to his apartment like he belonged there, or the way his laugh had filled the room when Minjun had once thrown a paper airplane right into his face.

That he didn’t remember the heat of his palm against the back of his neck in the kitchen, or the way his cologne lingered on the couch cushions for hours after he left.

He told himself a lot of things.

𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪

Work dragged that evening. The air was sticky, clinging to his skin under the too-thin shirt they made him wear. A man at the bar winked at him when he set down a drink; Jimin ignored it. Another one whistled low as he passed; he didn’t break stride. His tips would be fine tonight, but not great. Rent was due in two weeks. Minjun’s school trip payment was due sooner.

He caught himself thinking about Jungkook again, about how easy money used to be, how even on slow nights at the bar, he’d go home with more than he made here in a week. How Jungkook had this way of sliding folded bills into his pocket without asking, like it was nothing.

Like it meant nothing.

But it had meant something.

That was the problem.

By the time he left, his shoulders felt heavy enough to drag him down. The street outside was damp from an earlier rain, neon signs reflecting in the puddles. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and started the walk home, trying not to think about the man he’d left behind, the bar he’d walked away from, the stupid ache in his chest that felt too much like missing someone he swore he hated.

The rain smell hadn’t left the air.

It clung to the pavement, to his jacket, to his hair. His shoes made soft splashes in shallow puddles, and the neon from a noodle shop sign painted the wet street red.

He didn’t hear them at first. Not until the echo of footsteps picked up behind him, not until a voice broke the rhythm of the quiet.

“Well, well. Look who it is.”

Jimin turned, heart sinking the moment he saw them. Sungmin and Baekjin, both older, both with that sharp, dirty look of men who’d never been kind a day in their lives.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, pretty thing,” Sungmin said, mouth curling. “We were just talking about you.”

He kept his voice flat. “What do you want.”

Baekjin grinned like a shark. “Money. What else? You still owe. Thought maybe you finally scraped some together.” His eyes flicked down Jimin’s body, slow, deliberate. “Saw you hanging off that rich Alpha before. Don’t tell me you weren’t getting paid for that.”

The heat in Jimin’s chest spiked sharp. “I’m not a whore,” he spat.

Sungmin’s grin widened. “Could’ve fooled us. Bet he paid you good to bend over for him.”

Jimin’s hands clenched. “Fuck you.”

That was all it took. Baekjin stepped forward, shoving him hard enough that his back hit the damp brick wall.

“You got a mouth on you, omega,” Baekjin hissed. “Maybe we ought to teach you how to use it.”

He tried to sidestep, but Sungmin’s hand shot out, catching his arm in a bruising grip. “You don’t have the money, do you?” Sungmin’s breath was hot with alcohol. “So maybe you pay another way.”

The pit in Jimin’s stomach bottomed out. “Don’t touch me.”

But they already were. Baekjin pressed in close, the smell of cigarettes and sweat making his throat close.

“You think you’re too good?” Baekjin’s voice was almost a growl. “You got no problem spreading for that other guy.” His hand slid down Jimin’s side, nails scraping the thin fabric of his shirt. “Guess you just need the right incentive.”

Jimin shoved at his chest, but the weight didn’t budge. Panic flared like acid in his blood. “I said don’t—”

The slap came fast, snapping his head to the side. His lip split against his teeth, the metallic taste of blood blooming on his tongue.

Sungmin laughed. “Feisty. Bet that’s fun to break.”

They moved together, one holding him against the wall, the other tugging at his jacket. The zipper jammed, teeth catching, and in that heartbeat Jimin thought, run but Sungmin’s grip only tightened.

Fear was a slow poison at first, seeping in, numbing his fingers. Then it hit all at once. What if they killed him? What if they dumped him in some alley, and Minjun waited at their house for hours before realizing Jimin wasn’t coming? What if this was it, and the last thing Minjun remembered about him was Jimin yelling that morning?

His mind tried to split, to go somewhere else, anywhere else, but Baekjin’s hand was at his waist now, shoving under his shirt, cold fingers on bare skin.

“Stop—” The word broke, too thin.

They didn’t.

The jacket came off with a rough yank, hitting the wet ground. Sungmin’s knee wedged between his legs, forcing them apart. His hands grabbed for the edges of Jimin’s shirt, dragging it up to expose his stomach.

“Look at you,” Baekjin murmured, low and cruel, before his mouth pressed to Jimin’s neck. The scrape of teeth made his skin crawl.

Jimin jerked away, but the wall was solid, unmovable. His nails scratched at Sungmin’s arm, leaving faint red lines that only made the man chuckle.

“You’re gonna be real pretty begging,” Sungmin said, breath thick.

When Baekjin’s hand went lower, cupping between his thighs through his pants, Jimin’s stomach lurched. “Don’t—”

But they were already doing it. Fingers pressing, rubbing, rough and deliberate. His body betrayed him in tiny, awful ways, the heat pooling where he didn’t want it, the twitch of muscle that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with being touched.

“See?” Baekjin said with a smirk. “Not so different after all.”

Shame burned hotter than the fear for a second, searing through his chest. He tried to twist away, tried to think of anything but this, but then Sungmin’s hand was on the waistband of his pants, yanking them down just enough to get past the first layer.

Cold air hit his skin. Then a hand, rough and sure, wrapping around him.

Jimin’s breath caught. He wanted to scream, to bite, to claw, but his voice was gone. Everything tunneled, the damp wall at his back, the wet slap of shoes shifting on the pavement, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.

“Bet you’re easy,” Sungmin sneered, pumping once, twice. “Bet that rich Alpha had you like this all the time.”

He went somewhere else then, not far, just far enough. Detached. Watching himself from above, a boy pinned against a wall, face pale, lips pressed tight, eyes fixed on the dark blur of the sky.

Minjun’s face cut through it like a knife. Minjun laughing with noodles dangling from his mouth. Minjun asleep on the couch, drooling into the cushion. Minjun asking, “When’s Jungkook-hyung coming over again?”

If they killed him, Minjun would be alone. If they didn’t kill him, if they just raped him, he’d still have to go home, and how would he look his brother in the eye?

The scrape of a belt buckle snapping open jolted him back.

“No—” His voice cracked, raw, useless.

They didn’t stop. Baekjin’s mouth was at his collarbone now, biting hard enough to bruise. Sungmin shoved his pants lower, just far enough.

Jimin’s nails scraped the wall, desperate for something to anchor him.

And then,

The alley exploded with a sound like the sky cracking in half. A gunshot.

Sungmin jerked back before Jimin could even process it, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open in a shocked ‘O’. Then he collapsed. His body hit the ground with a wet thud, legs twitching once before going still.

Jimin’s gaze followed the trail of dark spreading under him, thick, glistening, pooling fast, seeping between the cracks in the pavement until it kissed the toes of Jimin’s shoes. The smell hit a second later, sharp and metallic.

A shadow moved at the far end of the alley. Slow. Purposeful.

The figure stepped forward into the fractured light of the streetlamp, and Jimin’s breath caught.

Jungkook.

Jungkook had always known what rage tasted like.
Metallic. Hot. The way a mouth fills with blood after biting too hard into your tongue.
But this was different.

The first thing he saw was Jimin.

Pinned against the wall, shirt shoved halfway up, skin pale under the fractured streetlamp light. Eyes wide, lips split and red, body trembling in a way that had nothing to do with cold. Jungkook’s gaze caught on the dark smear at the corner of his mouth, blood.

It hit him harder than the gun’s recoil had.

He then moved his eyes at the body at his feet, sprawled like a broken puppet, one leg twitching in its last stubborn muscle spasm before going still. The pool beneath him grew by the second, crawling in dark fingers along the cracks in the pavement. Sungmin wouldn’t be getting up again.

Good.

The other one was still breathing.
Barely.

Jungkook lifted his gaze and found him, Baekjin pressed against the opposite wall like it might open up and swallow him whole if he pushed hard enough. His chest heaved, mouth working soundlessly around a breath he couldn’t seem to catch. The stench of piss reached Jungkook before the sound did. He’d lost control of more than his nerves.

Pathetic.

“Step away,” Jungkook said.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. The words were already soaked in violence.

Baekjin’s hands shot up like maybe that would save him. “I— I didn’t—”

“Move,” Jungkook snapped.

The man stumbled back, tripping over Sungmin’s sprawled leg. Jungkook was already there before Baekjin caught himself, a blur of motion and heat, fisting the front of his shirt and slamming him into the opposite wall. The sound it made was sharp, a wet crack that might have been plaster or bone.

Up close, Jungkook could smell the fear rolling off him. Sweat and piss and cheap cigarettes. His pulse beat frantic in his throat, and Jungkook’s fingers tightened over it until the sound stuttered.

“You,” Jungkook said, and his voice was low, raw, like a growl dragged over broken glass, “touch my omega again and I’ll put you in the ground next to him.”

“I— I didn’t—”

Jungkook slammed him back into the wall, harder this time. Baekjin choked on the breath he’d been about to take.

“You think I don’t know?” Jungkook’s words came fast now, clipped, dangerous. “You think I don’t have people watching him every second he’s out here?” He shoved him again for emphasis, felt the plaster crack under the man’s spine. “You think I didn’t see you put your filthy hands on him? You think I’m stupid?”

Baekjin shook his head so hard it looked like it might snap off his shoulders. “It wasn’t- it wasn’t like.”

Jungkook’s fist drove into his stomach. Not a warning punch, a full, hard shot that folded him over with a gag. He kept hold of him so he couldn’t drop to the ground. “Don’t talk. You don’t get to talk.”

Baekjin’s hands scrabbled at his wrist, but Jungkook was stronger. Always stronger.

“You see that?” Jungkook jerked his head toward Jimin without looking away from Baekjin’s face. “You see him on the ground? That’s mine. You don’t touch what’s mine. You don’t even look at what’s mine.”

He let go just long enough for Baekjin to suck in a breath, then smashed him against the wall again. The man yelped, the sound high and pathetic.

“I’m letting you walk away tonight,” Jungkook said, leaning in so close his breath was hot on Baekjin’s ear.

“Not because you deserve it. Not because I don’t want to paint this alley with your blood. But because I want you to tell every worthless piece of shit you know what happens when they so much as think about him.” His voice rose, jagged and sharp now. “You tell them they’ll end up like Sungmin. You tell them I’ll find them. And when I do-” He yanked Baekjin forward and drove his knee up into his ribs. The crunch was wet. “-they won’t get the luxury of one bullet.”

Baekjin was wheezing, eyes rolling like a cornered animal’s.

“You understand me?” Jungkook snarled.

He nodded so fast it was almost a tremor. “Y-yeah—”

Jungkook’s hand shot to his jaw, fingers digging in until the man whimpered. “Say it.”

“I—I understand,” Baekjin choked.

“You what?” Jungkook’s grip tightened until teeth ground together.

“I understand!”

Jungkook stared at him for a beat longer, chest heaving. Then he shoved him away with enough force that he stumbled, caught himself on the wall, and bolted. His shoes slapped wet against the pavement until the sound faded into the night.

Jimin was still on the ground, one knee bent awkwardly, jacket abandoned in the mess near the wall. His hands were braced on the wet pavement like he was holding himself together by the fingertips. His eyes weren’t on Jungkook. They were somewhere far away, fixed on the opposite end of the alley, unfocused.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened.

He slid the gun into the holster under his jacket and crossed the space in three strides. The closer he got, the more details he took in the trembling in Jimin’s shoulders, the raw scrape along his cheekbone, the faint mark on his throat where teeth had pressed too hard. Rage spiked again, sharp and sudden, but he shoved it down. Not now.

“Jimin.” His voice was quieter this time, but it pulled the omega’s gaze like a hook.

The eyes that met his were wide, rimmed red, but dry. Too dry.

Jungkook crouched in front of him, the damp seeping through the knee of his pants. He reached out, slow enough to be deliberate, and brushed his knuckles along Jimin’s chin, tilting his face up. The omega’s skin was cold under his touch.

“You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question.

Jimin blinked at him. His lips parted, then closed again without sound.

Jungkook’s fingers slid to the back of his neck, curling there. Not tight, just enough for the warmth to seep in. “Can you stand?”

A tiny shake of the head.

He didn’t argue.

Without another word, Jungkook slid an arm behind Jimin’s back and the other under his knees. The omega stiffened as he was lifted, but Jungkook adjusted his grip until Jimin’s head rested against his shoulder.

The weight was nothing. He could have carried him for miles.

The walk back to the car was silent except for the rhythm of their breaths, Jimin’s shallow and uneven, Jungkook’s steady as a drumbeat. His boots echoed against the wet pavement, each step measured.

When they reached the black sedan parked just beyond the mouth of the alley, Jungkook shifted Jimin enough to free one hand and pull the rear door open. He slid inside first, dragging the omega with him in one unyielding pull until Jimin was settled across his lap, his trembling weight caged between Jungkook’s chest and the cold door.

The driver shut his own door up front, starting the engine without a word.

Jimin’s fingers caught in Jungkook’s jacket before he could adjust his hold.

Jungkook stilled.

The grip wasn’t tight. It wasn’t even enough to keep him there. But it was something.

He looked down. Jimin’s eyes were on him again, still wide, still too dry but there was a flicker there now. Something that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

Jungkook’s hand came up, brushing damp hair from the omega’s forehead. “You’re safe now,” he said, low, final.

The words weren’t a promise. They were a fact.

Outside, the city lights blurred past. Jungkook kept one arm locked firm around Jimin’s waist, the other resting over the omega’s thigh, keeping him pressed close. He didn’t take his eyes off him. Didn’t have to. Jimin was right there, warm, tense, caged in his arms and that was enough to keep the red in his vision from burning through completely.

Jungkook didn’t put him down.

Not at the car. Not in the elevator. Not when the penthouse doors slid open on the quiet hum of recessed lighting and the faint scent of cedarwood that always clung to the place.

Jimin’s arms were around his neck, not tight, no claws, no struggling, no muttered curses under his breath. Just there. His face buried in the curve where Jungkook’s neck met his shoulder, warm breath damp against his skin.

He’d carried him before. Sometimes against his will, sometimes when Jimin’s legs had given out for other reasons entirely. But this was different. Jimin wasn’t fighting him. He wasn’t saying anything at all.

It made Jungkook’s skin crawl in a way bullets never had.

He stepped inside, the door whispering shut behind them, and paused in the stillness. The air here was cleaner than the street, but it didn’t cut through what he could smell now that the adrenaline had thinned: Jimin’s scent.

Or what was left of it.

He was an omega. His scent had always been a living thing, warm, bright, something that got under Jungkook’s skin in the best and worst ways. But now it was thin, withered. Like it had been left out too long and spoiled. Beneath it, faint and sour, was something Jungkook’s instincts recoiled from: fear, exhaustion, suppressant chemicals.

It set something ugly moving in his chest.

“Jimin,” he said quietly.

Nothing.

The only answer was the slow, deliberate way Jimin’s chest moved against him. Breathing him in. Jungkook knew that rhythm, the subtle shift in inhale when someone was scenting you. He’d felt it before, when Jimin was tangled under him, nose pressed to his throat without thinking. But this wasn’t that. This was something else.

“You’re taking my scent,” Jungkook murmured, realization clicking into place.

Jimin didn’t lift his head.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He could read the need in it, the way omegas sometimes anchored themselves to something familiar when they were drifting. And he could feel the weight of that choice, that out of all the scents in the world, Jimin had buried himself in his.

“I’ve got you,” Jungkook said. “Breathe, baby.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. He didn’t take it back.

He crossed the living room without turning on more lights, the city bleeding in through the tall glass windows. The bathroom door clicked open under his hand, spilling pale light over porcelain and steel.

He set Jimin down carefully on the closed toilet lid, crouched in front of him. “You need a shower.”

Jimin’s head moved once, slow. A shake.

Jungkook frowned. “You don’t want to?”

Another shake.

It was wrong. All wrong. Jimin’s fire had been a constant since the first night they’d met, snapping, biting, holding his chin high even when Jungkook had him on his knees. This quiet, this stillness… it was worse than seeing him bleed.

He reached out, cupped the back of Jimin’s neck, thumb brushing the fine hairs there. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he said, and it came out softer than he meant. “You’re supposed to yell at me. Tell me to fuck off. Not just… sit here.”

Jimin’s fingers twisted in the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away.

Jungkook’s chest hurt.

“Do you want me to clean you?”

For a moment he thought there wouldn’t be an answer. Then Jimin nodded, once, against his shoulder.

Jungkook let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Alright.”

He stood, pulling Jimin up with him, steadying him when his knees wobbled. His clothes were still damp from the rain, from sweat, from, Jungkook cut that thought off before it could finish.

He peeled the jacket away first, dropping it to the floor. Then the shirt, careful over the split lip, fingers brushing cool air over pale skin. Jimin didn’t flinch. He didn’t help, either. Just stood there, eyes distant, letting Jungkook work.

The pants came next, slow, Jungkook’s fingers working the button and zip without hurry. He pushed them down, crouched to ease them over ankles, set them aside with the rest.

Jimin was bare under the bathroom lights, and Jungkook could see every mark, the bruising fingerprints on his arms, the red scrape along his side, the faint bite mark at his collarbone. Rage spiked again, but he swallowed it back. Not now.

He guided Jimin into the shower, turning the water on warm. Steam curled up between them, blurring the sharp lines of the room.

Jungkook stepped in after him, clothes and all, because fuck standing outside.

The water hit them both, plastering his hair to his forehead, soaking through cotton to skin. He reached for the soap, lathered it in his hands, and started with Jimin’s shoulders. Slow circles, careful pressure, like if he pressed too hard the boy might break.

“Nothing happened,” Jungkook said quietly. “They didn’t get to you. You’re safe.” His hands moved over Jimin’s back, smoothing the knots from muscle. “Nobody will ever try again. I won’t let them.”

Jimin’s head tipped forward, eyes closed, water running down his face in thin lines.

Jungkook worked his way down, over the curve of his spine, along the bruised ridges of his ribs. Every so often he’d repeat it, the same low rhythm of words against the hiss of water: nothing happened. You’re safe.

By the time he rinsed the soap away, Jimin’s breathing had slowed. His hands had come up, almost unconsciously, to rest against Jungkook’s chest. Not pushing. Just there.

Jungkook tilted his chin up, thumb brushing the wet hair back from his forehead. “Better?”

Another small nod.

He shut off the water, reached for a towel, wrapped it around Jimin’s shoulders before lifting him again. Jimin didn’t protest. He tucked back into Jungkook’s neck like it was the only place he wanted to be.

The walk to the bedroom was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Jungkook set him down on the bed, pulled the covers back, eased him in.

He started to straighten, and that was when Jimin’s hand caught his shirt.

The pull was small, almost nothing. Just the light press of fingers curling around his wrist. But it stopped Jungkook mid-step as if someone had yanked him by the throat.

He looked down.

Jimin’s eyes were open now, wide, but not the kind of wide he’d seen in the alley, not the glassy, panicked shine of prey. They were steady in a way that felt unfamiliar, something raw and unshielded slipping through the cracks. The bathroom’s steam clung to his skin, curling his damp hair against his temples.

Jungkook’s chest was still tight from earlier, from the sound Jimin had made when those men had grabbed him, from the sick jolt of adrenaline when he’d seen hands on him that weren’t his. The scent of it was still in his lungs: fear, salt, rain, blood. He hadn’t been able to breathe right since.

Then Jimin pulled him lower and kissed him.

It wasn’t rough. Wasn’t desperate. Just lips, warm and damp from the shower, pressing against his in a way that didn’t demand anything, only gave. But it stopped him all the same. His hand found the jut of Jimin’s hip through the towel without thinking, fingers flexing there like he was making sure he was real.

When Jimin pulled back, his lashes were trembling. His chest rose and fell too fast.

“Touch me,” he said.

The words knocked the breath from Jungkook’s lungs. He blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “Jimin—”

Jimin’s grip tightened. “Please.”

Not the bargaining please Jungkook remembered from the deal. This was bare. Stripped down to something raw.

“I want to erase their touch.,” Jimin whispered. His voice cracked on the last word. “I want somehing real. I want to forget.”

Jungkook’s throat worked around a knot he couldn’t swallow. He cupped Jimin’s face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, searching for hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Baby, are you sure?” he asked again, softer now, almost afraid to believe it.

“Yes,” Jimin said, and this time his voice didn’t shake. “I want you.”

Something inside Jungkook loosened.

The kiss he gave back wasn’t careful. It was grounding, an anchor in the steam-thick air. Jimin’s hands slid up around his neck, pulling him in, parting his lips to let Jungkook taste him deeper.

Jungkook’s palm found his waist. Warm, smooth. Jimin’s towel had already started to slip, and he was bare beneath it.

The kiss broke for breath, but Jimin chased him, pressing their mouths together again, tongue finding his like he’d been holding back for months.

Jungkook let his weight sink forward until Jimin’s knees parted, his thigh brushing the heat between them.

He pulled away just enough to look at him. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

Jimin shook his head, wet hair clinging to his temples. “I won’t.”

Jimin trembled under him. His chest shivered like he was out in the cold.

“You’re okay,” Jungkook murmured, lips brushing the hollow at his collarbone. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me. You’re safe.”

A tear slid from the corner of Jimin’s eye, catching on his cheek.

Jungkook’s mouth closed over his nipple, slow, coaxing, drawing it in until Jimin arched.

“Don’t think,” Jungkook said against his skin. “Just feel. You’re mine right now. Nobody else’s.”

The sob that came was small, caught in his throat, but Jimin didn’t pull away.

Jungkook kissed across to the other side, circling his tongue before sucking lightly, his hand sliding up Jimin’s ribs and down again, tracing the curve of his waist. The warmth and firmness there made his own pulse thrum harder.

“You’re being so good for me,” he said, voice catching. He gently removed the towel, making Jimin bare.

He bent, kissing along the inside of his thigh, moving up until his mouth hovered over the flushed head of his cock. A slow lick, tasting him, salt and heat on his tongue.

Jimin’s hips jerked. His legs tried to close. Jungkook kept them apart, gentle but firm.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He kissed him again before guiding him onto his stomach. 

Jimin pressed back against him, a small grind that told him exactly how empty he felt.

“You need me, baby?”

A nod. Almost shy.

Jungkook kissed the small of his back, spreading him open, spitting onto him before sliding two fingers inside.

The moan was sharp at first, then eased into something softer as Jungkook sank them to the base.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing the nape of Jimin’s neck. “Doing so good for me.”

He curled his fingers just enough to make Jimin’s breath hitch, then eased them out, slick glistening in the low light.

Stripping quickly, Jungkook positioned himself, one hand steadying Jimin’s back.

Jimin looked over his shoulder, eyes glassy but unflinching.

Jungkook bent down, kissed him once more, then pushed in, slow, watching every flicker in his expression.

Jimin cried out, voice breaking, muscles clenching.

“Shhh,” Jungkook murmured, kissing his temple. “Relax for me.”

He pushed the rest of the way in, staying still, letting Jimin breathe through the stretch.

Jungkook held still inside him, breath caught in his chest, every muscle straining against the need to move.

This was not the same as before. Not the ugly transactions in dark corners, not the grudging surrender of a body paying off a debt. This was Jimin, asking. Choosing.

It wasn’t lost on him that maybe it was the fragility in Jimin right now, the way he’d broken earlier, the sob in his voice when he’d asked Jungkook to touch him. But still, the truth sat in his chest like a live thing: he could have asked anyone, and he hadn’t. He’d asked Jungkook.

The thought made his hands tremble as they slid along Jimin’s sides, palms fitting into the curves of his ribs like they belonged there.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Jungkook murmured.

Jimin’s reply was a small shake of his head, face pressed to the pillow, hips shifting back.

Jungkook eased out a fraction, then pushed in again, slow enough to feel the give of tight heat around him, slow enough to make his own head tip back, jaw locking against the surge of pleasure.

Jimin made a sound then, low and breathless. Not the muffled sobs of before. This was… need.

It pulled something loose in Jungkook. His hips began a rhythm, unhurried, letting Jimin feel every inch.

“You feel so good,” Jungkook said before he could stop himself. The words were raw, unpolished, the kind that came from somewhere deep. “So warm… fuck, I could stay here forever.”

Jimin’s fingers curled in the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened. He bent forward, pressing his mouth to the bare skin of Jimin’s shoulder, tasting the faint salt there. His thrusts deepened, angling until he felt Jimin’s whole body shiver.

The sound Jimin made was half gasp, half moan.

“There?” Jungkook asked, voice low.

“Yes—” the word broke on a gasp when Jungkook did it again, slow, precise, hitting the same place each time until Jimin was trembling all over.

Jungkook’s hand slid from his hip to between his legs, wrapping around the hard length there. The reaction was immediate, Jimin’s hips jolting, a choked moan spilling out.

“That’s it,” Jungkook breathed against his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

He stroked him in time with each push inside, the rhythm building but still measured, still careful. Jimin’s legs spread wider, as if offering more, as if telling him without words to take what was his.

Jungkook’s chest burned with something more than desire. He wanted to brand this into both their memories, wanted it to replace every moment Jimin had been touched without wanting it.

The muscles around him clenched suddenly, a sharp squeeze that made him groan against the back of Jimin’s neck. His hips faltered for a moment, but Jimin pushed back, urging him on.

“Please,” Jimin whispered.

It undid him.

Jungkook’s thrusts grew deeper, the slick sounds of their bodies filling the space between low breaths. His hand on Jimin’s cock tightened just enough to make the omega gasp and rock into the touch.

The rhythm between them sharpened, the push and pull, the shared heat, the quiet gasps and low curses.

Jimin’s sounds turned higher, more desperate. “Jungkook— I’m—”

“I’ve got you,” Jungkook said, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Come for me.”

The words landed like an order and a plea all at once. Jimin’s whole body tensed, his voice breaking on a sharp moan as he spilled into Jungkook’s hand, hot and slick between his fingers. His walls clenched around Jungkook in pulses, dragging a groan from deep in the alpha’s chest.

Jungkook held him through it, milking every aftershock with slow thrusts, his own control slipping fast.

“Fuck—” His grip on Jimin’s hip tightened, his pace losing its restraint as heat coiled low in his belly. The feel of Jimin, loose now, pliant and soft beneath him, still shivering with the aftermath of his release, pushed him to the edge.

He buried himself to the hilt, groaning into the skin of Jimin’s shoulder as his climax tore through him. Hot release spilled deep, the intensity forcing his eyes shut.

For a moment, neither moved. The only sounds were their breaths, ragged and uneven.

Jungkook stayed inside, one hand still over Jimin’s, fingers loosely tangled. He pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, tasting damp hair and clean skin.

It struck him then, really struck him, that this was the first time they had touched like this without the weight of the deal between them. The first time Jimin had looked at him and asked.

The first time Jungkook had felt chosen.

He exhaled softly, withdrawing before the pressure building at the base of his length could crest into a knot. Jimin’s breath hitched at the loss, a faint sound escaping him, but he didn’t turn. Jungkook settled beside him instead, one arm winding around his waist until they were chest to back, no space between them.

Jimin didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Jungkook’s hand slid up to cover his, holding it there like it might keep this moment from slipping away.

Jimin woke to the kind of silence that didn’t feel real.

No rattling pipes. No traffic murmuring through the cracked windows. No muffled shouting from the apartment next door. Just stillness, too heavy, too complete, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere he couldn’t see.

The bed under him was too soft. The sheets smelled wrong. Not wrong, exactly, clean cotton, a hint of sandalwood and something warmer underneath, but not his. Not home.

And then it all came back.

The alley.
The hands on him.
The weight of panic pressing against his ribs.
The sound, a single, deafening gunshot.
Jungkook’s voice.

He should’ve left. Should’ve run the second he could stand, but instead, he’d said it. Asked it. Begged it, even.

Touch me.

He’d hated himself for saying it even as the words left his mouth. Hated how his body had shaken for a reason that wasn’t fear anymore. Hated how badly he’d needed something to replace the feel of those men’s hands.

And Jungkook…
Jungkook hadn’t questioned it. No smug smirk, no taunting remark about finally wanting him. Just hands, warm and solid. Mouth, slow and sure. For once, no deal, no bargaining. Just the kind of intimacy that didn’t feel like it was being bought.

Now, in the pale spill of morning light, Jimin could feel it again, the ache low in his muscles, the ghost of Jungkook’s touch on his skin, the soreness where they’d fit together.

He pushed himself upright, wincing at the pull in his thighs. His shirt, not his, definitely Jungkook’s, hung loose on his shoulders, the hem brushing mid-thigh. He scanned the room, the high ceilings, the wall of glass that looked over the city, the neat order of everything. Not a single thing out of place.

Except him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet sinking into a rug that probably cost more than a month’s rent. That was when the memory hit, not of last night, but right after. The sudden bolt of panic when Minjun’s face had flashed in his head.

My brother’s alone.
I need to go home.

He’d tried to get up then, still breathless, still warm from sex, and Jungkook had caught his wrist.

Stay.

“I can’t. Minjun—”

“I’ll send someone to watch him.”

“No-”

“You’re exhausted. You’re not walking home like this.”

He’d tried to argue, but Jungkook’s tone had left no room. So he’d stayed, hating how easily he let himself sink back into the sheets when Jungkook’s hand slid to the back of his neck, steadying him. He didn’t know who Jungkook sent, but at least Minjun wasn’t alone.

Now, the guilt from that still clung to him. The last thing Minjun needed was his brother disappearing overnight without explanation. Jimin pushed himself to his feet, scanning for his jeans.

The door opened before he could move further.

“Awake?” Jungkook’s voice was low, rough with sleep, but there was something lighter in it, like he’d been expecting this exact moment. He stepped in, two mugs in hand, steam curling from both. He was barefoot, hair a little mussed, wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants.

Jimin’s eyes darted away immediately.

“I should go,” he said, not answering the question.

“You could drink this first,” Jungkook said, crossing the room to set a mug on the nightstand. “Before you start throwing orders around.”

“I’m not—”

“Orders, complaints. Same thing with you.”

Jimin shot him a glare, but Jungkook just smirked faintly, taking a slow sip from his own mug before leaning against the wall. “Minjun’s fine. Ate breakfast. Watched some cartoons. My guy dropped him off at school.”

The relief came fast, and Jimin hated how obvious it felt. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Jungkook’s eyes held his for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then, with a shrug, “And I told you last night, no one touches you again. Not those bastards, not anyone. Your debt to me? Gone.”

Jimin froze. “Gone?”

“Under one condition.”

And there it was. “I told you,” he said sharply, “I’m not being your whore. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved, but not in mockery, something quieter, like he’d expected the outburst. “At least hear me out before you start swinging.”

Jimin crossed his arms, though it felt useless. “Fine. Talk.”

“The condition,” Jungkook said, “is you let me stay in your life. By your side. I’m not talking about your bed, unless you want me there, but I mean really there. For you. For Minjun.”

“That’s—”

“And because I know you’ll get all prideful about taking money from me,” Jungkook went on, ignoring the interruption, “I found you a job. A safe one.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Kindergarten teacher. Minjun’s school. Starts next week.”

The words landed too strangely to make sense at first. “How—”

“Don’t worry about how,” Jungkook said, clearly enjoying the shock on his face. “Let’s just say the principal’s very… cooperative when you know the right buttons to press.”

“You—” Jimin shook his head, the edges of his mouth twitching before he could stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And now you don’t have to be away from Minjun so much.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than it should’ve. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Jimin stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Tight. Like the hug was dragged out of him by something deeper than thought.

Jungkook stilled, then his arms came up, firm around Jimin’s back.

It was Jimin who pulled back first, and in the moment his eyes lifted, something reckless took over. He kissed him. Quick, soft, nothing like last night, but enough to make Jungkook’s hand tighten briefly at his waist.

The realisation came crashing in a second later. “Um… sorry. I don’t… I don’t know why I—”

Jungkook’s smile was small, but it was real. “Don’t apologise for things you mean.”

Jimin’s throat felt tight. “Okay,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at him. “I’ll… I’ll go home now.”

“I’ll drop you off. Come on.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Remember our deal,” Jungkook said, but not with the usual bite. This time it was lighter, almost teasing. “Your protection’s my responsibility. 24/7.”

Jimin shot him a flat look. “You make it sound like I asked for that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jungkook replied, tone maddeningly certain. “I decided.”

Jimin opened his mouth, then shut it again, settling for a tight press of his lips. He turned his face away, pretending the conversation was over, but the words, and the way he had said them, stayed with him, winding tight in his chest.

The kindergarten smelled faintly of crayons and hand soap and the sugary ghost of strawberry milk. Afternoons always did. The sun leaked in a warm square onto the reading rug, catching the glitter in the construction paper crowns like dust caught mid-dance. Jimin crouched beside a tiny desk and taped a paper star to the top of a worksheet. The kid who’d traced the letters wobbly and proud looked up at him like the star was a medal.

“Perfect,” Jimin said, and meant it.

He liked the rhythm here. The tiny hands, the lopsided drawings, the way goodbye waves happened with whole arms and entire bodies. This room didn’t want anything from him that hurt. It asked for patience and stickers and the ability to cut straight lines without crying. He could do that. He could do that all day.

The bell rang, the bright, eager kind that made the hallway erupt. Jimin stacked glue sticks, straightened a tower of picture books that insisted on slumping, and said a round of see-you-tomorrows that pinged around the room like marbles.

He checked the clock. He knew what came next because it came every day now, without fail.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped into the corridor that separated the lower wing classrooms from the main building. Teachers drifted like tired birds. Sneakers squeaked. Someone’s laughter echoed off bulletin boards lined with cutout tulips.

Minjun was exactly where he always waited: planted on the bench across from the staff room door like a small royal on a throne he’d inherited by habit, feet not quite touching the floor, backpack shaped like a shark’s mouth covering half of him. He spotted Jimin, sprang up, and launched.

“Hyung!”

He hit Jimin’s middle with the force of a happy missile. Jimin pretended to stagger, because Minjun loved that, and because love made pretending easy.

“All alive?” Jimin asked, smoothing down a cowlick that defied the laws of physics.

“I got a smiley face,” Minjun said, shoving a crumpled paper into Jimin’s hand. “Ms. Hyejin said my reading voice is ‘express-ish.’”

“Expressive,” Jimin corrected, mouth tugging. “Which it is.”

“It means I should get ice cream,” Minjun announced solemnly.

“It means you should keep practicing,” Jimin countered solemnly right back.

The staff room door opened. A couple of teachers came out, saw Jimin, saw the small boy welded to his side, and then glanced toward the sunlit windows facing the front of the school. There, where the curb cut curved into the parking lane, a black car gleamed like a punctuation mark.

One of the teachers tilted her head. “Is that your—”

“Ride,” Jimin said quickly, pulse doing the stupid skip it did when certain engines purred. “Come on, gremlin.”

Minjun’s eyes lit. “Kookoo hyung!”

“Don’t,” Jimin said without heat, already failing not to smile. “You’ll hurt him.”

They trotted down the hall together, Minjun doing more of a hop-skip because sitting still all day had not dulled the energy stored in those small bones. Jimin pulled him back from barreling into the glass doors, and Minjun made a face at his own reflection, then at Jimin’s. Jimin made the face back. They both snorted.

Outside, the afternoon air had that early-spring softness that tricked you into forgetting nights still bit. The car’s window slid down. Jungkook leaned an elbow against the frame like he had grown there, sunglasses pushed into his hair, mouth shaped into a smile that knew it could make trouble and chose to anyway.

“Driver service for Mr. Park,” he said, voice smooth, just on the edge of joking.

Minjun launched again, this time toward steel and leather. “Kookoo hyung!”

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw flinched. “I will pay you both to stop saying that.”

“But it’s your name,” Minjun insisted.

“It’s not even a word.”

“It is if I say it is,” Minjun argued, already climbing into the back seat like a thief who’d learned the security code.

Jimin hovered at the passenger door, bag strap burning a familiar line into his shoulder. He didn’t want this to look like habit. He didn’t want it to be easy.

“You know you could… not,” he said, chin toward the wheel, eyes somewhere that wasn’t Jungkook’s mouth.

“I could,” Jungkook said. He opened the passenger door anyway. “But then I’d miss the part where you pretend you hate that I’m here.”

Jimin stared at the open space like it might swallow him. His feet moved on their own. He slid in. His body knew this car now, where to tuck his knees, where to rest his wrist so it didn’t bump the dial, how the seatbelt clicked smooth, the smell that was expensive cologne washed thin by air freshener and something that was just Jungkook.

He hated that it felt like exhaling.

“Seatbelts,” he said, catching Minjun’s strap and tugging it, tugging down his own.

“Way ahead of you,” Minjun said, then added, “Kookoo hyung drives fast.”

“I don’t,” Jungkook said.

“He does,” Minjun stage-whispered to Jimin. “Like a video game.”

“If you crash this car with my brother inside,” Jimin said, turning just enough to pin Jungkook with a look, “you’ll be paying for more than repairs.”

Jungkook’s mouth did that corner-twitch it did when the threat amused him too much to hide it. “Yes, sir.”

Minjun kicked the back of Jimin’s seat exactly once and then settled into an ongoing monologue about a class pet snail that had escaped, been found, and had maybe laid eggs somewhere mysterious. Jimin answered in hums and mhm-hm-s, half-listening, half-watching Jungkook’s profile as the car slid into traffic, the focused line of his mouth, the way his hands sat easy on the wheel like the world would move if he told it to.

He shouldn’t like knowing this view. He shouldn’t like that when Jungkook hit the indicator, the click-click sounded like part of a song he’d started to memorize. He shouldn’t like any of the things he liked lately.

He stowed those thoughts in the glove compartment with the insurance papers. Shut it.

They stopped at the grocery because Minjun insisted “expressive readers need fuel.” That fuel, apparently, was shaped like sharks, dinosaurs, and stars. The store was bright and too white, glossy tiles squeaking under Minjun’s sneakers as he pushed the mini-cart Jungkook had pulled free with a flourish like he’d produced a rabbit from a hat.

“Essentials only,” Jimin warned, which had never worked on either of them.

“Yes,” Jungkook said solemnly, dropping a bag of seaweed chips into the cart. “Vegetables.” He added a second bag. “For balance.”

“I saw that,” Jimin said.

“I wanted you to,” Jungkook replied, entirely unbothered.

Minjun veered for the endcap of cereal boxes like he’d spotted a friend. “Kookoo hyung, taste test!”

“Absolutely not,” Jimin said, catching a fistful of hoodie.

“Absolutely yes,” Jungkook said, plucking a box with cartoon thunderbolts and reading the back like its sugar content contained stock tips. “We’ll run the numbers.”

“You two are the reason capitalism survives,” Jimin muttered, but let the box stay in the cart because Minjun had tilted his head just so and because Jungkook had thrown him a look over the cardboard that saw right through him.

They collected milk and rice and a discount sack of mandarins that Minjun pretended were juggling balls until Jimin threatened to make him juggle homework instead. Minjun chewed on a tangerine segment, cheeks ballooned, and mumbled, “Kookoo hyung is good at math.”

“Tragically true,” Jungkook said. 

Jimin rolled the cart past towers of instant noodles. He ignored the way the domesticity of this, two adults bickering over snack math while a kid sneaked extra mandarins, settled low in his ribs like a warm animal.

At the register, Minjun helpfully loaded the conveyor with everything except the eggs, which he placed with the careful reverence of a ring bearer. The cashier smiled at them. Jimin pretended it didn’t look like a picture.

Movie night happened because it was Thursday and Thursdays were a valley between mountains. They ate noodles on the couch because noodle slurping made the dinosaur documentary more authentic, according to Minjun, who clapped when anything vaguely toothy appeared onscreen.

Halfway through, Minjun slid sideways until he was a warm weight against Jimin’s hip, lash-fluttering, breaths slowing. Jimin carded fingers through his hair, the expensive shampoo Jungkook somehow “accidentally” kept replacing with a better brand making it slicker than usual. He made a note to scold him. He forgot the second Jungkook shifted and propped one ankle on the coffee table like he lived here.

“Don’t,” Jimin said.

“What,” Jungkook answered, not moving.

“Your shoe.”

“Table’s ugly,” Jungkook said blandly. “I’m improving it.”

“Take it off or I’ll kill you,” Jimin replied, equally bland.

Jungkook took it off. Left his socked foot where it was out of sheer spite. Jimin didn’t fight him for it. Small battles. He was learning.

Minjun’s head slid further, a yawn cracking his face wide. “Kookoo hyung,” he mumbled without opening his eyes, “the T-rex is loud.”

“Same,” Jungkook said, so quietly Jimin almost missed the softness. “Sleep. We’ll protect you from dinosaurs.”

Jimin looked over. Caught the profile softened by couch-lamp light, the line of Jungkook’s throat, the rare stillness. He thought of all the times he’d seen those hands do terrible, necessary things, and all the times they’d plucked grape stems of stray seeds for a kid who claimed seeds made grapes “stabby.” He thought of seats in black cars and benches outside staff rooms and the way routine had crept in like ivy, silent and relentless.

He didn’t want it to be this easy. He also didn’t want to let it go.

“I’ll carry him,” Jungkook said when the credits rolled with a rustle of prehistoric ferns.

“You always do,” Jimin said.

Jungkook stood, slid hands under Minjun with a care that didn’t look like a performance because it wasn’t. Minjun curled into his chest like he’d been made to fit there, one arm flopping over Jungkook’s shoulder. Jimin followed them down the short hall, watched Jungkook lower the kid into bed, watched him do the blanket tuck and hair swipe he’d never comment on.

At the door, Minjun turned onto his side, not-quite-asleep voice catching at them. “Night, hyung. Night, Kookoo hyung.”

“Goodnight, menace,” Jimin said.

“Goodnight, menace’s menace,” Jungkook added.

Jimin bit down on something that was not a laugh. He failed.

He then leaned on the hallway wall, barefoot, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows. From where he stood, the warm glow of Minjun’s nightlight spilled into the corridor like a soft spill of honey. He could hear Jungkook’s voice, low, patient, murmuring some ridiculous bedtime story about a rabbit who wanted to be a magician. Minjun’s giggles came in smaller bursts now, each one softer than the last, until the sound was replaced by the rustle of blankets and a quiet yawn.

It wasn’t new, Jungkook putting Minjun to bed. It had become something Jimin almost expected now. Some nights, he told himself he should be the one tucking his little brother in, but Minjun had grown used to Jungkook’s deep voice and the way he always seemed to turn bedtime into something exciting. Jimin would never admit it out loud, but he liked watching from the doorway, liked the way Jungkook handled Minjun with an ease that didn’t quite fit the image of the man who’d once been nothing but trouble to him.

The bedroom door clicked shut. Jungkook stepped out quietly, his black t-shirt clinging to him, hair slightly mussed from Minjun’s grabby hands. He smiled faintly when he saw Jimin.

“All yours,” he said, as if Minjun were some kind of shared responsibility they passed between them.

Jimin hummed, brushing past him to peek into the room for a final look. Minjun was already curled up, breathing slow, the stuffed tiger Jungkook had bought him tucked under one arm. Jimin smiled without meaning to. When he turned back, Jungkook was still there, leaning against the wall, watching him in that way he always did, like Jimin was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Normally, Jimin would have rolled his eyes, brushed past him, maybe muttered something sarcastic to break the tension. But tonight was different. Maybe it was the way Jungkook’s voice still lingered in his ears from the bedtime story, or the way the apartment felt warmer than usual, or maybe it was because Jimin was just… tired of pretending he didn’t want this.

He stepped closer. Jungkook straightened slightly, caught off guard, his brows lifting just enough to betray his surprise.

“What?” Jungkook asked, voice softer now, wary in that way he got whenever Jimin did something unexpected.

Jimin didn’t answer. He just reached up, fingers curling into the fabric of Jungkook’s t-shirt, and pulled him down, not roughly, but with a quiet certainty that left no room for hesitation. Their mouths met, warm and slow at first, a kiss that wasn’t about urgency but about acknowledgment.

Jungkook made a low sound against his lips, the kind he always made when he was trying to restrain himself. But restraint had never really been his thing.

Jimin broke the kiss for just a moment, enough to whisper, “Bedroom.”

If he’d hesitated, maybe the moment would’ve felt heavier, too deliberate. But the words came easily, like it wasn’t the first time, like this was already something that belonged to them.

Jungkook didn’t argue. He didn’t even speak, just took Jimin’s hand and let him lead the way.

By the time the door clicked shut behind them, the air between them had shifted completely.

Jimin knew how Jungkook could be, overwhelming, greedy, all-consuming, but lately, he’d learned that Jungkook could also be patient. It was still obsession, yes, but softened at the edges, as if Jungkook had figured out that sometimes, if he let Jimin move at his own pace, he’d get more than he ever dared to demand.

Tonight, though, Jimin wasn’t interested in slow.

He pushed Jungkook onto the bed first, climbing into his lap without giving him a chance to process. Jungkook’s hands immediately found his waist, holding him there, thumbs pressing into the soft dip of his hips.

“This is new,” Jungkook murmured, looking up at him with something that was both smug and reverent.

Jimin leaned down and kissed him again, harder this time. His hands slid into Jungkook’s hair, tugging just enough to make him inhale sharply. He felt the familiar rush in his chest, that mix of satisfaction and want that came from knowing he could undo Jungkook with such little effort.

Jungkook’s fingers tightened at his waist, sliding under the hem of his sweater. “You’re dangerous when you start things, baby.”

“Then don’t stop me,” Jimin said, his voice lower than he expected it to be.

Jungkook didn’t. He let Jimin kiss him breathless, let him grind down against him until the friction made them both gasp. The sweater came off first, tossed somewhere onto the floor, and Jungkook’s palms were immediately on his skin, warm and possessive.

Jimin let himself enjoy it. The way Jungkook’s touch lingered, like he was mapping every inch. The way his eyes flicked between Jimin’s lips and his bare chest, as if he couldn’t decide where to look.

It wasn’t just lust, Jungkook always looked at him like this, like he couldn’t believe Jimin was real. And maybe that was what made Jimin lean into him even more, fingers working at the hem of Jungkook’s shirt until it was off, until there was nothing left between them but heat and skin.

They didn’t rush to undress completely. That was another thing about their routine, it wasn’t always about getting to the end as fast as possible. Sometimes it was about dragging it out, about letting their bodies remember each other in pieces.

Jimin kissed down his jaw, over the line of his throat, feeling Jungkook’s pulse jump under his lips. Jungkook’s hands roamed, over his back, his sides, gripping his thighs like he was afraid Jimin might slip away.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Jungkook muttered, his voice almost frustrated.

Jimin smirked against his skin. “I think I do.”

Jungkook pulled him closer, flipping them so Jimin was under him now, the sudden shift making him gasp. “Then you should know I’m not letting you go tonight.”

Jimin’s pulse stuttered, but not from fear. He just nodded, tugging him down for another kiss, letting it deepen until it was messy, until his lips tingled and he could barely catch his breath.

The rest blurred, hands roaming, clothes sliding away, the air growing hotter by the minute. And when Jungkook finally pressed into him, Jimin didn’t hold back the moan that slipped past his lips.

This was what they’d fallen into. Nights where they didn’t need to talk about what they were, where the tension between them was its own kind of language. Sometimes Jungkook started it, sometimes Jimin did, but it always ended like this: tangled up in each other, caught between the pull of wanting and the comfort of having.

When it was over, they didn’t pull away. Jungkook stayed close, his hand on Jimin’s chest like he needed to feel the steady beat under his palm.

“See?” Jungkook murmured, almost like he was talking to himself. “You’re always worth waiting for.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes, letting the warmth settle over him, telling himself that maybe, just maybe, this was okay.

Because for all the ways Jungkook was obsessive, overbearing, too much… there were nights like this. Nights where Jimin wanted him just as badly. Nights where he didn’t feel like resisting. Nights where it felt like they were both choosing this.

The sound was nothing.

A couple of knuckles against the door, light enough to pass for a neighbor borrowing soy sauce, or a delivery driver who’d knocked out of courtesy.

Jimin didn’t even think twice when he dried his hands on the hem of his sweatshirt, padding barefoot from the kitchen. He still had soap smell on his skin. Minjun’s laughter was faint from the other room , cartoons low enough not to bother him.

He twisted the knob.

And froze.

The man on the other side smiled like a fox that had found the henhouse unlocked.

“Jimin-ah,” his father said.

His mouth went dry. The hallway seemed to narrow, the edges of his vision curling in, not from shock , but from recognition. That voice lived somewhere in him, in a place that never healed right.

It was almost obscene, how ordinary he looked. A jacket that might have been decent if it weren’t wrinkled at the elbows, hair slicked back like he’d tried, cologne sour under the alcohol still leaking from his pores.

Jimin’s fingers stayed on the door. “What—” His tongue felt thick. “What are you doing here?”

His father’s smile stretched. “What, no hello for your old man?”

Old man. As if the title was still his to use.

Something ugly twisted in Jimin’s chest. He saw not this man, but the other versions of him:

The father who never came home sober.

The father who treated work like a disease, but never missed a night at the gambling table.

The father who bled his mother dry , bled her until she worked herself into the ground at the factory and never came back.

The father who remarried a woman that didn’t last long enough to memorize the kitchen layout before leaving with whatever she could carry.

The father who, when Minjun was barely out of toddlerhood, started seeing his sons as something he could drain.

And then, the father who ran.

Left a door swinging on broken hinges, debt collectors pounding at it. Left Jimin with a crying half-brother and numbers on scraps of paper , numbers that came with fists and threats.

He’d learned then what family meant to his father:

A paycheck.

A safety net.

A body to take the hits when the debt piled too high.

Now he stood here, alive, like he’d just stepped out for milk.

Jimin’s throat burned. “Why are you here.”

His father shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “I wanted to see you. And… I need a little help.”

There it was. Not even five sentences in before the ask.

“No,” Jimin said.

A flicker of annoyance. “You didn’t even hear how much.”

“I don’t care how much.”

“Jimin—”

“No.” His voice was sharper this time. “I’m not giving you a single won.”

His father’s smile thinned. “I’m your father.”

“You’re the man who left us with nothing but threats at the door.”

“That was different.”

“Was it different when you took my paychecks in high school? Was it different when you made Mom take extra shifts until her body gave out? Was it different when you took loans in my name because no one else would trust you?”

The man flinched, just barely. Then the mask slipped back on. “I had bad luck. Things didn’t work out. But now…” His gaze slid past Jimin, toward the apartment. “I hear you’re doing well. New job. Nice place.”

Of course. Of course that was why.

“You think because I’m not starving anymore, I’m willing to feed your addiction?”

His father’s expression hardened. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” Jimin’s hand tightened on the door. “Like you’re a stranger who’s only here to take?”

For a moment, the air between them was thin enough to choke on. Then, his father moved , sudden, violent , his arm coming up, palm flat, aiming for Jimin’s face.

Jimin didn’t flinch. Not because he wasn’t scared , but because he’d been here before.

The slap never landed.

A hand clamped around his father’s wrist, fingers digging in until the skin blanched.

Jungkook’s voice was low, steady. “Don’t.”

Jimin exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His father jerked, tried to pull free. “Who the hell are you?”

“The man who’s going to break your hand if you ever try that again.” Jungkook’s eyes were dark, his mouth a hard line.

And then the laugh , bitter, mocking. “Ah. I see how it is. So this is how you’re paying the bills, huh? Spreading your legs for a rich alpha?”

The words hit like glass to the chest. Not because Jimin believed them , but because his father wanted them to hurt. And they did.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He let go of the wrist, only to send his fist crashing into the man’s face. The sound was sickening , a crack, a grunt, the dull thud of weight hitting the wall.

Jimin didn’t move. Couldn’t. His heart was loud in his ears.

His father spat blood on the floor. “You’ll regret that,” he slurred.

Jungkook stepped forward, and the air turned dangerous. “Try me.”

His father’s head lolled for a moment, the punch having knocked the arrogance off his face, but not the ugliness in his eyes. He straightened slowly, like each vertebrae was a personal insult to the air in this apartment.

“You think you’re a big man now?” His gaze slid between Jimin and Jungkook. “With your fancy car, your suit, your—” he waved a hand, as if the sight of them together was filth in the air, “—whore in your bed.”

Jimin’s stomach twisted, cold rushing up his throat. That word always hit the same, no matter how old he got, no matter how far he thought he’d crawled from the boy who used to flinch at it.

“Say that again,” Jungkook said, voice low enough to make the hair at Jimin’s nape prickle.

His father laughed , not from humor, but from the same stubborn pride that had kept him in card games until his pockets were turned inside out. “I should’ve known. My son can’t make it on his own, so he sells himself to the highest bidder.”

Jimin wanted to speak. He wanted to cut him in half with the truth , that this man had never given him a single thing worth keeping, that whatever life Jimin had now was built in spite of him, not because. But the words clogged somewhere behind his teeth. Years of swallowing down what he wanted to say had trained his body too well.

Jungkook took a slow step forward. “You’re talking about my omega.”

That word hung there, not tender, but territorial , sharp as a claim carved into wood.

“I’m talking about my son,” his father shot back.

“No.” Jungkook’s tone didn’t rise, but it carried the weight of something immovable. “You don’t get to call him that. Not after what you’ve done. Not after you left him with nothing but a crying kid and men at his door ready to break his bones.”

A muscle ticked in Jimin’s jaw. He’d never told Jungkook all of it , not in detail. But maybe he hadn’t needed to. Some things were obvious when you looked close enough.

“I came back, didn’t I?” his father said, almost petulant.

“You came back because you heard he’s doing well,” Jungkook said. “You came back to bleed him dry again.”

The man’s lips curled. “At least I didn’t beat him into obedience.”

Jimin’s breath hitched. Jungkook’s shoulders went still.

And then he moved.

It wasn’t the chaos Jimin had seen in other fights , the unpredictable, feral kind of violence Jungkook could summon when he wanted to ruin someone. This was colder. Controlled. He pushed his father back into the wall with a forearm across his chest, pinning him there.

“You so much as look at him the wrong way again,” Jungkook said, his voice quiet, his eyes murderous, “and I will make sure you don’t get up the next time I put you down.”

His father grunted, trying to shove him off, but Jungkook didn’t even sway. The wall creaked under the pressure.

“Get out,” Jungkook said.

For a moment, it looked like he might resist , might push back just for the sake of pride. But then his gaze flickered to Jungkook’s face, to the complete lack of bluff there, and something in him faltered.

He stepped back. Straightened his jacket. Spat again, this time closer to Jungkook’s shoe.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered.

“It is if you value breathing,” Jungkook said.

The man gave Jimin one last look , something between disgust and something more dangerous, an assessing calculation that made Jimin’s skin go tight , and then he walked out. The door shut behind him, louder than necessary.

The silence he left was suffocating.

Jimin’s hands were fists at his sides. He couldn’t remember unclenching them since he’d opened the door. His heartbeat was in his ears, his mouth, his ribs.

“You okay?” Jungkook asked.

It was too much , the gentleness after the storm. His throat worked around the answer, but nothing came out.

Jungkook stepped closer, his eyes searching Jimin’s face. “He’s not coming back.”

Jimin wanted to believe that. He wanted to lock the door in his head the way he could lock the one in the apartment. But his father’s gaze lingered in his mind , not the insults, not even the raised hand, but that quick, cold calculation, like he’d just found something to use.

And deep down, Jimin knew: men like that didn’t leave empty-handed.

The late afternoon sun felt like it was pressing down instead of shining, a heavy, lazy heat that made the air feel thick around his neck.

Jimin’s hand was warm where Minjun’s smaller fingers were looped through his. The school gates were only a few steps away, and the noise of other children spilled into the air , laughter, sneakers against pavement, parents calling out.

Minjun was talking about something, his words tumbling over themselves in the rush only kids had, about how his art teacher said his drawing of a dinosaur looked “very fierce,” and how he got to put a gold star on it. Jimin nodded, smiled when he needed to, but his head was somewhere else entirely.

He hadn’t slept. Not a wink.

Every time he’d closed his eyes, that knock had come back. Those eyes. That voice, curling through the apartment like smoke from a fire he thought he’d put out years ago.

His father.

The image of him leaning against the doorframe, casual as anything, asking for help like it was still his right , it had looped in Jimin’s skull until dawn. It wasn’t the punch from Jungkook, or even the words that had dug under his skin. It was the look on his father’s face as he’d left, like he’d pocketed something invisible. Like he’d already decided the next move, and Jimin just didn’t know what it was yet.

That knowledge , that his father was thinking , was worse than any direct threat.

Jimin’s fingers tightened slightly on Minjun’s hand. The boy didn’t notice, still happily recounting the difference between a T. Rex and a velociraptor.

They were only a few steps from the main gate when the world seemed to change shape.

It was in the way the crowd ahead of them shifted , parents moving just slightly, a space opening like water parting for something sharp cutting through it. And then Jimin saw him.

The heat inside his body dropped clean away.

His father was standing right there, just outside the gates, hands in his jacket pockets, a thin smile stretching his face like a knife between his teeth. He wasn’t drunk. That was almost worse. He was alert. Calculating.

Jimin’s feet slowed before he even thought about it.

“Jimin-ah,” his father called, like they were old friends meeting by accident. His voice carried over the noise of the crowd, threaded with something that made Jimin’s chest lock up.

Minjun stopped too, blinking up at the man.

“What are you doing here?” Jimin’s voice was flat.

“I came to walk my son home.” His father’s eyes cut to Minjun. The smile softened , not with love, but with possession.

Jimin’s grip on Minjun’s hand tightened. “He’s going home with me.”

That’s when his father stepped closer, just enough to breach the invisible boundary. His tone shifted, lower but still loud enough for the people around to hear. “You’ve been keeping him from me. My own son. Do you think you can just decide that?”

Minjun’s little fingers twitched in Jimin’s hold, uncertain now.

“You’re not taking him.”

“You don’t get to say that,” his father shot back, louder now. Heads started to turn. “You think because you feed him a few meals and play schoolteacher, he belongs to you? I’m his father. His only parent.”

The words dug in , not because Jimin believed them, but because they were being said here, like this, with the world watching.

“You left him,” Jimin said, voice shaking. “You left both of us.”

“I came back. And what did I find?” His father’s lip curled. “My boy being raised by someone who spends more time spreading his legs than being a decent guardian.”

Jimin’s breath caught, and a cold flush ripped up the back of his neck. Murmurs started behind him, the sound of strangers ready to believe whatever dirt they were handed.

“Stop.” His voice cracked. “Don’t do this here.”

“This is exactly where I’ll do it,” his father said, eyes bright with the thrill of spectacle. “You think you’re respectable now? Everyone should know the kind of filth you are before I take my son somewhere safe.”

“I am keeping him safe!” Jimin’s voice spiked, raw.

“You?” His father barked a laugh that carried far too easily in the afternoon air. “You’re not even his real brother. You think just because your mother married me, that makes you family? You’ve been lying to yourself. And to him.”

The words hit so fast, so sharp, it felt like they didn’t even have to pierce his skin , they were already under it. Minjun was staring between them now, his face pale, confusion and fear twisting his mouth.

Jimin crouched slightly, trying to meet his eyes. “Minjun-ah, stay with me, okay? We’re going home.”

But then his father moved.

It was quick, practiced. One large hand came down on Minjun’s arm, the other prying at Jimin’s grip. Minjun cried out, high and panicked.

“No!” Jimin yanked back, but his father’s weight and leverage were too much.

“Let go of him, you selfish bastard,” his father snapped. “You’ve been poisoning him against me. Filling his head with lies while you—” he gestured crudely at Jimin with his free hand “—live off men who pay for what you do best.”

Jimin could hear every inhale around him. Teachers standing by the gate. Parents waiting for their children. Each one a witness, each one deciding who to believe.

Minjun was crying now, loud, pulling toward Jimin even as his father’s arm locked around his small shoulders. “Hyung! Hyung, don’t let go!”

“I’m not— I’m right here—” Jimin reached again, but his father jerked the boy back so hard Jimin stumbled forward, his knee hitting the pavement.

“You’re not taking him!” The desperation cracked through, tearing his throat on the way out.

“I’m his father,” the man snarled, every syllable a stamp of ownership. “And I’m done letting you ruin him with your pathetic life. He’s coming with me. End of story.”

Jimin’s hand was still out, empty now. “Please— Please, just talk to me—”

“You had your chance.”

And then his father was moving toward the curb, Minjun twisting, sobbing, little hands still reaching for Jimin as if sheer will could bridge the space.

His father opened the taxi door, and Minjun was being bundled inside, his face wet and desperate against the glass.

“Hyung! Don’t let him take me!”

The engine coughed to life.

“STOP! Please, just—don’t—” Jimin’s palms slapped against the glass, but the car was already moving.

He ran. Barefoot almost in his mind, his legs didn’t care about the concrete or the eyes burning into his back. He chased the tail lights, lungs clawing for air, vision shaking from the speed of his own heart.

For a second, he thought he could reach them. His fingertips grazed metal , and then the car lurched forward, leaving him grabbing at air.

He tripped, the pavement tearing skin from his knees and palms. His breath hitched, but the pain was nothing compared to the hollow weight ripping open in his chest.

The taxi turned the corner. Gone.

He stayed on the ground, breathing like each inhale might cut him apart. The sounds of the street were back now , whispers, the rustle of people who’d stopped to watch and stayed to judge.

His body wouldn’t move. He stared at the empty street like he could will the car back into existence.

Footsteps pounded closer.

“Jimin!” Jungkook’s voice, sharp, urgent. He dropped to a crouch beside him, hands on his shoulders. “What happened? Where’s Minjun?”

Jimin looked up at him, and the words came out like they’d been waiting all day to escape.

“He took him,” he whispered, then louder, ragged. “He took Minjun, Jungkook. He took my everything.”

And that was where his world ended.

He’d been thirteen the first time he held Minjun.

The baby had been so small back then, small enough that Jimin was afraid his hands might break him. His stepmother had been in the hospital bed, exhausted, barely glancing at the swaddled bundle before turning her face away. The nurse had smiled at him, said, “Do you want to hold your little brother?” like it was an invitation to something sacred.

He hadn’t known then how sacred.

The baby’s head had fit in the crook of his elbow like it belonged there. Dark, curious eyes had blinked up at him, unfocused but steady in their own way, and Jimin remembered thinking, Oh. It’s you.

Like he’d been waiting for this tiny stranger without realizing it.

At thirteen, Jimin had already learned too much about absence. His own mother had been gone for years, his father too busy chasing cards and liquor to notice the way Jimin had grown into his clothes. There had been no one to hold Jimin that way , but he could hold this baby. He could be the one who stayed.

When Minjun’s mother left , slammed the door and never came back, taking her perfume and her patience with her , Minjun had been three. Their father had been slumped on the couch, too far gone in drink to understand what was happening. Jimin had stood in the doorway, watching the woman walk away, feeling the sudden weight of forever settle on his shoulders.

He hadn’t let go of Minjun since.

Morning feedings, baths, lullabies whispered in the dark when the boy’s nightmares were too loud , they were his. The scraped knees and school projects and bad fevers , his.

Every coin earned, every meal cooked, every small sacrifice , all for Minjun.

And Minjun had never once made him feel like it wasn’t worth it.

He’d been the kind of child who would save the bigger slice of bread for Jimin, who would press stickers into Jimin’s palm after school and say “It’s for you, hyung,” like he was giving away gold. The kind of child who sat at the kitchen table, swinging his legs, humming to himself while Jimin cooked, perfectly content just to be near him.

The kind of child who looked at him like he was home.

And now he was gone.

Jimin had replayed yesterday a hundred times in his head, each time hoping the ending would change. The way Minjun’s small hand had been torn from his, the way his father’s voice had risen above the noise of the crowd , ugly, cutting, loud enough to make strangers stare.

“You think you can keep my son from me? You’re ruining him! Teaching him God knows what—”

Minjun crying, reaching for him.

“You can’t even keep yourself clean, Jimin-ah. A prostitute, pretending to be a parent—”

The word had stuck like glass in his skin.

And then the worst of it, the thing that kept him up all night:

“He’s not even your real brother. Stepbrother. Half-blood. Who do you think you are, trying to take him from his father? He’s mine. Not yours.”

The car door had slammed. Tires screeched. Jimin had chased until his legs gave out, until the taste of blood rose in his throat, until the car was nothing but a shadow disappearing down the street.

And now the apartment was too quiet.

Jungkook had gone with him to the police, sat there with one arm draped over the back of Jimin’s chair like he could shield him from what they were about to hear. But there was no shielding from this.

The officer’s voice had been matter-of-fact, almost bored. “His father has full custody. He’s already filed a complaint against you , says you’ve been keeping the child from him. Even if the boy has been living with you, legally, he belongs with his father.”

Jimin had said, “But—” and nothing had followed. There were too many buts.

But his father doesn’t care for him. But I’ve raised him since he was three. But he’s mine in every way that matters.

None of it mattered here.

He’d walked out of the station feeling like the air had been punched out of him. Jungkook had been saying something , about lawyers, about other ways , but the words slid off Jimin like rain on glass.

Because there was a truth already lodged in his chest: he wasn’t going to get Minjun back.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Maybe not ever.

The thought made something deep in him curdle. His hands trembled without his permission, as if his body understood before his mind could.

At home, he’d stood in Minjun’s room for hours. The bed was still messy from the morning rush to school. There was a drawing on the desk , two stick figures holding hands, one taller than the other. Above them, a lopsided sun.

He’d touched the crayon lines with the tips of his fingers, like maybe he could feel the warmth of Minjun’s little hand through the paper.

Jungkook had found him there, but Jimin hadn’t looked up.

Because how could he explain? How could he put into words that Minjun wasn’t just his brother , he was the reason. The reason Jimin had kept going through the debt, the hunger, the shame. The reason he’d clawed himself out of the water that night Jungkook found him.

And now that reason was gone.

Night had come without sleep. He’d lain in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying Minjun’s voice in his head, terrified that if he didn’t keep repeating it, he’d forget what it sounded like. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Minjun’s tear-streaked face pressed to the car window.

Now, morning light spilled across the room and it felt wrong, like the sun shouldn’t bother shining today.

He sat on the couch because lying down felt dangerous , too close to drifting off and losing the loop of Minjun’s voice in his head. Jungkook was there too, on the other side of the couch, not speaking. Just… there. His presence was a weight, but not a suffocating one.

“Coffee?” Jungkook asked eventually, like they were two people who still had mornings.

Jimin shook his head. His throat was too tight for anything.

The silence returned, thick as fog.

Jimin’s gaze drifted to the front door. Every part of him wanted to believe it would open and Minjun would walk in, his backpack sliding off one shoulder, his smile shy but certain. But the door stayed shut.

It was strange, he thought, how quickly a place could turn from a home into just a container for grief. The air here was the same, but it felt heavier now, like it carried all the things Minjun had left behind , laughter, warmth, the soft patter of feet on the floor.

“I’ll fix it,” Jungkook said quietly.

Jimin let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. It was too brittle. “You can’t.”

Jungkook didn’t argue, but the set of his jaw said he would anyway.

Jimin looked down at his hands. They were empty. He didn’t remember the last time they’d been empty this long , no lunchbox to carry, no small fingers curled into his, no laundry basket with tiny clothes. Just skin and silence.

He thought about the way Minjun used to fall asleep in the car on the way home from school, his head tilting until it rested against Jimin’s arm. The way he’d mumble half-dreaming things, like “Hyung, don’t forget my blue pencil” or “Can we have soup tonight?”

Who was going to remember those things now? Who was going to notice if Minjun’s shoes were getting too tight, or if his favorite mug had chipped?

The answer hollowed him out: not Jimin. Not anymore.

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, sounded foreign. “I don’t think I can do this without him.”

Jungkook didn’t tell him he could. Didn’t feed him the empty lines people said in moments like this. He just shifted closer, his hand landing on Jimin’s shoulder with a weight that grounded him, if only slightly.

They sat like that for a long time. Jimin staring at the door. Jungkook staring at him. The clock ticking loud enough to be cruel.

And for the first time since he was thirteen, Jimin felt like the boy holding a baby too small for his hands , terrified of breaking him, but more terrified of what would happen if he ever had to let go.

Only this time, he already had.

Jungkook had seen people break before.

He’d seen men fold when the bat came down on their ribs. Seen them cry when the knife grazed too close to the artery. Seen their pride crack open when the debt number was read out loud, zeroes piling until their knees hit the ground.

But he had never seen someone break the way Jimin was breaking now.

It wasn’t loud. There was no screaming, no throwing things, no slamming doors. It was quieter than that , the kind of quiet that seeped under skin and stayed there, heavy and damp.

Jimin moved like a ghost in the penthouse. He didn’t touch the piano anymore, didn’t hum when he was washing dishes, didn’t look out the window like he used to. The spark was gone. Sometimes Jungkook caught him sitting on the couch for hours, eyes fixed on nothing, the TV dark.

He still let Jungkook hold him at night, but it was the way a drowning man let himself float , limp, trusting the water to decide where he’d end up. And maybe that was the worst part: Jimin didn’t fight him anymore.

The sex had become… something else. Not heat, not want , not in the way it used to be. Jimin was always the one to start it now. Jungkook would be sitting on the couch or coming out of the shower, and Jimin would be there, climbing into his lap, mouth finding his like it was muscle memory. There was no hesitation, but there was no light in it either.

At first, Jungkook thought maybe it was habit. Maybe Jimin just didn’t know how to stop touching him. But he learned quickly it wasn’t that , it was survival. It was the only thing that seemed to tether Jimin to the present, the only time he didn’t look completely gone.

And Jungkook… he let him. Even though it made something inside him ache in ways he couldn’t name.

Tonight was the same.

Jimin had barely eaten all day. He’d sat by the window until the sun went down, arms around his knees, cheek pressed to the glass. Jungkook didn’t push , he’d stopped pushing. He just set a plate down near him once in a while, and if it went untouched, he put it away later without a word.

When they got into bed, Jimin turned toward him immediately, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. His mouth found Jungkook’s without preamble, soft at first, then harder, as if pressing harder could force something to change.

Jungkook kissed him back because saying no felt cruel.

Jimin’s hands were already under his shirt, cold fingers against his skin. There was no teasing, no playful shove like there used to be , just a relentless push to get closer, to get skin. Jungkook let him pull the shirt off, watched the way Jimin’s eyes didn’t quite meet his, like he was somewhere else already.

When their mouths met again, it was deep, messy. Jimin tasted like tea he hadn’t finished earlier. His breath hitched when Jungkook’s hand slid down his spine, and that , that tiny sound , made Jungkook’s pulse kick hard.

Because even if Jimin’s head wasn’t fully here, his body still responded to him.

Clothes fell away in pieces. Jimin climbed over him, straddling his hips, moving like a man chasing something he couldn’t name. His thighs squeezed tight around Jungkook’s waist as he leaned down, kissing like it hurt.

Jungkook’s hands roamed , his waist, his ribs, the curve of his ass , grounding himself in the feel of him. He didn’t rush. He never did anymore. Jimin might start it like a wildfire, but Jungkook paced it, stretching out every second, because he knew once it ended, Jimin would slip back into that hollow place.

When he pushed into him, the sound Jimin made was sharp, caught between relief and ache. His head dropped forward, breath hot against Jungkook’s neck.

“You always…” Jimin’s voice broke on a breath. “You always fill me up so well.” He bit his lip, a flush creeping up his throat.

Jungkook’s grip tightened on his hips, holding him there, buried deep, feeling the way Jimin clenched around him like his body didn’t want to let go.

“Look at me,” Jungkook said.

Jimin didn’t. He moved instead, rolling his hips slow, deliberate, as if he could ignore the request.

Jungkook let him set the pace at first, watching the way his lashes fluttered, the way his mouth stayed parted like he was halfway to saying something. But then Jimin leaned down again, lips brushing Jungkook’s ear, and said , low, almost swallowed ,

“Because of you…”

The words stopped him cold.

“Because of you, my father thought I was a whore.” Jimin’s voice shook, but his hips didn’t stop. “Because of you… he took Minjun.”

It was like taking a punch in the chest. Jungkook’s body went rigid under him.

“Jimin—”

“If you hadn’t been there-” His voice cracked, but the words kept coming, spilling over. “he wouldn’t have thought...he wouldn’t have—”

“If you had never come into our life, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Jungkook’s hands were still on his hips, holding him in place, not to stop him, but because if he let go he might shatter.

“I’m doing my best,” Jungkook said quietly. And it was the truth. He’d been trying every day since it happened , calls, meetings, people on the payroll looking for leverage. He’d even gone to the police, stood next to Jimin while they said the words that made his stomach twist: Legally, the child belongs with his father.

He’d thought about killing him. God, he’d thought about it so many times his knuckles itched with it. He could do it in an hour, make the body disappear, make it look like an accident. It would be easy , too easy. But the image of Jimin’s face after, the way he would look at him like he was a stranger , that was what stopped him. Because if he did it, he’d win Minjun back… and lose Jimin forever.

“You’ve been saying that for a month,” Jimin said, voice fraying. “Nothing’s happened.”

The room felt airless. Jungkook wanted to pull him down, to hold him still, to make him understand he wasn’t the enemy here. But Jimin’s eyes , when they finally met his , were wet, accusing, and something in him broke.

Jimin started moving again, almost frantically now, like he could fuck the ache out of his own chest. Jungkook gripped him hard, thrusting up to meet him, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. It was messy, desperate, the air thick with heat and something darker.

Jimin came first, shuddering, his hands clutching at Jungkook’s shoulders like he needed something solid to hold on to. Jungkook followed a moment later, the release torn from him, but it felt hollow.

After, Jimin rolled off him without a word, turning his back. Jungkook lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving. He didn’t reach for him.

Eventually, Jimin got up, pulled on boxers, and walked out. Jungkook heard the guest room door shut.

He stayed in bed, the imprint of Jimin’s body still warm beside him, and thought about all the ways he’d failed , and all the ways he couldn’t fix it.

The chair between them wasn’t enough distance.

Jungkook could smell the man’s breath from here , stale alcohol and something cheaper, the kind of rot that came from never brushing your teeth and never telling the truth.

“You found me,” Jimin’s father said, voice almost mocking, but the way his knee bounced under the table betrayed the act. “All this for what? To ask nicely for the boy back?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. Men like this always talked first. Always thought they were leading the conversation.

Men who owed too much, who burned bridges so thoroughly they didn’t even leave ash. Men who looked over their shoulders every time they walked into a room, because they knew eventually someone would come for them.

But Jimin’s father… he was a different breed. Not because he was dangerous , but because he was pathetic.

The small rented room stank of stale beer and damp carpet. Jungkook had picked it for that reason , somewhere claustrophobic, somewhere without dignity. A single table sat between them, its legs uneven enough that it rocked when Jimin’s father shifted in his chair. The man looked thinner than before, but his eyes darted with that same restless greed Jungkook had seen the first night he opened the door for him.

It had taken weeks to find him. Weeks of calling in favors, greasing the right palms, combing through whispers in the underbelly of a city Jungkook had long since learned to navigate. The man was good at hiding, but not good enough.

“You said you had a deal,” the older man said, voice too casual for his twitching knee. “That’s the only reason I’m here. Otherwise…” He made a show of glancing toward the door. “I’d have called the police the second I saw you.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, black hoodie blending with the shadows at his back. His voice came quiet, almost lazy. “Yeah. Police should be called.”

The man smirked like he’d won something. “Glad you see it—”

“On you.”

That cut the smile.

Jungkook reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of photographs, spreading them across the table like a deck of cards. Plastic bags. Fine white powder. Neatly labeled evidence markers in the corner of each frame.

“This,” Jungkook said, tapping one with a gloved finger, “is from your new place. Under your bed. Inside your bag.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the man’s breathing, uneven and sharp. Then , “What the hell is this? I’ve never touched that shit in my life—”

“Doesn’t matter what you touched,” Jungkook cut in. “Matters what they find. And if the police find this in your place, they’re not going to ask politely. They’re going to put you in a cell and forget the key exists.”

The man stood abruptly, chair screeching back. “You planted it. You bastard—”

Jungkook didn’t move fast , he didn’t need to. The gun was in his hand before the man’s voice had even finished echoing. Black, matte, clean. He tilted it just enough to catch the light.

“Sit.”

The man’s chest heaved once, twice , then he sat.

Jungkook’s gaze was steady, unblinking. “Listen to me carefully. This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to give Minjun back to Jimin. You’re going to take that complaint back from the police. And then you’re going to disappear. Far away. You so much as breathe in this city again, I’ll make one call and the cops will be at your door before you can say your own name.”

The man’s nostrils flared, but his voice cracked when he spoke. “You think I care about your threats? That boy’s my son—”

“You don’t care about him,” Jungkook said flatly. “If you did, you wouldn’t have yanked him out of his brother’s arms screaming in the middle of the street. You wouldn’t have left him crying in some shitty room while you gambled away whatever money you got.”

His jaw tightened. “I can give him a better life—”

“You can’t even give yourself a sober morning.”

That landed. The man’s hands curled into fists, not in defiance but in frustration , the kind that came when someone had been stripped of every lie they’d been clinging to.

Jungkook tapped the muzzle of the gun lightly against the man’s cheek. “This isn’t a negotiation. This is mercy. You don’t take it, and I make the call. And believe me , prison will be a lot less forgiving than I am.”

Silence.

Then , “What do I get?”

Jungkook’s mouth curved, humorless. “You get to keep breathing.”

The man swallowed hard. His voice was small now. “I… I’ll need money to get out. To start over somewhere else—”

“You’ll get enough to get out of the city. That’s it. No more.” Jungkook’s tone was final. “And you never come near them again.”

The man nodded slowly, the fight draining out of his shoulders.

“Good,” Jungkook said, slipping the gun back into his hoodie pocket. “Now get in the car.”

The drive was quiet. The city slid by in blurs of neon and grey, the hum of the engine the only sound. Jungkook’s hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind wasn’t still.

Jimin’s voice from that night came back without asking.

If you had never come into our life, this wouldn’t have happened.

He didn’t think about those words while he was tracking this man down. Didn’t think about them while he staged the photos, while he laid the trap. But now, with the father silent beside him and Minjun only a few streets away, they sat heavy in his chest.

He hated that Jimin was right, that his presence had brought this kind of hurt.

But this would be the last time. The last time Jimin’s life splintered because of him.

Jungkook had dropped him off with nothing more than,

“I’ve got something to take care of. Stay here.”

No explanation. No hint of what that “something” was.

Jimin had stood in the doorway a moment too long. It wasn’t like him to leave without saying when he’d be back.

Now, he was back to his place, after weeks. It was too quiet, too empty without Minjun.

Jimin sat on the couch with his knees pulled up, thumb tracing the seam of his sweatpants. His head was full of nothing and everything—loose threads that tangled whenever he tried to follow one.

He thought about Minjun.

How was he waking up these days? Was someone helping him brush his teeth before school, or was his father letting him leave the house with toothpaste still on his chin? Did he still hum in the mornings when he tied his shoelaces, or had that little habit been beaten out of him along with the other soft edges Jimin had fought so hard to protect?

His jaw tightened. He’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, the other half curled up against the wall like it could give him answers. He kept hearing his father’s voice in his head, like the man had left pieces of himself lodged in Jimin’s ears,accusations and words that rotted on contact.

And, threaded through it all, there was Jungkook.

Not in a way Jimin wanted to think about,he didn’t want to picture the look on Jungkook’s face that night, the split-second shock when Jimin had spit those words at him. Words that were meant to wound, and did.

If you had never come into our life, this wouldn’t have happened.

They’d hung in the air, sour and ugly. He hadn’t taken them back.

And now he wondered if Jungkook was carrying them around like a stone in his pocket, heavy and impossible to ignore.

He wanted to apologize.

Properly. Not the kind of half-muttered apology you give just to make the air less tense, but the real kind,where you lay your throat bare and admit you were wrong.

The thought made his chest ache. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch. He could almost see Minjun’s face, the way his smile had always tilted higher on the right side, the way his small hand used to clutch Jimin’s sleeve when they crossed the street. That was his anchor. That was what kept him from falling through the floor most days.

And now there was nothing.

No Minjun. No sound of little socks dragging across the hallway. No hyung, look at this! From the bedroom. Just the hollow knock of his own heartbeat.

The doorbell rang.

The sound cracked through the quiet like glass breaking. Jimin’s eyes flew open, his body already half-turned toward the door. For a split second, stupid hope flooded his chest,like maybe, impossibly, Jungkook was standing there with Minjun, saying I fixed it. He’s home.

He pushed himself up and padded to the door. His breath was caught somewhere high in his throat, a lump that didn’t move even as his fingers curled around the handle.

He opened it.

And the world tipped sideways.

“Hyung.”

It was Minjun.

No dream. No hallucination from lack of sleep.

Minjun—small, real, breathing,standing in the doorway with his backpack slipping off one shoulder, his hair slightly messy like he’d been running fingers through it.

Jimin’s knees gave out before he could think. He dropped right there in the doorway, his hands trembling as they reached out, pulling Minjun into his arms. The boy stumbled forward, and then they were both clutching,tight, desperate, like letting go would be the same as losing all over again.

Minjun was crying. Not the loud, wailing kind,these were smaller, sharper sobs, the kind you only make when you’ve been trying not to cry for too long.

Jimin buried his face in Minjun’s hair. “You’re here,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re—oh my god, you’re here.”

“I missed you,” Minjun choked out, his small arms wrapping around Jimin’s neck. “I missed you so much, hyung.”

Jimin’s chest ached so hard he thought it might split. He held him tighter, rocking slightly like he used to when Minjun was little and couldn’t sleep. His own tears were slipping down without permission, warm trails cutting through the cold in his face.

“How—how did you…?” Jimin pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing hair out of Minjun’s eyes. “How did you come here? Did you—did you run away?”

Minjun shook his head quickly, sniffling. “Kookoo hyung brought me.”

Jimin’s breath caught again, for a different reason this time. His eyes flicked to the corridor, scanning, expecting to see Jungkook leaning against the wall like he sometimes did when he dropped things off and didn’t want to come in.

But there was no one there. Just an empty hallway stretching in both directions.

“He’s not coming up?” Jimin asked quietly.

Minjun shook his head again. “He said… he said to give this to you.”

From his pocket, Minjun pulled out a folded envelope. It was slightly creased, like it had been carried carefully but tightly, maybe even worried over. Jimin took it with numb fingers, the weight of it strange in his hand.

It was Jungkook’s handwriting on the front.

No name. No greeting. Just For you in neat, deliberate strokes.

Jimin’s stomach twisted. He kept Minjun close with one arm and tore the envelope open with the other, sliding out a single sheet of paper.

He read.

Minjun will always be with you now. His father won’t bother you again.

I handled it. You don’t need to know how. You just need to know that it’s over.

I’m removing myself from your life, Jimin. I realised that because of me, you had to suffer more than you should have. You nearly lost your brother because of me. I am truly sorry for that.

I know I was an asshole when we first met. But I never intended to create problems for you. I never intended for you to cry because of me. And I can’t keep standing here pretending I’m not the reason for half your pain.

You’re free now. You and Minjun can live without me getting in the way.

Please take care of yourself. Please take care of him. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.

I won’t bother you again.

The words blurred halfway through, the letters swimming. Jimin blinked hard, but it didn’t help. His throat felt raw, scraped open from the inside.

He read it again, slower this time, as if maybe the sentences would change if he gave them a second chance. They didn’t.

Jungkook was gone.

His grip on Minjun tightened unconsciously. The boy shifted in his lap but didn’t complain, just pressed his face into Jimin’s chest, muffling another quiet sniff.

“Hyung?” Minjun’s voice was small, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

Jimin swallowed. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He wanted to say yes,wanted to reassure, to be strong,but the truth was a jagged thing in his chest, and it hurt too much to lie.

“I’m okay,” he said finally, though it was barely a whisper. “I’m just… I’m just happy you’re here.”

And he was. God, he was. But under the relief was something heavier, an ache that wouldn’t ease,because Minjun was here, but Jungkook wasn’t. And the way the letter read, maybe never would be again.

He didn’t know if he should chase after him or let him go. He didn’t know which choice would hurt less. All he knew was that the door was still open, and the hallway was still empty.

Jimin stood in front of the elevator doors, his reflection fractured into thin metal lines.

The numbers above him glowed steadily, ticking upward. Twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine. Each floor felt like it was dragging a month behind it.

The envelope was gone now,left at home on the kitchen counter,but the words inside it hadn’t left him for a second. They’d been burned into the back of his eyelids, so that every time he blinked he saw them again.

I won’t bother you again.

The first thing he’d done after reading it was call.

Once, then twice, then again until the sun slid behind the buildings and his phone battery was screaming at him to stop. No answer. Not even the faint mercy of hearing his voice on voicemail,just the cold, clipped the person you are trying to reach is unavailable.

The second thing he’d done was wait.

Hours into days. Days into more days. He told himself Jungkook was busy. He told himself maybe there was some plan in motion, some business thing that needed silence. But when the days kept stacking, when the phone stayed stubbornly black-screened, that little ember of hope started to gutter.

By the fourth day he’d stopped sleeping. By the sixth he was pacing. By the tenth, he knew he was losing his mind.

Now it had been… God, he didn’t even want to count. The number itself felt like an accusation.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped out into the polished quiet of the penthouse hallway, every sound swallowed by the thick carpet. Jungkook’s door was at the far end, black with brass hardware, the kind of door that could keep the whole world out if it wanted to.

He didn’t make it there.

The security guard stepped out from his post by the stairwell, moving like he’d been waiting. He wasn’t one of the regulars Jimin remembered. This one was taller, broader, with a stiff politeness in his shoulders.

“Sir,” the guard said, voice even. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in.”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “I’m here to see Jungkook.”

The guard shook his head. “Mr. Jeon has left explicit instructions not to let you in.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They just… hung there, meaningless, like letters in a language Jimin had never learned. Then they clicked into something sharp.

“What do you mean?” His voice rose without his permission. “What the hell do you mean, not to let me in?”

“I’m sorry,” the guard repeated. “It’s his order. I can’t override it.”

It hit like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air right out of him. Jungkook hadn’t just disappeared,he’d built walls. High ones. Ones with guards at the door to keep Jimin out.

He took a step forward, heat crawling up his neck. “Open the door. I’m not leaving until you do.”

The guard’s posture tightened. “Sir, if you don’t leave, I’ll have to—”

“To what? Throw me out?” Jimin’s laugh was brittle, too loud in the stillness of the hall. “Do you even know who I am? Do you know what we,” He broke off, the words souring in his throat. “You can’t just, he can’t just—”

His hands curled into fists, the itch to push past, to slam on that door until Jungkook answered, bubbling hot in his chest. For a split second he could see himself doing it,shoving the guard, pounding until his knuckles split. It would be so easy. So easy to let the anger spill over.

But he didn’t.

He swallowed hard, forcing it down until it burned. “Fine,” he bit out, each letter clipped like glass. “Fine.”

He turned sharply, the guard’s quiet I’m sorry following him like a shadow.

The elevator ride down felt longer than the one up, each floor another reminder of how far away Jungkook was. By the time the doors slid open to the lobby, the anger had nowhere to go,it was pressing against his ribs, desperate for release.

Outside, the air felt colder than it should. The city was moving, all noise and motion, but it felt distant, like he was watching through glass. He started walking without thinking about direction, his feet carrying him through streets that blurred into each other.

Jungkook was the one who came into his house.

Jungkook was the one who made space in his life, in his heart, without asking if there was room. He was the one who looked at Jimin like he was something to fight for,and then proved it, over and over, until Jimin had believed it. Until Jimin had let himself believe in him.

And now? Now he was shutting doors. Locking them. Giving orders to keep Jimin out like he was a stranger at the gate.

It made no sense.

Unless the letter was all there was,unless Jungkook had meant every word, and this was just him following through. But even then…

Jimin’s breath came rough, uneven. His chest hurt, the same deep ache as when Minjun had been ripped away from him at the school gates. That same helpless, furious, hollow pain.

How dare he.

How dare Jungkook decide when it was over. How dare he give Jimin something to hold onto and then rip it away like it was nothing. Like Jimin was nothing.

A car horn blared somewhere behind him, but he didn’t turn. He just kept walking, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets like maybe he could hold himself together if he kept them there.

Part of him wanted to scream. Part of him wanted to run back, pound on that penthouse door until it opened, until Jungkook was standing there and forced to look him in the eye. But the other part,the part that hurt more,kept whispering that maybe this was what Jungkook wanted.

Maybe he’d been wrong all along.

Maybe Jungkook hadn’t been building a place for them,maybe he’d just been passing through.

The thought made his throat close. He kept walking.

Jimin was back where it all started.

The same black-painted walls. The same low light glinting off polished bottles. The same hum of bass under the floorboards. The same place where, months ago, he’d sat across from Jeon Jungkook and signed himself over in exchange for wiping out a debt he’d never asked for but somehow still carried on his back.

Back then, he’d despised him so much he’d fantasised about punching him in the face. Right here. Maybe shoving him against that wall by the liquor shelves, watching all that smug composure shatter into something ugly.

And now?

Now he was back. Still wanting to punch him. Just for different reasons.

He’d thought a hundred times about what he’d say if he ever saw him again after that letter. A thousand versions of the same confrontation. Some were quiet, almost pitiful,Why? Why would you do this to me? Others were sharp enough to draw blood,You ruined everything and walked away like it meant nothing. He didn’t know which version was going to come out tonight.

All he knew was that after the penthouse rejection, after days of silence, after pacing holes into his apartment floor and wearing out his phone battery with calls Jungkook wouldn’t answer, something in him had snapped.

If Jungkook wouldn’t open his door, Jimin would drag him out into the open.

The bar was crowded, but the crowd parted for him without him asking. Maybe it was his face. Maybe it was the way he moved, tight and deliberate, like a wire pulled to the point of snapping.

Jungkook was behind the counter, talking to a bartender Jimin didn’t recognise. His sleeves were rolled up, showing the veins in his forearms. He looked… fine. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t disappeared from Jimin’s life without warning. Like he hadn’t left a letter that gutted him and walked away.

That hurt more than Jimin wanted to admit.

Jungkook saw him. For a second, his hands stilled on the bottle he was pouring from. Then he put it down, slow and controlled, like they were just two people running into each other by accident. Like this wasn’t inevitable.

Jimin didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“You ruined me,” he said, voice steady but loud enough to cut through the low music. “You helped me. And then you left me.”

A couple of heads turned at the sharpness in his tone, but Jimin didn’t care. He took a step closer, leaning into the space between them.

“You came into my life, Jungkook. You forced your way in. You decided I was yours. And I,” His voice broke, and he hated it, hated that it gave away just how deep this cut went. “I let you in. I let you matter. And then you walked away like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “Jimin—”

“No. You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after this.”

He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists, in the tips of his fingers. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? You made me… fall for you. You made me believe that maybe—” His voice cracked again, this time with rage. “And then you decided for me that it was over. Like I didn’t get a say.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, but not with anger. It was something else. Something Jimin couldn’t name.

And then,too late,he realised.

The heat that had been prickling at the back of his neck all evening wasn’t just anger. It was heavier than that, pulling at him from the inside out. The scent was leaking from his skin before he could stop it, curling into the space between them.

Jungkook’s pupils blew wide, black eating up brown. His fingers curled against the counter, the muscles in his forearm flexing.

“Jimin,” he said again, but this time it was low, almost dangerous.

“I’m not—” Jimin started, but the words slipped away as Jungkook came around the counter in three long strides, his hand closing around Jimin’s wrist.

The touch was firm, possessive in a way that made something hot curl in Jimin’s stomach. Jungkook didn’t look at the customers. He didn’t care who saw.

“You shouldn’t be here like this,” Jungkook muttered, voice rough now.

“Like what?” Jimin demanded, even though he knew exactly what.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked over him, lingering in a way that made Jimin’s breath hitch. “In heat. In my bar. Where anyone could smell you. Where anyone could—” His voice cut off like the thought alone was too much.

Before Jimin could say anything else, Jungkook was steering him toward the back hallway, past the staff door, into the quieter dark.

The last thing Jimin saw before they turned the corner was a few customers watching them go, their faces curious. The last thing he felt was the heat building, curling higher, until it drowned out everything else.

And then the private room door shut behind them.

Jungkook just stood there for a beat, his back to it, breathing in the room’s sudden stillness. The bass from the bar outside was dulled to a faint throb through the walls, but Jimin’s scent hit him like it had been waiting for this enclosed space to bloom , sweet, sharp, intoxicating, a heat-drunk omega scent that curled into his lungs and set his pulse hammering.

He had told himself a thousand times that he wouldn’t touch him again. That he could live with watching from a distance, with making sure he was safe without being part of his life. He’d believed it. Until tonight.

Until Jimin had come into his bar in full heat, eyes wet, voice breaking, looking at him like every second apart had been a wound.

Jungkook took one slow step forward. Then another. He wasn’t even aware of moving until Jimin’s back met the wall and Jungkook’s palms were braced on either side of his head. He didn’t touch him yet , not until he was sure.

Jimin’s lashes were sticking together from the dampness gathering there. His cheeks were flushed a dangerous pink, the kind that spoke of more than just embarrassment. His mouth… fuck. Soft, parted, already looking kissed. His thighs pressed together, but Jungkook could smell him anyway , slick and sweet and so unbearably omega that it made something deep in his spine tighten.

“Jungkook…” Jimin’s voice cracked, a tremor running through the two syllables like he wasn’t sure they’d hold together. His fingers came up, curling into Jungkook’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

God. The sound of it almost undid him. Weeks of keeping his distance, of ignoring calls, of telling himself this was for Jimin’s good , all of it teetered when Jimin said those words like they were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Don’t,” Jungkook murmured, his voice rough but quiet. He stepped in until the heat of their bodies met, his chest to Jimin’s. “Don’t waste your breath apologising when you can barely breathe.”

“I mean it.” Jimin’s breath came faster now, hitching when Jungkook’s nose skimmed the side of his throat. “I was wrong. I said things,” A soft gasp broke the sentence when Jungkook’s lips brushed over his scent gland. “Things I didn’t mean. Please…”

Jungkook closed his eyes. His instincts screamed at him to take , to sink his teeth in, to press Jimin down and fuck him until he couldn’t think of anything but the alpha inside him. But that wasn’t why he’d left. He’d left because every time he looked at Jimin, he saw something precious, something worth protecting from himself. And he wasn’t sure he could still be that careful now.

Jimin tugged at his shirt, desperate, and when Jungkook finally looked at him, his omega was biting his lip, tears brimming, thighs shifting restlessly.

“You’re in heat,” Jungkook said, not a question.

Jimin nodded, breathless. “I didn’t— I wasn’t going to,” His voice shook, then crumbled. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

That was it. That was the moment Jungkook’s restraint gave out.

He cupped Jimin’s jaw, thumb brushing over the flushed skin of his cheek. “Tell me you want me to touch you,” he said, because even now , even with his cock aching in his jeans , he needed to hear it.

“I want you,” Jimin whispered like a confession, then stronger: “Please touch me, Jungkook. I can’t,” His knees buckled slightly, slick scent thickening in the air. “I can’t take it.”

Jungkook’s hands were on him instantly, sliding down his sides, mapping the familiar slope of his waist, the curve of his ass. He squeezed, pulled him closer, and swallowed the soft whimper it drew by kissing him , deep, slow, as if they had all the time in the world and nothing between them but want.

Jimin melted against him, mouth opening under his, their tongues meeting in a slow, wet slide. Jungkook kissed him until he could taste the sweet tang of heat in the back of Jimin’s throat, until the omega was clutching at him like he might fall apart otherwise.

When Jungkook finally pulled back, Jimin’s lips were swollen, slick from the kiss. Jungkook bent to mouth along his jaw, down the column of his throat, stopping to suck lightly over the flutter of his pulse.

“Jungkook…” The sound of his name like that , half-moan, half-plea , made Jungkook’s cock throb.

He dragged his hands up under Jimin’s shirt, fingers splaying over warm, smooth skin. “Lift your arms,” he murmured, and when Jimin obeyed, Jungkook pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it aside.

God, he was beautiful. His chest rose and fell quickly, pale skin flushed pink, small nipples already tightening under Jungkook’s gaze. He bent his head and took one into his mouth, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over it.

Jimin gasped, hips twitching forward, and Jungkook smiled against his skin before moving to give the other nipple the same attention , licking, sucking, letting his teeth graze just enough to make Jimin’s breath hitch.

By the time Jungkook’s hands were on his jeans, Jimin was trembling. Jungkook popped the button, dragged the zipper down, and eased the denim over his hips until they pooled at his ankles.

The scent of slick hit stronger now, seeping through the thin fabric of Jimin’s underwear. Jungkook slid his palm over the damp front, feeling the heat there, and Jimin’s head tipped back with a soft, desperate noise.

“So wet for me already,” Jungkook murmured, pressing his mouth to Jimin’s neck again. “All this just from a kiss?”

“From you,” Jimin corrected softly, and Jungkook almost groaned.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Jimin’s underwear and pulled them down, letting them fall. And there he was , flushed, thighs trembling, pretty pink hole already glistening with slick.

Jungkook dropped to his knees without thinking. He slid his hands up the backs of Jimin’s thighs, parting them gently until Jimin’s back was to the wall and his heat-slicked hole was right in front of him.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathed, leaning in to press a kiss just beside it, feeling Jimin shiver. “So beautiful.”

He licked a slow stripe from Jimin’s balls up to his rim, tasting him, breathing him in. Jimin’s fingers tangled in his hair, a broken moan spilling out when Jungkook flattened his tongue and licked over him again.

Jungkook teased him like that , licking, kissing, blowing cool air , until Jimin was gasping, hips rolling minutely. Then he pressed the tip of his tongue against the tight ring of muscle and felt it flutter under the touch.

“Please,” Jimin whispered, and Jungkook pushed in, tongue sliding past the initial resistance into heat and slick. He fucked him with his tongue, slow at first, then deeper, twisting to brush against that spot inside that made Jimin’s thighs quiver.

When Jimin was shaking, panting, Jungkook pulled back just enough to speak against him. “Gonna open you up for me, baby. Make you ready for my cock.”

Jimin nodded frantically, and Jungkook replaced his tongue with two slick fingers, easing them in slowly. Jimin’s breath caught, then melted into a low moan as Jungkook curled them, finding that spot again. He added a third finger when Jimin was rocking down onto his hand, stretching him until he was loose and dripping.

When Jungkook stood again, his fingers were wet with Jimin’s slick. He wiped them on his own cock as he freed it from his jeans, the head already leaking.

Jimin’s eyes dropped to it, dark and dazed, and he licked his lips. “Want it,” he breathed.

Jungkook kissed him once, deep and filthy, before turning him gently to face the wall. He pressed in close, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging at Jimin’s entrance.

“You ready?” he asked, and when Jimin nodded, Jungkook sank into him slow, every inch a stretch, every inch a brand. The slick heat gripped him like it had been waiting for him, fluttering tight around his cock in a way that made his knees want to give.

“Fuck—” he breathed, forehead pressing between Jimin’s shoulder blades. The omega’s body was so hot, so wet, that every small movement made obscene sounds between them.

Jimin moaned, back arching, pressing into him. “Alpha…”

The word hit Jungkook like a match dropped in gasoline. His hips snapped forward without thinking, burying himself to the hilt, the wet slap of their bodies echoing in the small room.

“Say it again,” Jungkook growled against his ear, thrusts already faster now.

“Alpha,” Jimin gasped, voice cracking as Jungkook’s cock hit that spot deep inside him over and over. His slick was everywhere now, coating Jungkook’s length, dripping down his thighs. “My alpha—”

A rough groan tore out of Jungkook’s throat. His grip on Jimin’s hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling him back to meet every thrust. He wanted to crawl inside him, to keep him like this forever , open, dripping, full of him.

“You feel that?” Jungkook panted, driving deep, the head of his cock brushing Jimin’s sweet spot until the omega was shivering. “No one else can make you feel like this.”

“Never,” Jimin moaned, pushing back into him. “Only you.”

Jungkook’s chest ached with it , the sound, the truth in it , but then Jimin’s voice softened into something trembling.

“Promise me…”

Jungkook slowed, his knot swelling just slightly with the constant friction. “Promise you what, baby?”

“Promise me you won’t leave me again.” Jimin’s voice was breathless but steady, like he’d been holding this in longer than the heat itself.

Jungkook’s answer was immediate, low and certain against his ear. “I won’t. Not ever.”

A shaky exhale left Jimin, and then, with that same determined tone that always undid him, he whispered, “Okay… then knock me up.”

Jungkook’s hips faltered. “Baby—”

“Knot me,” Jimin insisted, turning his head so Jungkook could see the wet gleam in his eyes. “I want your pups.”

Jungkook groaned, half from arousal, half from disbelief at how easily Jimin could break every piece of restraint he had. “Are you sure? We can talk—”

“There’s no discussing,” Jimin cut in, voice sharp even as his body trembled. “I want it. Or else…” He pushed back hard on Jungkook’s cock, the wet heat clenching. “…I’ll get off your cock right now.”

Jungkook actually laughed, a low, breathless sound against the omega’s skin. “Still so fucking fiesty, even when you’re apologising.”

“Then do it,” Jimin demanded, voice shaking but sure.

That was all it took. Jungkook’s thrusts turned rougher, faster, every snap of his hips pushing him deeper into that molten slickness. The wet heat clung to him like it didn’t want to let go, the sound of it echoing with each sharp movement.

Jimin’s moans rose higher, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. “There—oh god—” His body locked up, and then he was coming, pulsing around Jungkook’s cock, slick gushing so much Jungkook could feel it dripping down his thighs.

“Fuck—” Jungkook groaned, the tightness in his gut snapping as he drove deep and spilled hot inside his omega’s soaking heat. Jimin gasped, clinging to him, every needy squeeze of his body pulling more from Jungkook until he was almost dizzy.

Only when the first waves of his orgasm hit did his knot start to swell, thickening inside Jimin’s stretched rim.

It was the first time he’d ever knotted him , and the way Jimin’s body reacted, clenching around him like it was made to take him, nearly broke Jungkook in half.

A sharp, helpless moan spilled from the omega as the knot pushed past the last resistance and locked them together, sealing every drop inside.

Jungkook wrapped his arms around him from behind, keeping him close while his knot throbbed, sealing them together. He pressed slow kisses to Jimin’s damp neck, his jaw, anywhere he could reach.

“You feel that?” Jungkook murmured, still catching his breath. “All of me, exactly where it’s supposed to be.”

Jimin hummed, leaning back into his chest. “Won’t ever forget this.”

They stayed like that for long minutes , bodies pressed together, Jungkook’s knot anchoring him deep inside the omega’s wet heat. The room smelled of slick and sex and something sweeter underneath , something that was only Jimin.

Jimin’s skin was still hot, damp with sweat, his breath coming in shaky pulls against Jungkook’s collarbone. His lashes were clumped from tears, but his eyes , god, those eyes , were steady now. Not the glassy desperation from before. Not the anger from all those weeks ago. Something softer. Something that looked a lot like home.

Jungkook cupped the back of his neck, thumb tracing the damp hairline. “You okay?”

Jimin nodded, just barely, and then , like something inside him finally gave , he whispered, “I didn’t mean it.”

Jungkook frowned slightly. “Mean what?”

“That day.” Jimin’s voice was raw, the words pulling up from somewhere deep. “When I said you ruined my life. When I blamed you for… for everything.” His throat worked around the lump there. “I didn’t mean it, Jungkook. Not even for a second.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened, “Jimin—”

“No.” The omega shook his head quickly, urgent. “You didn’t ruin me. You saved me. You gave me another life when I didn’t even know I could have one. You—” His voice cracked again, and he gave a little laugh that was almost a sob. “You carried me when I couldn’t stand. You fed me when I didn’t eat. You kept me warm when I was cold all the damn time. You…” He trailed off, blinking fast. “You made me feel like I was worth something.”

Jungkook’s thumb wiped the tear that finally escaped down Jimin’s cheek. “Hey,” he murmured. “Baby, don’t cry.”

“How could you ignore me like that?” Jimin’s voice trembled, but now it had an edge of hurt. “How could you vanish? What if something happened to me? What if I was in danger?”

Jungkook breathed out slow, guilt curling heavy in his gut. “I didn’t ignore you,” he said quietly. “I always had people watching you. Making sure you were safe. I was serious, that day I told you , I’d protect you. Even if I wasn’t here, I’d protect you.”

Jimin sniffled, eyes narrowing just a little. “But now you’re not going anywhere. I won’t allow it.”

That pulled a smile from Jungkook , small, but real. “Of course I’m not. I’m sorry for what I did. I thought I was being a better person by leaving you. I thought… maybe without me, you’d be safer. Happier.” He stroked his thumb along Jimin’s jaw. “But I see now, I just hurt you. And I’m sorry, baby.”

Something loosened in Jimin’s chest at that , like the knot in his heart had been as tight as the one keeping them joined.

“You knotted me for the first time,” he murmured, almost shy now. “And that too in heat. You know what that means, right?”

Jungkook’s lips curved, eyes flicking briefly to where they were still locked together. “That means…” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against Jimin’s mouth, “…I might get another mini Jimin running around.”

Jimin actually laughed, the sound wet but warm, his forehead pressing against Jungkook’s. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Jungkook teased, nipping lightly at his lower lip. “A tiny omega with your eyes and your pout. I’ll spoil them rotten.”

“You’re already unbearable with me, I don’t even want to imagine with a kid,” Jimin muttered, but his smile stayed.

Jungkook let the quiet stretch for a moment, the only sound their breathing and the faint hum of music through the walls. Then, softly , almost like he was afraid to break the moment , he said, “You know I love you, right?”

Jimin’s breath caught.

“Maybe from the moment I saw you,” Jungkook went on, “standing in the sea, looking like you belonged to it more than to land. I think I loved you before I even knew your name. And I’ll always love you, Jimin. Every version of you. Even the ones that hate me.”

Jimin’s eyes burned again, but this time the tears didn’t fall from pain. “I love you too,” he whispered. “Even the versions of you that make terrible decisions.”

Jungkook huffed a soft laugh, resting his forehead against his omega’s. “I’ll try to make fewer of those.”

“You’d better,” Jimin murmured, then glanced down pointedly at where they were still joined. “And you’d better not pull out before your knot’s done. You’ve got work to do.”

Jungkook chuckled low, the sound warm and possessive. “Yes, baby. I’ll give you everything.”

And he stayed there, holding him through every slow pulse of the knot, through every aftershock, through the quiet that felt like the start of something they could finally keep.

EPILOGUE:

Jimin had decided , somewhere between the second contraction and the fifteenth , that whoever called childbirth “beautiful” had either never done it or was a sadist.

The delivery room was white, too white, glaring lights bouncing off every surface, the smell of antiseptic so sharp it made his stomach turn. The beeping machines, the nurses moving around with their practiced calm, the steady low voice of the doctor , all of it blurred into a single, maddening hum that only made the pain sharper.

Jungkook’s hand was in his, big and warm, and he was squeezing it like it was the only anchor he had left.

“You’re doing amazing, baby,” Jungkook said for what must have been the twentieth time. His voice was low, soothing and irritating. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

“Breathe with you?!” Jimin’s voice cracked high enough that the nurse in the corner flinched. “You try pushing a watermelon out of your-” He broke off with a guttural sound that made the veins in his neck stand out. “-and then tell me to ‘just breathe.’”

Jungkook bit his lip, probably to keep from laughing, though his shoulders shook just slightly. “Okay, fair. But you’ve got this.”

Another contraction hit, and Jimin nearly crushed Jungkook’s fingers. Sweat dripped into his eyes; his hair stuck to his forehead; his gown was clinging to his back. He wanted to cry and scream and bite something all at once.

“Fuck—” His head fell back, and he glared at Jungkook through the haze of pain. “You did this to me.”

“Yes,” Jungkook said immediately, with zero shame. “And I’d do it again. Happily.”

“You’re insane.”

“For you? Absolutely.”

The doctor’s voice cut through. “Alright, omega, one more big push. We can see the head.”

“One more?” Jimin panted. “You’ve been saying one more for the last six pushes—” Another contraction cut him off, and instinct took over. He bore down, nails digging into Jungkook’s wrist, breath shattering out of him.

And then , relief. The weight shifted, and a high, piercing cry filled the air.

Jimin froze.

The nurse was there immediately, lifting the tiny, wriggling bundle, and for a second Jimin couldn’t breathe. The world shrank down to that cry, that impossible sound that made his heart turn itself inside out.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse said, smiling, and gently placed her into Jimin’s arms.

Jimin stared.

She was so small. Red-faced, scrunched up, with the tiniest fists he’d ever seen , and yet somehow perfect. His throat closed around the thought: we made her. Him and Jungkook. Out of everything they’d been through , the fights, the nights he thought it was over, the days he wanted to give up , this was what they’d made.

“She’s…” His voice broke. “She’s ours.”

When he looked up, Jungkook’s eyes were wet. No, more than wet , tears were spilling freely down his cheeks. He was smiling like the sun had cracked open inside him.

“Here,” Jimin said, voice trembling, and carefully passed her over.

Jungkook cradled her like she was made of glass, but his hands were steady. He let out a choked laugh. “God, she’s so beautiful.” His gaze flicked to Jimin, and his voice softened to something Jimin had never heard before , reverence. “I’m proud of you, my baby.”

Jimin felt that all the way down to the mark on his neck, the one Jungkook leaned down to kiss next.

“Thank you,” Jungkook murmured against his skin, “for giving me my precious Minji.”

Jimin smiled through the tears he hadn’t realised were falling. Minji. The name Jungkook had picked months ago “just in case.” If it had been a boy, they would’ve used Jimin’s choice , but it hadn’t been. She was Minji.

“She’s going to have you wrapped around her finger,” Jimin whispered.

“She already does.” Jungkook grinned without looking away from her. “Minjun’s gonna lose his mind. He was the only one who was sure that it’s gonna be a girl.”

Jimin laughed softly. “Yeah. He’s going to love her.” His chest ached with something so big it was almost unbearable , the thought of Minjun holding her, of the four of them together.

They stayed like that for a long time. The noise of the room faded, the bustle of nurses and doctors moving around them became background, and all Jimin could see was Jungkook’s face bent over their daughter. All he could feel was the heat of his mate’s palm over his, anchoring him to this exact moment.

Few Years Later

The sea hadn’t changed.

Same endless blue stretching into the horizon. Same rhythm of waves rolling in and retreating, over and over, as if the tide itself had learned patience. Same salt-laced wind tangling in his hair.

And yet , everything was different.

Jimin’s hand was warm in Jungkook’s, their fingers laced as they walked along the wet sand. The water lapped at their ankles, cool even under the summer sun.

Ahead of them, Minjun , taller now, nearly a teenager, all limbs and that same gentle smile , was laughing as he ran. Minji was chasing him, her little legs pumping furiously, pigtails flying, cheeks flushed with effort.

“Slow down for her,” Jimin called, and Minjun glanced back with a grin, deliberately letting Minji catch him and tackle his arm.

The sound of her laughter carried over the water, and something inside Jimin tightened , that same ache from the day she was born, only softer now.

He glanced at Jungkook. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life.”

Jungkook squeezed his hand. “What, me? Or the kids?”

“All of it.” Jimin let the words tumble out before they could catch in his throat. “There was a time… when I thought it was over. When I thought the only way out was…” He trailed off, watching Minjun lift Minji onto his shoulders so she could see farther down the beach. “And now I’m here. Same place. Same sea. Just… different me.”

“Different us,” Jungkook said quietly.

Jimin looked at him, at the man who had once been the reason he wanted to run , and now was the reason he stayed. The sun was setting behind him, throwing his profile into gold, and Jimin thought he might never get tired of this view.

“You kept your promise,” Jimin said.

“What promise?”

“That I wouldn’t lose you again.”

Jungkook smiled, slow and sure. “I’ll keep keeping it.”

The waves kissed their feet again, pulling at the sand beneath them, and Jimin let himself lean into Jungkook’s side. Far ahead, Minji squealed as Minjun pretended to drop her into the surf, and Jimin laughed.

“Come on,” Jungkook said, tugging him forward. “Let’s catch up before they decide to run off without us.”

And so they walked , four shadows stretching long across the sand, the tide at their ankles, the sky wide and endless above them.

Once, he’d stood at this sea thinking he had nothing left.

Now, he knew he’d already found everything worth keeping.