Chapter Text
There’s an almost unsurpassable distance between head and soul. A cavernous pit, bottomless and dark, the precipice from which Jimin stares longingly.
He knows what others feel. Knows how he should feel.
But he can’t stop thinking.
And that’s how it starts.
—
Researchers crack the soulmate code: how the universe’s compatibility system ACTUALLY works
Scientists in Vienna claim to have isolated a list of factors determining a person’s Soulmate. After decades of research and statistical analysis across multiple ethnicities, geographical regions, genders, and age groups, Viennese Soul Mark specialists claim to have narrowed down the genetic predispositions that result in the creation of Bonds.
“The factors are intricate and numerous but quite straightforward,” says Dr. Hans Gruber, Director of Soul Mark Studies at the University of Vienna and lead researcher on the project. “In the future, once the sequencing has been completed, it may be as simple as creating an algorithm to sift through the factors so that we might find matches in the population. Technology will be almost limitless.”
—
Soulmate matching app claims to be able to connect users with their Soulmates in as little as 48 hours
—
The Advent of the Soulmate Matching Service: How a Niche, Unreliable Industry Turned Itself into the New Big Thing in Dating
—
Population in crisis: as more and more people choose to await their Soulmate to have children, scientists fear a global population decline might be on the horizon
—
“This messaging glitch was supposed to be fixed days ago. We can’t have such massive UI issues so close to launch. C’mon, Young-soo-yah, you know better than this.” Jimin pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t really care that your team has been working day and night, we all have. This should have been your first priority. Just get it done.”
Jimin hangs up his office phone and leans his head back, closing his eyes with a sigh. Despite his best efforts to calm down, tension spirals through him, curls over his shoulders and down his spine.
Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out.
Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out.
There’s a knock on his door, thin and rapid like a staccato drum beat. Jimin knows who it is before his partner even peeks in.
“Yo.” Jimin pries one eye open to glare at him. Hoseok at least has the decency to look sheepish but his voice is light as he says, “The investors are here.”
His easy expression is at odds with the heavy declaration. This is the most important meeting they’ll have all week, maybe all month, and yet Hoseok manages to make it sound like he’s talking about the weather.
Jimin can’t decide if he’s envious of his hyung’s laidback nature or if he resents him for it. Sighing again, he runs a hand down his face and squares his shoulders, feeling the tension thrum deep in his muscles.
“Alright. Thanks, hyung. I’ll be right out.”
—
New Soulmate breakup app launches to number one amid criticism from purists
Released on Friday, relatively unknown developer JP Gaming’s new app, Monochrome, shot to the tops of all available platforms within hours of launch before widespread criticism from Soul Mark purists caused it to falter.
The app, which is designed to help Soulmates find each other for the express purpose of breaking their Soulmate Bond, has been downloaded over a million times since launch despite its hefty price tag of 75,000 won. Its tag line? ‘Allow yourself the luxury of choice.’
“There are plenty of apps to help people connect with their Soulmate, but we believe this is just the kind of thing that’s necessary in this day and age of fleeting romances,” says JP Gaming COO Jung Hoseok. “Why should people be tied down to some faceless person somewhere out in the ether? Why should Fate be allowed to decide who someone is compatible with? People deserve the luxury of choosing who they want to be with, without the fear of a random Soulmate suddenly popping up to disrupt their lives. Monochrome simply allows them to take decisive action. Makes things black and white, so to speak, including their Soul Mark.”
Although Jung’s words may come across as glib, millions agree with the company’s philosophy of choice. Its social media accounts have amassed staggering numbers of followers, launching the small developer to notoriety almost overnight.
But along with the hype and success has come a litany of criticism as well. Among those who have voiced their concerns about the app is The Organization for Soul Mark Protection, an outspoken advocate for the preservation of Soulmate bonds.
“It’s sacrilege, pure and simple,” according to the OSP’s founder, Oh Ki-woo. “They’re going against nature. It’s just not right.”
The OSP has called for the takedown of Monochrome and other Soulmate connection apps from all major app stores.
This is a developing story. More to come.
—
Soulmate breakup app Monochrome still at the top, one year after launch
—
“You started out renting a two-room office over a barbecue restaurant, just you and your partner. Now, only a few years later, you own an entire floor in a downtown skyscraper. How has that meteoric rise changed you as a person, do you think?”
Hoseok chuckles sheepishly, rubbing a hand over his chest in a way that looks more charming than awkward.
“I mean, I eat better now,” he says with a broad, heart-shaped grin. When the host quirks a confused brow, he clarifies, “Me and Jimin subsisted on just ramyun and rice for a long time. We probably shortened our life spans by at least a couple of decades with all our sodium intake. Now, I can have meat as often as I want, imported from all over the world, and real, actual fruits and vegetables. It’s great.”
The host laughs genially along with Hoseok and the audience but it’s not long before she settles down and pins Hoseok with an expectant stare.
Hoseok sighs. “You won’t let me off so easily, huh? Well, you know I think having humble beginnings kind of tempered that so-called ‘meteoric rise.’ I really believe we—both Jimin and I—know how to deal with things more level-headedly than we might have if we didn’t go through that initial struggle.”
The host hums, as if agreeing and empathizing with him even though she probably doesn’t, and then smiles brightly. “Speaking of your mysterious partner, isn’t there any way you could talk Park Jimin-ssi into sitting down for an interview with us?”
At this, Hoseok laughs out right.
“Jimin doesn’t do many interviews, Ji-hee-ssi, not even the ones I think he should.” He shrugs. “But persistence is key, so maybe if you keep asking, one day he’ll say yes!”
—
JP Gaming, developer behind Soulmate breakup app Monochrome, heads to court in defamation suit against the Organization for Soul Mark Protection
—
JP Gaming CEO Park Jimin—the most elusive billionaire on the planet—talks morning routine, his humble Busan roots, and what motivated him to create the year’s most controversial app
—
“Are you on the app?”
Jimin’s lips curl up into a faint smile. “Of course. What kind of a CEO would I be if I didn’t buy into my own product?”
The TV host titters. “I pity the unfortunate soul who ends up being on the other end of your red string,” she says with a click of her tongue. “To find a catch like you on a breakup app . What a shame. They’ll rue the day they ever joined Monochrome, I’m sure.”
Jimin lifts a shoulder feigning nonchalance even as his insides churn with discomfort. “This is all about choice, isn’t it? Regret isn’t part of the equation here.”
—
4 years later
“—and Jung daepyo has the paperwork for that on his desk. He should be finished with his redlines by now.”
His intercom buzzes, brash and loud in the otherwise dead silence of the room.
Click.
“Park daepyonim, are you ready for lunch?”
“Lunch? What time is it?”
“Just past three o’clock, daepyonim.”
Fuck.
“Sir?”
Jimin pinches his nose. “Yeah, bring it in.”
He clicks off the intercom and turns his focus back to the manager shifting awkwardly from foot to foot before his desk. The man hasn’t made eye contact once. Not that he’s a particularly stern boss, but Jimin’s employees seem to always carry a natural uneasiness in the line of their shoulders around him, as if Jimin might snap and fire them all at the drop of a hat. As if he could afford to be so impulsive. As if he’d ever want to. He’s never been sure what gave them that impression aside from the little plaque on the wall beside his office door that reads “CEO.” Hoseok, for his part, thinks it’s hilarious, both because it frustrates Jimin endlessly and because he’s the more sadistic of the two of them. It’s unfair, really, that Jimin gets painted as the Miranda Priestly type when Hoseok is the one who does the most actual firing.
After reiterating that he should speak to Hoseok, Jimin dismisses the manager and he stiffly bows out, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he goes.
Not long after, there’s a knock at Jimin’s frosted glass office door.
Like Pavlov’s dog, the sound of it seems to make Jimin realize at last how hungry he actually is. He can imagine the frown on Hoseok’s face, two little disapproving dimples peeking out on either side of his lips, if he knew Jimin nearly forgot to eat again. As if on cue, his stomach rumbles.
“Come in.”
Jimin doesn’t look up as his assistant enters the room, too busy reading through JP’s quarterly earnings report. Their legal win against OSP last month had the media chattering about Monochrome again for the first time in a while, so the numbers are higher than expected. Even so, they may fall short of their targets before the IPO, which would be a damn shame, all things considered. Jimin desperately craves the sweet schadenfreude of pulling off a proper showing on the KRX after the hell Oh Ki-woo had dragged them through. It would be the best kind of comeuppance.
There’s a sudden clatter and Jimin glances up, only to realize that the person setting up his lunch isn’t his assistant Minho but someone else entirely. The sight of the stranger catches Jimin off-guard and he gapes at the man for a beat before finally finding his voice.
“Excuse me?” he intones, setting down his pen.
The stranger freezes in the midst of arranging chopsticks on the coffee table, like a thief caught out during a heist. Unlike a thief, however, he’s dressed in a conspicuously bright yellow vest and matching bulky motorcycle helmet, completely out of place among the clean lines and minimalism of Jimin’s office. He looks vaguely like a baby chick.
When the short but broad-shouldered man doesn’t turn around or acknowledge him, Jimin tuts. “Excuse me, who are you?”
The delivery guy spins on his heel to face Jimin at the sharp bite in his tone but it’s hard to make out anything apart from sleepy eyes and a button nose behind his helmet’s visor. He bows deeply, quickly, in the manner of someone who knows he’s where he shouldn’t be.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he says to the floor in a voice much deeper than Jimin would have expected. His tone is unapologetic even as he utters words of apology. “Your assistant asked me to come in.”
Jimin sighs. Minho knows better than to let just anyone into his office, much less a random delivery person.
He flaps a hand at the man. “That’s fine. You can just leave the rest, I’ll take care of it.”
The stranger hesitates as he straightens out of his bow, peering intently at Jimin for a moment that stretches just a bit too long. His gaze is searing despite the fact that more than half of his face remains hidden behind his helmet, as if he can see through the pretenses that make up the vast majority of Jimin’s soul, as if he sees more than is bared for him to see.
The sharp, sudden scrutiny causes a bud of uneasiness to bloom in Jimin’s stomach but he quickly nips it at its base, cutting it off before it has a chance to cripple him. This is his office, he reminds himself. He has no reason to feel uneasy here.
And so, like the true master of his domain that he is, he looks down his nose at the man as he asks, “Is there something you need?”
The delivery guy seems to consider his words before answering.
“You should eat,” he advises with his brows furrowed. “It’s not good to skip meals.”
Jimin’s frown deepens at the sheer audacity of this man dressed like a baby chick. He’s ballsy for an intruder. Before Jimin can retort or tell him to get lost, the delivery guy bows again and slips quickly out of the office.
Jimin stares at the place where he’d been standing just a moment ago, bewildered. Aside from the smell of seolleongtang wafting through the room, it’s as if he’d never been there at all, as if Jimin imagined the entire odd exchange.
He waits a beat, breathing deeply to calm his nerves and ignoring the sudden buzz under his skin, and then clicks the Call button on his intercom. “Minho-yah, a word?”
—
It’s long past twilight by the time Jimin leaves the office. He’d have stayed another hour or two if not for Hoseok sending him a berating voice message about “not destroying his circadian rhythm just to read reports that would be there waiting for him the next day.”
Jimin tsks at the thought of it. Why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? But Hoseok, who makes it a point to keep normal working hours like the Proper Adult that he is, would never understand.
The evening air is crisp and cool as the revolving glass doors of his office building lead Jimin outside. He rarely brings his car to work because his apartment is only a block away from the office but it’s the kind of humid night where even the short walk feels like it’ll be endless.
He makes his way through the big courtyard that connects the C.S. Choi Trade Building—in which JP Gaming’s offices reside—with the skyscraper next door. The area is filled with benches and an arrangement of massive abstract metal sculptures that, wrapped up in the embrace of the city’s darkness, rise up around the courtyard like eerie sentinels.
Jimin pulls his coat tighter around himself, ducking into its upturned collar as the breeze picks up. He’s so distracted thinking about the last report he’d been reading and whether he remembered to grab the file for it before leaving that he doesn’t see the person standing in front of one of the sculptures until he nearly runs into them.
“Sorry,” Jimin murmurs, faltering back.
The person turns to look at him and ducks his head into a bow as if to say “it’s okay.” Something about his mannerisms—the easy confidence, the quiet defiance—pricks with familiarity in Jimin's brain. Quickly shrugging it off as his imagination, Jimin takes a step around the guy before realization strikes.
He’s different without his helmet on, no longer dressed in the colors of a baby chicken and now showing off messy dark hair that’s been ruffled about by the evening wind, but the sleepy eyes and button nose are unmistakable.
Jimin frowns. “You.”
The man’s upper lip juts into a pout, maybe at being recognized so quickly. All the same, after brief hesitation, he nods.
It’s been almost seven hours since Jimin had had his lunch delivered. Seven hours.
“What the hell is this? Are you stalking me?” Jimin sputters.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The guy shakes his head. “Of course not.”
He says it like it should be obvious, which only makes Jimin’s hackles rise further and he takes a deliberate, cautious step backward. With a discreet glance around the courtyard, he realizes they’re alone.
The delivery guy’s eyes widen as he seems to sense the distrust coming off of Jimin in waves, so he holds up both of his hands in a sign of surrender.
“Whatever you’re thinking, this isn’t that,” he tells him. “I just need to talk to you.”
There are a thousand people every minute of every day who “need” to talk to Jimin. That still doesn’t justify the man waiting seven hours to see him.
When it becomes apparent Jimin might bolt at any second, the delivery boy slowly reaches into his vest pocket. Jimin sucks in a sharp breath of air. Eyes tracking the movement, he takes another step backward.
“I’m just reaching for my phone,” the guy explains quickly. “Just—Just hang on.”
Sure enough, in the next second, he’s got his cell phone clutched in one hand, the other still raised for Jimin’s benefit. He squints down at the screen, scrolling and tapping until he finds what he’s looking for. When he holds up the device, Jimin is confused to see his own app staring back at him.
Then, his eyes widen.
It’s not unusual for people to seek him out to talk about Monochrome . After all, he’s the developer. But it’s not everyday Jimin is presented with a Match page displaying a picture of himself. The words Your Soulmate Is are scrolled across the top with Jimin’s name and age underneath and below the image, the man has been presented with an option—
CONTACT PARK JIMIN
It takes Jimin’s brain a long moment to catch up to what this means.
“Park Jimin-ssi.”
Jimin startles. His eyes flicker up to lock with the delivery guy’s and his heart clenches at the sight of hope reflected back at him. The buzz under his skin that’s been prevalent all day intensifies.
No.
No—it can’t be.
“Please, I just want to talk,” the guy says. He takes a half-step forward. “My name is Min Yoongi.”
Jimin stumbles back. “I—I don’t—”
The delivery guy—Yoongi, his Soulmate—holds up both of his hands again and moves out of Jimin’s space. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Jimin’s mind is a tangle of rapid, panicked thoughts. Subconsciously, he always knew there was a possibility his Soulmate would find him, but never could he have imagined it would be through Monochrome. He feels betrayed, almost, like his own creation has turned against him.
It takes a moment but eventually, Jimin manages to calm himself enough to ask, “Why are you here?”
Yoongi has the decency to look taken aback. He scratches the back of his neck and then stuffs his phone into the pocket of his jeans, taking the withered, drawn-shouldered stance of someone who knows he’s at a disadvantage.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he repeats.
“So, you used a breakup app?” Jimin says, bewildered.
The irony doesn’t seem to be lost on Yoongi, who snorts. “Not one of my greatest moments, I’ll admit, but you’re here, aren’t you?”
Jimin’s frown deepens.
“Because you literally accosted me outside of my workplace,” he points out.
Yoongi seems to take offense to this, straightening up and pushing his broad shoulders back as he meets Jimin’s gaze. A spark of that same defiance he’d had this afternoon in Jimin’s office glitters in his eyes. “As I recall, you nearly ran into me.”
The audacity—
Jimin adjusts his shoulder bag and crosses his arms over his chest, informing him primly, “For a guy who wanted to meet his Soulmate, you’re not making the best first impression, you know.”
Yoongi huffs. Like this, Jimin can see more of him than he had this afternoon. He’s pretty, with delicate features that don’t match the gruffness of his tone or the timbre of his voice, and there’s a brightness to his eyes, an openness and warmth that serves to quell some of Jimin’s initial anxiety.
Then, after a moment of studying Jimin under the moonlight, Yoongi’s shoulders slump in resignation.
“You’re right. Let’s start over,” he suggests, holding out a hand.
Jimin bites his lip and, much as he wants to take the man’s hand, he knows what doing so will entail. Physical contact seals the Bond.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but can I just—?” Jimin holds up his own cell phone.
He wants to make sure. Soulmate Bonds are always reciprocal… except when they’re not. Jimin won’t do that to Yoongi, won’t bind him to someone whose Bond won’t be reciprocated.
Yoongi’s pouty lips curl up at the corners.
“Sure,” he says easily.
Jimin sniffles. He opens Monochrome on his phone, exiting out of the developer tools into the main UI of the app and, unsurprisingly, a photograph of Yoongi is splashed across his Match page. It’s a cute photo, all things considered, that features a broadly grinning Yoongi from maybe a year or two ago.
Jimin closes out of the app quickly. So, it’s true, then.
He looks up to find Yoongi watching him expectantly with his hand still held out for a shake. Jimin stares at his outstretched palm, at the paleness of his fingers and the ridges of his knuckles and takes it as his heart hammers in his chest, reluctant despite the irrefutable proof presented to him.
As their hands curl around each other, the simmering buzz in Jimin’s chest explodes into a cacophony of supercharged currents. It’s as if a live wire is pulsing electricity directly into his veins, igniting his very bones and turning his nerves to ash. Yoongi squeezes his fingers and Jimin sucks in a sharp breath of air, trying to focus on how warm Yoongi’s palm is against his, how the simple touch has caused some kind of monumental shift within. It feels as if a piece of himself that he didn’t realize was missing has slotted into place inside of Jimin.
He looks at Yoongi, whose eyes are blown wide in equal surprise, and his heart clenches.
He has a Soulmate.
—
“I can’t believe I finally found you.” Yoongi stares down at the picture of an unsmiling Jimin on his Monochrome Match page. They’ve made their way over to one of the numerous benches in the courtyard, framed on one side by a tall metal sculpture of interlocking rings. It looms over them as they talk, casting shadows across their faces and drawing black pictures across the lamp-lit concrete of the courtyard. “I tried all the apps out there and you weren’t on any of them. Then, a friend suggested Monochrome. Not the brightest idea he’s ever had, setting me up for failure like this, but after he brought it up I couldn’t stop thinking about how maybe he was right. Maybe you weren’t on any of the other apps because you were on this one. Didn’t expect you to be the guy who literally made the damn thing.”
Guilt twists a knot in the pit of Jimin’s stomach when he hears resignation in Yoongi’s tone. He doesn’t want to hurt this man who has done nothing wrong to him, but—
In the end, he’s a coward.
“I’m sorry, Yoongi-ssi. I don’t know how you expected this to go but…” Jimin curls his fingers into the hem of his blazer, eyes trained on the ground below their feet. Despite his best efforts to make himself sound confident, he can’t quite hide the waver in his voice as he tells Yoongi, “I-I’m just not interested in Soulmates.”
Yoongi hums. He leans back on his hands and stares up at the blank night sky. The city lights are too bright to see any of the stars but something about the inky blackness is comforting. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I wasn’t sure about this whole thing but my daughter really wanted to meet you… I think I would have regretted not at least trying for her sake.” He gives Jimin a sidelong glance that makes Jimin feel like he sees more than he’s letting on.
Jimin’s blood runs cold as the words register. The world around him, which already feels like it has shifted off its axis, tilts a little further. His stomach is queasy.
“Y-You have a daughter?” he asks, voice rough, unrecognizable.
It’s incredibly uncommon for Bondless people to have children. No one really bothers trying for fear of a potential Soulmate turning up to disrupt their lives at any time. It’s so rare, in fact, that apart from Jimin’s own mother, Min Yoongi might be the first Bondless parent Jimin has ever met.
Yoongi’s lips lift up into a wry grin. “It’s surprising, right?”
Surprising falls far short of what the revelation really is.
“How old is she?” Jimin asks faintly.
“Four,” Yoongi says. “For some reason, she thinks you’re the handsomest person she’s ever seen.”
Jimin’s too busy simmering in his own shock, too caught up in wrapping his brain around the fact that his Soulmate has a child, to respond to Yoongi’s feeble barb. He tries to reconcile the man beside him with the image of a father, his thoughts running away from him as he wonders what his daughter looks like, if she’s as cute as Jimin imagines a child of Yoongi’s must be, if she’s well-behaved or throws tantrums because Yoongi probably spoils her too much, what kind of a person her mother is—
He stops.
“A-And her eomma?” Jimin tries but can’t quite keep the words from sounding accusatory, as if he’s pointing a metaphorical finger at Yoongi for being here with Jimin instead of there, with her, with them. Where he belongs.
“She passed away,” Yoongi says. His tone is patient yet weary, understanding of Jimin’s skepticism but quick to snuff it out before it can start a fire on the as-yet barren ground of their Soulmate Bond. He looks down at his hands, picking at a blister on his palm as he adds, “It’s just me and Aera now.”
Jimin sucks in a sharp breath.
An I’m sorry sits on the tip of his tongue but his own stubbornness keeps him from speaking the words out loud. Instead, he glances at Yoongi from the corner of his eye and points out, “Not many people have kids out of Bond-lock. You’re helping our population crisis.”
Yoongi snorts. “Glad to be of service to the cause,” he says.
Jimin cracks a small smile at his snark. “And now you’re betraying it. What an interesting turn of events.”
A flash of understanding in Yoongi’s eyes lets Jimin know he’s probably seen some of the news about JP’s ongoing fight with Oh Ki-woo. He doesn’t comment on it but his expression softens.
They’re silent for a moment, letting the calm unquiet of the city envelope them and create a bubble of peace that settles over the whole of the courtyard. It feels like the chaos of the evening’s revelations has finally drained out of Jimin. He’s left as nothing more than a sack of weary bones and mangled thoughts. Just as he’s beginning to consider calling it a night, Yoongi speaks up.
“I—If you don’t want to see me again, I’ll leave you alone. You don’t have to be worried I’ll keep bothering you.” His voice sounds like dark chocolate, sweet with a hint of sharp clarity to it, as if he wants to make sure his point is coming across. “I just—I thought I’d give it a shot.”
Jimin can’t fault him for trying. Connecting with their Soulmate is just the kind of thing most people want. That Jimin is the king of the outliers who want the opposite of that isn’t Yoongi’s fault. And it isn’t Yoongi’s fault that Jimin is his Soulmate, that Fate decided to be cruel and pair him with the likes of someone who doesn’t want him.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin says, looking down.
Yoongi heaves a sigh as he gets to his feet. “Sure. I understand. If you change your mind, you know how to find me.”
He waves his phone at Jimin when he looks up, a sharp glint of Even though we both know you won’t flashing in his eyes. His quiet perceptiveness is impressive but makes Jimin feel exposed, like he can’t hide anything from this man he only met mere hours ago.
When Jimin doesn’t reply, Yoongi turns on his heel to leave, stopping at the last second to add, “And for the record, I didn’t spend all day hanging out around here waiting for you. I went to work and came back after my shift ended about half an hour ago.”
Jimin blinks, surprised. “How did you know I’d—?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who keeps regular work hours. I had a feeling you’d still be here.”
Not sure if he should feel embarrassed, Jimin ducks into the collar of his coat and directs his gaze to a crescent moon sculpture across the courtyard.
“Fine, one less strike against you. My assistant said he never told you to come into my office this afternoon, though,” he points out.
Yoongi looks sheepish now. He scratches the back of his neck, explaining, “Yeah, I might have snuck in while he was away from his desk. Sorry about that. I know it probably made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention, but I didn’t know how else to go about it.”
Jimin’s lips curl up as he peeks over at Yoongi. “Risking arrest, breaking all the rules—just for lil ol’ me?”
Why bother? he doesn’t ask.
Yoongi shrugs and Jimin tries not to think about how endearing it is when he spots a dusting of pink over the apples of his cheeks in the dim yellow light of the courtyard. He tries not to think of it lest he crack.
Yoongi throws up a hand in a feeble wave before turning and escaping once and for all.
—
Home feels emptier when Jimin returns that night. Bigger, hollower.
He mechanically warms a bowl of the samgyetang left for him in the refrigerator by his cook and then forgoes working some more in favor of going to bed. He can’t think straight right now so trying to get anything done will just be counterproductive.
He strips out of his work clothes and stands under the shower spray for a few minutes before dragging himself back into his bedroom to change into his PJs.
Jimin pauses to stare at his bare chest in the full-length mirror in his room, eyes drawn to his left side where his Soul Mark resides just below his collarbone. It’s the outline of a sun, filled up with daffodils and the prickly blossoms of a larch tree that look as if they’re blooming right out of the celestial body. Until this morning, the Mark had been made up of shades of black, its delicate lines weaving over Jimin’s skin like threads of silk. Now, the flowers are colored a deep fuschia and yellow, their leaves a bright green. The Mark of someone who has found their Soulmate.
Jimin wonders what kind of a Mark Yoongi has on his chest. One filled with lush marigolds and tiny spirea blooms, he imagines, perhaps in a color that matches the vibrant magenta of Jimin’s larch.
Running his fingers over the Mark he feels warmth blossom under his touch.
Larch.
March 9th.
Spring to Jimin’s fall. It’s kind of poetic.
Tearing his eyes away from the Mark, Jimin clicks his tongue and pulls his pajama shirt over his head, hiding it away. Its warmth continues to tingle through his chest but he ignores it as he crawls into bed.
—
At night, his fitful sleep conjures dreams of wilted daffodils and a black sun.
—
When he arrives to work the next day, Jimin calls Hoseok into his office first thing. He feels no less out of sorts than he did yesterday and in fact, he’s even more keyed up this morning. The feeling of wrongness crawling under his skin, the thought that he’s moving in the wrong direction, away from where he should be going, taints every thought that crosses his mind.
“We have considered people who would create an account on Monochrome just to find their Soulmate to harass them, haven’t we?”
Hoseok, his oldest and dearest friend who has a bottomless well of patience for Jimin, looks at him as if he’s sprouted an extra head. “Uh… yeah?”
“You say that like it’s obvious.”
“That’s because it is, Jimin-ah,” Hoseok replies. He leans forward to rest his forearms on Jimin’s desk, two small dimples framing the frown that curls his lips downward. “We get complaints all the time from people who join the app only to have their Soulmate misuse it. We have safety protocols in place for that. You know all this already.”
Jimin does know all of this. Location information about its users is never shared by Monochrome. It’s up to the Soulmates themselves if they want to actually meet in person. People even have the ability to use a pseudonym or hide their profile photo if they want.
Unfortunately for Jimin, he’s just… not all that hard to find. For someone whose image is splashed across tabloids and news articles every other day, it’s no surprise Yoongi was able to track him down. Where else does one find a well-known workaholic hermit if not at his place of work?
“Right,” Jimin says eventually. Hoseok’s reassurance of what Jimin already knew to be true does little to soothe the disquiet in his heart.
Hoseok, who is clever and knows him better than almost anyone else, picks up on his uneasiness as if it’s written across Jimin’s face in bold lettering. “What’s got you so freaked out, Jiminie?”
Jimin heaves a sigh before pulling his phone out of his pocket. He opens Monochrome and navigates to his Match page to show Hoseok the source of his early morning crisis. The image of Yoongi, grinning so broadly his eyes are little more than crescents, his arms wrapped around a small girl whose face is out of frame, stares back at him.
Hoseok’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”
“He—He found me yesterday,” Jimin explains. “Delivered my lunch just to make sure he had the right place and then waited for me after work.”
Shock unfolds across Hoseok’s handsome face. “Holy shit,” he says again. “Are you okay?”
Jimin shrugs, staring absently at Yoongi’s picture and ignoring the warmth in his chest. Perhaps if he ignores it for long enough, it’ll eventually be snuffed out.
“I’m fine, just—” He sighs again. “He—He doesn’t want to break the Bond.”
Hoseok’s expression turns deadpan. “And he joined Monochrome?”
“It was a last resort, he said,” Jimin explains. “Since I wasn’t on any of the other Soulmate connection apps. I just—I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, for starters, stalking is illegal. You could file for a TRO,” Hoseok says. “And we’ll tighten the building’s security, too. Waiting for you after work? That’s so creepy, Jimin-ah.”
Against his better judgment, Jimin shakes his head. “I don’t think he means any harm.” He bites his bottom lip, remembering the relief on Yoongi’s face. “He said he’s been looking for me for a while and knew he shouldn’t have tried to find me after Monochrome matched us, considering it’s a breakup app. But… he recognized my face and his daughter wanted to meet me.”
Hoseok’s eyes widen further. It’s a testament to how uncommon children out of Bond-lock are for unflappable Hoseok to be thrown off-guard. “He has a kid?”
Jimin nods. “She’s four.”
“Jimin-ah…”
“He left it up to me to decide whether to contact him.”
Hoseok studies him with an unreadable expression. He’s the most tolerant, forgiving person that Jimin knows but he’s the other half of Monochrome and shares Jimin’s opinion of Soulmates. “Do you want to?”
Jimin glances at the image on his phone again, at the careful grip of Yoongi’s hands around the little girl who must be his daughter, at the way his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles. He looks so full of warmth and life, like he’s shielded from everything bad in the world.
A part of Jimin wants to feel that, too.
“I don’t not want to.”
—
The concept of Soulmates has always baffled Jimin. To have someone whose very existence complements your own, whose love is predestined to belong to you, sounds particularly stifling.
Why would anyone leave something as important as love in the hands of Fate? Especially when even Fate gets it wrong sometimes.
Even so, a part of his heart, the part buried deep beneath all the skepticism and wariness, flutters as Jimin studies Min Yoongi’s profile picture on Monochrome that night in bed.
You know how to find me.
Jimin’s thumb hovers over the CONTACT MIN YOONGI button under Yoongi’s picture and he sucks in a deep breath before tapping it. A chat window pops up, blank save for some generic “Say hi!” text near the top.
Jimin types out a “hi,” and hits SEND before he can talk himself out of it.
It’s a little stupid, he thinks, that the CEO of Monochrome is using his own technology in a way that’s the complete opposite as intended. It’s a little stupid and a little ironic and it makes Jimin feel like a traitor to his own cause. But the lure of Yoongi’s smile is powerful, the desire to learn more about this man who fathered a child before he knew his Soulmate wins against his hesitation.
It’s late so Jimin doesn’t expect a reply, but Yoongi is nothing if not surprising.
Min Yoongi: hi
Park Jimin: so
Park Jimin: i’ve been thinking
Min Yoongi: oh?
Park Jimin: yeah
Park Jimin: can we meet?
—
They decide to get coffee, which seems like the kind of perfectly blasé first meeting that Jimin needs to ease himself into this whole thing. He picks a hole-in-the-wall place where he’s 98 percent sure he won’t be recognized but to which he wears a face mask and ball cap nonetheless. The last thing they need right before the IPO is for the media to catch wind of Jimin, the face of Monochrome, finding and considering pursuing a relationship with his own Soulmate. Talk about bad press.
He arrives at the cafe much too early on purpose, so that he’ll have time to calm his nerves before Yoongi gets there. His plan is fruitless, though, because the longer he sits at his little corner table alone pretending to drink too-bitter coffee that he doesn’t even like, the more time he has to think about all the ways this could potentially go wrong. He must be out of his mind, going against everything he’s ever told himself about Soulmates, just because of one man’s eye smile and a twisted curiosity to learn more about what it’s like to be a parent out of Bond-lock. It’s silly, he thinks, that he allowed his resolve to crumble so quickly, so easily. And yet here he is.
By the time Yoongi does finally arrive, only a couple of minutes before their agreed-upon meeting time, Jimin has nearly convinced himself to abandon the whole idea.
He’s halfway out of his seat, ready to run with his tail between his legs, when Yoongi’s voice roots him to his spot.
“Oh no,” Yoongi says with a frown as he stops before the table. “I haven’t even sat down yet.”
He looks different today, dressed up more than he’d been when they’d first met, with his unruly dark hair brushed into more deliberate unruliness and his clothes—a dark bomber jacket over a dark t-shirt paired with too-tight skinny jeans—giving off the impression that he’d really tried to coordinate his look this time. He’s so fucking handsome that it makes Jimin’s heart ache.
“I—” Jimin starts and then stops, caught out and unable to come up with a good excuse on the fly. After a pause, he admits, “Yeah, I was just about to leave.”
Despite his words, Yoongi takes a seat in the chair across from Jimin, folding his hands on the table. “You can, if you want,” he says.
That’s true, Jimin knows. Knows that Yoongi probably won’t stop him if he gets up and runs out like the coward he is. But he knows, too, that he’ll regret it if he does, because half the battle was getting here and now he’s here so he should do what he set out to do, which is try.
“N-No, I’m okay,” he says eventually, sliding back into his chair.
Yoongi tilts his head. With a shrug, he replies, “Okay.”
And it’s as easy as that. Jimin’s moment of weakness is brushed away as if it had never happened.
“Um, so how are you?” Jimin asks. He fiddles with his half-empty mug of coffee and realizes he should offer to buy Yoongi a drink, too, maybe. “Do you want something to drink? I can order for you.”
A sliver of a grin curls over Yoongi’s lips and his eyes crinkle at the edges like Jimin is the most endearing person he’s ever met. But not in a condescending way. In a way that makes Jimin feel warm up to the tips of his ears. “Sure. An iced Americano’s fine.”
Jimin slips out of his seat to order, returning only a moment later with Yoongi’s coffee and a tray full of pastries. He overcompensates when he’s nervous, so he ordered one of everything on the menu before realizing he doesn’t even know if Yoongi likes sweets.
“I do,” Yoongi assures him when Jimin asks. He’s holding back a grin, Jimin can tell, as he dutifully plucks a raspberry danish from the selection. “Thank you, Jimin-ssi.”
“I’m younger than you, Yoongi-ssi. You don’t have to be formal with me,” Jimin says. He curls his hands around his coffee, lifting it up like he’s going to take a sip before changing his mind and setting the mug down again. “Just ‘Jimin’ is fine.”
Yoongi hums in agreement around a big bite of danish. After he’s finished chewing, he says, “Okay. If you call me ‘hyung.’”
It’s only fair, Jimin supposes. He nods reluctantly.
“I’m glad you asked to meet up,” Yoongi says after what feels like an eternity of awkward silence. “I wasn’t expecting to ever hear from you again.”
Jimin ducks his head. He was surprised at himself, too.
“I wasn’t planning to contact you,” he admits. “But…”
Yoongi picks up on his train of thought even as Jimin trails off. “But you were curious.”
Jimin nods.
“What are you curious about?”
Your daughter, Jimin doesn’t say.
Instead—
“I guess I just don’t understand why—if you already had a child with someone else—”
Why would you bother going through the trouble of looking for me?
Yoongi hums again. “You, better than anyone, should know that love isn’t as simple as the Soulmate system makes it out to be. Fate might be the one to decide who our ideal match is, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find happiness in other places. Or that that happiness can’t change over time.”
Jimin’s heart clenches. He knows, he knows this all too well. He himself is the product of this very mindset.
Yoongi breathes out a heavy sigh, staring unseeingly out of the cafe’s big windows. “I never really intended to look for you, even after Dasom died.”
“So, why did you?”
“Like I said, it really was because of my daughter. She said I deserved to be happy even if I couldn’t find that happiness with Dasom anymore. I don’t know if she knows what Soulmates really are, yet, but she said the easiest place to start would be with my Soulmate.” Yoongi looks back over at Jimin and a flicker of pain in his eyes makes Jimin’s aching heart ache even more. “I wanted her to be right.”
The ache spills over in the form of wetness at Jimin’s lash line. He won’t cry—he has no right to—but something about the hope woven delicately through Yoongi’s tone makes him sad.
He pulls his cap down to hide the ruddiness of his cheeks, folding into himself as he realizes they might not be as different as he thought they were. That maybe they’re both a little broken, a little lost. Maybe they’re both here against their better judgment.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin says, and he doesn’t quite know what he’s apologizing for this time, but it feels like the right thing to say to someone who put so much of their hope in him.
“Well, you’re here, right?” Yoongi replies softly. “That has to mean something.”
Jimin nods.
Yoongi, quiet and patient, waits for him to explain himself.
“I-I want to get to know you,” Jimin says. He peeks at Yoongi from under the brim of his cap with his eyes rimmed red and his heart, worn and tattered, displayed prominently on his sleeve. “If that’s okay.”
Another delicate smile blooms over Yoongi’s lips. “Yeah, Jimin-ah. That’s okay.”