Chapter Text
“Jungkook-ah, can you close up for me? I’m meeting Namjoon.”
Yoongi’s voice cuts through the low hum of tattoo machines and faint music playing from the speaker in the corner. He moves behind the counter, unlocking the small safety cabinet where he keeps his things—wallet, keys, lighter, a half-crushed pack of cigarettes. He grabs his helmet last, the matte black surface catching the warm light from above.
“You can close up early today,” he says while zipping his bag. “I won’t mind.”
Jungkook looks up from his sketchpad, pencil stilling mid-line. “I’ve got one more client, then I’m out too. You can go ahead, hyung.”
Yoongi hums in acknowledgment, checking his phone. A message from Namjoon lights up his screen:
Namjoon: Don’t be late. Jin’s shift ends early and I want at least one drink before he drags me home.
A corner of Yoongi’s mouth lifts. He types a quick reply— Wouldn’t dream of it —before shoving the phone into his pocket.
“Make sure everything’s turned off before you leave,” he says, slipping his helmet under his arm.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook waves him off without looking. “Try not to flirt with anyone’s girlfriend again.”
Yoongi snorts. “That was one time.”
“That was three, actually. Not that I’m counting.” Jungkook calls out as Yoongi heads for the door.
Yoongi chuckles, pushing it open. The bell above the entrance chimes, and the evening air greets him—cool, faintly damp, and heavy with the smell of the city. He locks up, glancing once at the reflection of Agust Ink glowing in reverse on the glass door. The shop’s been his since his early twenties, and somehow, it still feels like the only place that fits him.
Across the street, the old bakery that’s been closed for months is finally under renovation. The windows are covered in brown paper, but faint light spills out from inside—shapes moving behind it, hints of new life taking over the dusty space. The smell of paint and wood varnish lingers faintly in the air.
Yoongi slows his steps for a second, eyes catching on the soft glow coming from inside. A few flower crates are stacked near the door—pastel blooms, even under construction dust.
He looks at it for a moment. Then looks away.
He doesn’t know if it’s the realization of change happening in a neighborhood with shops standing for years and years. Lucky for Yoongi, he’s good with change.
But to be perfectly honest, Min Yoongi is not good with change. He’s just too good at pretending like he is.
He flicks his lighter, and lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag before swinging a leg over his bike. The engine comes alive—low and smooth, the sound rolling through the quiet street.
For a moment, he just sits there—one hand on the handlebar, the other holding the cigarette before flicking the ash aside. He puts on his helmet then he twists the throttle.
The bike surges forward. Wind rushes past, cold against his jaw. Neon lights blur across his visor as he weaves through traffic like it’s instinct, like he’s done it a thousand times—because he has.
Riding clears his head. It’s quiet in a way people aren’t. No small talk, no pretending, no promises. Just the road, the hum of the engine, and the city stretching out beneath him.
He thinks about the bakery again on his way out—or whatever it’s becoming now. A new sign leans against the wall inside, still wrapped in plastic. The corner looks different already. Softer.
He doesn’t know it yet, but when that place opens, that quiet, pretty corner will ruin all of Yoongi’s rules.
***
The sizzling sound of meat fills the air, mixing with the clatter of dishes and the buzz of quiet chatter. The Korean barbecue place is packed—it always is at this hour—but somehow, Namjoon still manages to sit there like he’s in a library.
He’s in his usual spot near the window, shoulders hunched slightly forward, a book open in one hand, metal tongs resting on the grill beside him. His glasses are sliding down his nose, lips moving silently as he reads.
Yoongi walks in, running a hand through his hair as he spots him. He walks over, the smell of smoke and soy sauce thick in the air.
He pats Namjoon’s shoulder before taking the seat across from him. “Can’t you let go of that thing even for a minute?”
Namjoon looks up, blinking like he’s just remembered where he is. “You took a while. Ahjumma’s already giving me nasty stares.”
Yoongi smirks, waving at the older lady who’s glaring from behind the counter. “She’s glaring at you because you’re grilling without paying attention.”
Namjoon snorts, closing his book with a resigned sigh. “Whatever. I ordered pork belly and beef brisket. Thought you’d show up earlier.”
“I was working,” Yoongi says simply, leaning back in his chair.
Namjoon raises a brow. “Working or flirting?”
Yoongi’s grin widens. “That’s actually what people call fueling customer satisfaction. I wouldn’t expect that from an academia freak like you.”
Namjoon shakes his head, laughing under his breath as he starts flipping the meat again. It’s always easy, the way they talk—years of friendship condensed into short lines, full of teasing but never sharp. They talk about nothing and everything—Jungkook’s latest tattoo experiment, Namjoon’s coworkers, a mutual friend getting engaged.
It’s familiar.
Because for some reason, the nerd boy who carries five different books everyday at school was friends with the jock who got his first tattoo a month before turning 17.
For Yoongi, it was the best thing that happened in his life.
Then, between turns of the tongs, Namjoon clears his throat. “Actually, I met up with you because…” He pauses, eyes flicking briefly to Yoongi. “I got this thing for grad school.”
Yoongi hums, reaching for the soju bottle and pouring himself a shot. “Okay?”
“I’ll be staying in the US for six months,” Namjoon continues. “It’s a program with my department. There’s a research partnership with UCLA and—”
Yoongi waves a hand, cutting him off lightly. “You know I don’t speak academia, right?”
Namjoon chuckles, used to it. “Yeah, yeah. Basically, it’s a big deal.”
“Then congratulations,” Yoongi says, flipping the meat carefully. “You deserve it.” He says with his voice flat but he swears he means it genuinely.
Namjoon gives a small smile, but it fades almost immediately—replaced with hesitation. “There’s something else, though.”
Yoongi glances up, sensing the shift. He purses his lips, squinting his eyes. Just the usual expression he gives when he’s expecting to get asked for favors.
Namjoon leans forward slightly, tone casual but too deliberate. “So, before I go… I kind of need a favor.”
“Here we go,” Yoongi mutters, placing another piece of pork belly on the grill.
“I need you to keep an eye on Jimin.”
The sound of sizzling meat fills the pause that follows. Yoongi’s hand stills over the tongs.
He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Jimin.
Or maybe he remembers it too well.
Five years ago — Busan.
He’d gone there after an ugly breakup with his girlfriend of 3 years, trying to clear his head and forget the pieces of himself he’d left in that relationship. He remembered sitting at Namjoon’s family’s seaside house, nursing a drink when the front door had opened and Jimin walked in—tired from adjusting to college life, hair dyed blonde, skin sun-kissed, eyes brighter than Yoongi remembered. He’d laughed like the whole world was his.
Yoongi hadn’t said much that weekend.
But he hadn’t forgotten, either.
Back in the restaurant, Yoongi exhales through his nose, finally breaking the silence with a low laugh. “How the hell am I supposed to look after him from Busan, dumbass?”
Namjoon looks up, smirking a little. “Yeah, about that… he’s in Seoul. He’s moving here.”
Yoongi’s brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He focuses on the grill again, the orange glow reflecting in his eyes. “Didn’t know he was into city life.”
Namjoon shrugs. “He just graduated. Thinks life starts here. I told him it’s not that simple, but you know him—persistent as ever. I just want to make sure he doesn’t end up in some weird crowd. Seoul can chew people up.”
Yoongi hums quietly, eyes fixed on the grill.
Namjoon continues, “He’s busy with something lately. Said he’ll tell me once it’s final. Honestly, makes me nervous. Jimin’s the type to jump headfirst into anything.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Yoongi says dryly, reaching for the tongs again.
Before Namjoon can retort, a familiar voice cuts through the noise from the doorway. “Thank god there were no patients coming in before my shift ended.”
Both men look up as Seokjin enters, still wearing his hospital ID clipped to his shirt. He looks exhausted but radiant in that effortless Seokjin way.
Namjoon’s face lights up. “Hey, babe.”
Seokjin leans down to press a kiss to his cheek before settling beside him. “Sorry I’m late. Someone forgot to tell me this was a dinner for three.”
Yoongi chuckles. “You’re always welcome, hyung.”
Seokjin gives him a pointed look, smiling. “Still a smooth-talker, I see.”
Namjoon laughs. “You have no idea.”
The air lightens as Seokjin starts talking—about hospital rounds, upcoming leaves, and how he’s been counting down the days to finally get some rest.
Yoongi flips a few slices of meat, then casually says, “Why don’t you ask Seokjin hyung to look after Jimin instead?”
Seokjin turns to him instantly, eyes wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Yoongi blinks, genuinely confused. “What?”
Namjoon bursts out laughing, clinking his glass against Seokjin’s. “He’ll come with me to the US for a month. He finally threatened HR that he’d quit if they didn’t let him get his much-needed break. You should’ve seen their faces.”
Seokjin sighs dramatically, grabbing the soju bottle. “As much as I love my dearest Jimin, I’m fucking tired. At this rate, you’d see me crawling to my patients.” He downs the shot, setting the glass down with a satisfying clack.
Namjoon grins proudly. “He earned it. Four months of double shifts.”
Yoongi shakes his head, smirking faintly. “You really picked the right guy to do life with.”
“I know,” Namjoon says, leaning into Seokjin’s shoulder.
Their laughter blends into the noise of the restaurant—easy, familiar, comforting. The conversation drifts to travel plans, food in Los Angeles, and how Seokjin plans to drag Namjoon to every tourist spot possible.
But while they talk, Yoongi’s quiet. His smile stays, but his eyes flicker every now and then—to nothing in particular, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
Because even under the hum of chatter and the smell of grilled meat, one image lingers in his mind—a flash of blond hair, sunlight glinting against the sea.
And somewhere deep down, Yoongi already knows.
He doesn’t really have a choice.
***
Days have passed since the dinner with Namjoon and Seokjin.
And if Yoongi is being honest, the thought of Jimin being in the same city as him has been living in his head far more than he’d like to admit.
It comes uninvited — sneaking in when he’s washing his hands, when he’s lighting a cigarette, when he’s lying awake at night staring at the ceiling. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just habit. Just old memories resurfacing because Namjoon brought him up.
Except his mind keeps going back to one memory in particular.
“Hyung! You’re mean!”
Jimin’s voice echoes across the living room, high and indignant, as he storms toward Yoongi, waving a piece of paper ripped straight out of his sketchpad.
Young Yoongi is sprawled on the floor, laughing so hard he has to clutch his stomach, gasping for air. “But it looks like you,” he manages between laughs.
“It does not!” Jimin screeches, eyes wide and furious as he looks down at the drawing again. “This is a potato!”
Yoongi snorts. “A cute potato.”
Jimin lets out an offended noise, pointing accusingly at the paper. “It has my eyes, my nose, my lips — and ears! Why does it have ears like that?!”
“They’re accurate,” Yoongi says smugly, sitting up. “Very expressive.”
“I’m gonna tell my mom,” Jimin declares, already marching toward the hallway. “You are gonna pay for this!”
Before he can get far, footsteps come down the stairs. Namjoon appears, book tucked under his arm, glasses slightly crooked from reading too long.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice tired but familiar with this tone.
“Namjoon hyung!” Jimin immediately changes course, running toward him and clutching onto his shirt like a lifeline. At fourteen, Namjoon is already towering over him by a full foot. “Yoongi hyung is being mean again.”
Namjoon looks down at his brother, then up at Yoongi. “Yah. What did you do?”
Yoongi lifts his hands in mock innocence. “What? I just drew him. That’s it. I didn’t do anything wrong.” He grins. “You can look.”
Reluctantly, Namjoon takes the paper.
It takes everything in him not to laugh.
The drawing is… something. A round, lumpy shape with stick arms, exaggerated lips, ears sticking out at odd angles, and eyes that are unmistakably Jimin’s — dramatic and way too big for the face.
Namjoon clears his throat quickly, pressing his lips together. “Yoongi,” he says, trying to sound stern, “stop picking fights with him.”
Yoongi watches his face closely, grin widening when Namjoon has to look away.
Jimin notices immediately. “Hyung! You’re laughing!”
“I am not,” Namjoon says too quickly. “Go… go wash your hands. Mom’s almost home.”
“I hate him,” Jimin mutters, pointing at Yoongi as he storms off. “You’re the worst!”
Yoongi only waves cheerfully. “Love you too, potato.”
Right on cue, the front door opens, plastic bags rustling.
Their mother steps inside, eyes flicking from the crumpled paper on the floor to Yoongi’s unapologetic grin and Jimin’s sulking figure in the hallway. She sighs—not surprised in the slightest.
“Did you two fight again?” she asks, already heading to the kitchen.
“He started it,” Jimin calls out.
“He exists,” Yoongi counters.
Namjoon just shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he helps carry the groceries. It’s chaos—loud, familiar, and strangely warm. Just another day in their house.
Yoongi blinks, the memory fading as the smell of ink and disinfectant settles back into place.
He’s seated at his work table now, pencil hovering uselessly over his sketchpad. The lines don’t make sense — half-formed shapes, uneven curves, ideas that refuse to become anything solid. Nothing he’d ever put on someone’s skin.
“Hyung.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Yoongi-hyung.”
A pencil taps against the edge of the table.
Yoongi finally looks up. Jungkook stands across from him, brow raised, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp despite the lazy lean of his posture. “You’ve been staring at that paper for five minutes.”
Yoongi glances down at the page, then scoffs quietly. “Have I?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says flatly. “You okay?”
Yoongi leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. Just… distracted.”
Jungkook raises an eyebrow, piercings catching the light as he tilts his head. He steps closer and leans against the desk. “Hm. Distracted? Really? By what?”
“Just anything,” Yoongi mutters. He looks back at the sketch and grimaces. “This looks like shit.”
“You’ve been spacing out a lot these days,” Jungkook says, voice gentler now. “That’s not you.”
And he’s not wrong. In the short time they’ve worked together, they’ve settled into an easy rhythm — the kind built on mutual understanding and shared silence. Jungkook’s easygoing nature meshes with Yoongi’s sharp edges better than most people ever have.
“And you’ve been obsessively observing,” Yoongi says, looking up again, raising a brow as he crosses his arms over his chest. His fingers drag absently over the ink lining his forearm.
Jungkook blinks. “Have I?”
Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Jungkook-ah. Go wipe the chairs.”
Jungkook scoffs immediately, straightening. “No.”
“Go,” Yoongi repeats, deadpan.
Jungkook plants his hands on his hips. Despite the tattoos crawling up his arms and the piercings lining his brow and lip, he looks every bit like a sulking kid when he pouts. “Tell me what’s in your head first, and I’ll wipe everything clean for the tenth time today.”
Yoongi stares at him for a moment, then sighs. “I’m babysitting Namjoon’s brother.”
Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly. “Babysitting?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says dryly. “Apparently, I’m the most reliable adult around.”
“That’s terrifying.”
Yoongi snorts. “Tell me about it. Kid’s a brat. Sharp tongue. Knows exactly how to push buttons.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t mention how that sharp tongue used to laugh too loud, or how it probably still does. Doesn’t say that brat isn’t the word echoing in his head at night.
Jungkook studies him. “You sure that’s the problem?”
Yoongi shoots him a look. “That’s all you’re getting.”
There’s a beat.
Then Yoongi adds, casually, “Ah. I thought you’d wipe everything clean after I answered your question?”
Jungkook groans loudly. “You’re evil.”
“Wipe the chairs.”
Grumbling under his breath, Jungkook grabs the disinfectant and a cloth, moving down the line of chairs dramatically. “One day, hyung, I’ll unionize.”
“I’ll support you,” Yoongi replies without looking up.
The bell above the door chimes, cutting through Jungkook’s muttering.
A woman steps inside, looking around with cautious curiosity. “Hi… um, is this Agust Ink?”
Yoongi straightens immediately, professional switch flipping on without effort. “Yeah. What can I help you with?”
She relaxes slightly. “I wanted to ask about getting a tattoo. A butterfly.”
Yoongi nods, gesturing toward the consultation chair. “Sure. Have a seat.”
She sits, pulling out her phone. “I’m not sure where to place it yet.”
“That depends,” Yoongi says calmly, leaning forward to look at her references. “Do you want it visible all the time, or something more personal?”
They talk through options — wrist, shoulder blade, ribcage. Yoongi explains healing, pain levels, how movement affects design longevity. His tone is steady, informative, detached in the way professionalism demands.
Jungkook watches from the corner, wiping chairs, eyes flicking between Yoongi and the door occasionally.
Because even when Yoongi’s voice is calm and his focus sharp, something about him feels… off.
And Jungkook knows it.
***
The shop across Agust Ink is in its final stages of renovation. Soft pink paint coats the walls, almost glowing under the afternoon sun — a sharp contrast to the dark, industrial aesthetic of the tattoo shop. Exposed brick, steel frames, muted lights on one side of the street; pastel walls and something gentler taking shape on the other.
The flower shop still doesn’t have a name up, but it’s already drawing attention. People slow down when they pass, some stopping just to peer through the windows covered in protective film. There’s a quiet kind of curiosity hanging around it — the kind that lingers.
“The last time I got a tattoo here,” the client Jungkook is working on says, face pressed into the tattoo chair, “the bakery was still open.”
Jungkook hums in acknowledgment, hand steady as he traces the stencil across the man’s back. “They closed down four months ago.”
“Damn. That long?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says. “It’s a bummer. I haven’t had good milk bread since they shut down.”
The client laughs softly. “Their sweet bread was crazy good. And the croissants? Worth the line.”
“Tell me about it,” Jungkook replies. “Every time I pass the place, I still expect it to smell like butter.”
From his station nearby, Yoongi keeps working, needle buzzing softly as he shades in clean, confident lines on his client’s forearm. He doesn’t join the conversation, but he hears every word.
“At least something’s going in there now,” the client continues. “Looks like a flower shop, right?”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says. “That’s what it looks like. Pretty different vibe from the bakery.”
The client shifts slightly, careful not to move too much. “My girlfriend’s already excited. Said she wants flowers from there once it opens.”
Jungkook chuckles. “Already planning ahead, huh?”
“Gotta score boyfriend points early.”
Jungkook glances briefly toward the window. “We don’t really know much about it, though. The owner hasn’t dropped by any of the shops around here. No introductions, no flyers. Nothing.”
“That’s kinda mysterious,” the client says. “Makes it more interesting.”
Yoongi finishes the last line of his tattoo, wiping away excess ink before leaning back to inspect his work. “All done,” he tells his client. “I’ll wrap it up for you.”
As he bandages the fresh ink and goes over aftercare instructions, Jungkook continues working, the buzz of his machine steady and focused.
Once Yoongi’s client leaves, he cleans his station quickly — wiping down the chair, disposing of gloves, lining his tools back into place with practiced ease. The buzz of the shop settles into something comfortable again.
He walks over to the speaker and turns the volume up just a notch. The upbeat song slips into the background, filling the space without overpowering it. The energy shifts — lighter, brighter — like the shop taking a small breath.
Yoongi barely has time to sit when his phone starts ringing.
He glances at the screen.
Namjoon.
For just a second, something flickers across his face—surprise, then something closer to resignation. He exhales slowly and pushes himself back up from the chair.
He grabs his cigarette pack and lighter from the counter and lifts them slightly in Jungkook’s direction. Jungkook looks over from his client, catches the gesture, and nods once in understanding.
Yoongi steps outside, the bell chiming softly behind him.
The late afternoon air greets him—warmer now, heavier, carrying the sharp scent of fresh paint and wood varnish drifting from across the street. Renovation dust clings to the air, settling on the edges of everything, like the neighborhood itself is in the middle of becoming something new.
Yoongi slips a cigarette between his lips and flicks his lighter, the flame flaring briefly before dying down. He takes a slow drag, shoulders relaxing as the smoke fills his lungs, and answers the call.
“Yah, Joon-ah,” he says, voice low, exhaling smoke toward the pavement.
“Still alive, I see,” Namjoon replies, the smile clear even through the phone.
“Barely,” Yoongi mutters. “What’s up? Shouldn’t you be drowning in packing lists right now?”
Namjoon laughs softly. “I am. That’s why I’m calling. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Yoongi stills, cigarette hovering just short of his mouth. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Early flight.”
“Damn,” Yoongi says after a beat. “You didn’t waste time.”
“Six months isn’t exactly short,” Namjoon replies. “Figured I’d stop dragging it out. And I want to actually spend time with Seokjin before I drown myself in work over there.”
Yoongi hums, leaning his back against the brick wall of the shop. The music from inside hums faintly through the door. “You must be really excited.”
“I am,” Namjoon admits. “Nervous, too. I can’t imagine speaking full English for six months straight without sounding like an idiot.” He pauses, then adds fondly, “But Seokjin’s excited enough for both of us.”
Yoongi snorts. “That tracks. Man’s probably already planning his café hopping.”
“Don’t expose him,” Namjoon says, laughing.
The line falls quiet for a moment—not awkward, just full. Fifteen years of friendship leaves room for silences like this, the kind where nothing needs to be said.
Then Namjoon clears his throat. “Hey. About what we talked about the other week.”
Yoongi already knows where this is going. He takes another drag, eyes drifting—against his will—to the pink-painted building across the street. “Yeah?”
“Just… don’t forget what I asked,” Namjoon says carefully. “Jimin’s stubborn. You know that. And sometimes he’s… naive.”
“I remember,” Yoongi replies. Too easily. Too quickly.
Namjoon exhales on the other end. “If anything happens—anything—call me. I mean it.”
Yoongi scoffs softly. “Relax, Joon-ah. I’m not letting him join a cult, for fuck’s sake.”
That earns him a laugh. Then Namjoon adds, almost casually, “Also—dinner tonight? At the house, of course. Jin’s cooking. He said he wants one proper meal before we go.”
Yoongi groans under his breath. “He’s still dramatic at his big age.”
“A hearty meal won’t hurt, Yoons,” Namjoon says. “Besides, you’ll see Jimin too. Aren’t you excited to see him? He’s a grown-up now. Not too fun to tease anymore.”
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away.
Namjoon presses on, voice lighter, knowing exactly what he’s doing. “He’s making beef stew and bulgogi.”
Yoongi closes his eyes briefly.
Of course he is.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice here,” Yoongi says finally. “Beef stew and bulgogi sound criminally good.”
Namjoon chuckles, satisfied. “Nope. See you tonight.”
The call ends.
Yoongi lowers his phone, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers as he stares at the blank screen. For a moment, he just stands there, smoke curling lazily around him, chest tight in a way he doesn’t bother naming.
Face to face, then.
With Park Jimin.
He takes one last drag, crushes the cigarette under his boot, and exhales—slow, deliberate—before pushing himself off the wall and heading back inside.
***
The shop closes down at seven.
It’s earlier than usual, but there are no more appointments scheduled for the day, and Agust Ink has long passed the point where closing an hour early even matters. People book weeks—sometimes months—in advance now. Some even come in from outside the city, willing to wait, willing to pay. One quiet evening won’t hurt.
Yoongi pulls the shutters down and locks the door with a practiced twist of his wrist. The neon sign flickers once before going dark, leaving the street a little dimmer than before.
Jungkook is already outside, helmet tucked under his arm as he straddles his motorcycle. His tattooed arms catch the last bit of daylight, ink glinting faintly as he adjusts his gloves.
“Drive safe, Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi says, slipping his own helmet on.
“You too, hyung!” Jungkook grins, visor snapping down. “Enjoy your dinner plans.”
Yoongi huffs. “I’ll try.”
Jungkook laughs, engine roaring to life as he pulls away, disappearing down the street in a blur of taillights. A second later, Yoongi does the same—merging into traffic, the familiar hum of the motor grounding him as Seoul stretches out in front of him.
The city is loud at this hour. Cars inch forward, horns blaring, people spilling out of cafés and convenience stores, neon signs buzzing to life one by one. Yoongi weaves through traffic with ease, muscle memory guiding him more than thought.
Eight o’clock. Namjoon’s place isn’t far, but rush hour has its own rules.
His mind drifts despite himself.
Dinner. Namjoon. Seokjin.
And Jimin.
He exhales sharply inside his helmet, eyes fixed on the road. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just a reunion. Just another night at the Kim house, full of laughter and too much food and Namjoon pretending he’s the responsible one while Seokjin plays host.
He tells himself he’s handled worse.
By the time he turns onto Namjoon’s street, the sky has softened into a deepening blue, streetlights casting long shadows across quiet sidewalks. The neighborhood feels calmer, insulated from the chaos downtown.
That’s when he sees him.
A taxi is pulled over just a few houses down, hazard lights blinking. The door opens, and Jimin steps out, a small box balanced carefully in his hands.
Cake, Yoongi thinks distantly.
Jimin looks different.
Not drastically—his hair is darker now, styled neatly, clothes sharper around the edges—but there’s a confidence to the way he moves, shoulders squared as he thanks the driver and shuts the door. The taxi pulls away, leaving him standing there alone for half a second.
Then Yoongi kills his engine.
The sound is loud in the quiet street.
Jimin looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Yoongi swings his leg off the bike, pulls his helmet free, and suddenly it feels like the air has thickened, pressing in on him from all sides. Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.
Jimin’s gaze flickers briefly—to the bike, to Yoongi’s hands, to his face—then settles, sharp and unreadable.
Five years doesn’t feel long enough.
Or maybe it feels like too much.
Finally, Jimin breaks the silence.
“Well,” he says, lips quirking as he adjusts the grip on the cake box. “Hey there, oldie.”
He chuckles, light and easy, like this is nothing.
Yoongi snorts despite himself, rolling his eyes as he locks the bike. “Hey yourself, potato head.”
The smile drops.
Not completely—but enough.
Jimin’s brows knit together, annoyance flashing across his face. “You’re still calling me that?”
“You’re still short,” Yoongi shoots back automatically.
“I grew,” Jimin argues, gesturing vaguely at himself. “You’re just blind.”
Yoongi hums, glancing him over once, slow and deliberate. “Debatable.”
Jimin clicks his tongue, clearly offended. “Asshole.”
“Brat,” Yoongi replies.
For a moment, it almost feels familiar.
Almost.
”Really? No ‘it’s nice seeing you again, hyung.’?” Yoongi asks, brow raised.
Jimin rolls his eyes, of course. “Nice seeing you again, hyung.”
The elder smirks, “That’s more like it.”
They walk toward the house together, steps slightly out of sync. Jimin keeps a careful distance between them, the cake box held like a shield. Yoongi notices the way his shoulders tense every time their arms almost brush.
Namjoon’s house glows warmly from the inside, light spilling through the windows. The door opens before they can knock.
“Finally!” Seokjin announces, grinning wide. “I was about to send a search party.”
“Relax,” Yoongi says, slipping out of his jacket. “We’re not that late.”
Namjoon appears behind Seokjin, glasses perched on his nose, hair tied back loosely. His face lights up when he sees them. “You made it.”
Jimin steps forward first. “Hyung.”
Namjoon pulls him into a hug immediately, one hand patting his back. “You came with cake?”
“Of course I did,” Jimin says proudly. “I’m not heartless.”
Seokjin snatches the box with a gasp. “Is that chocolate?”
“Strawberry shortcake,” Jimin corrects.
“Even better.”
Yoongi clears his throat. “Nice to see you too, Jin-hyung.”
Seokjin grins. “Come in, come in. Before you two start a fight on the doorstep.”
The house is warm—physically and otherwise. Namjoon’s presence is everywhere: framed prints, carefully arranged shelves, muted tones and thoughtful spaces. Seokjin’s influence splashes color across it all—bright cushions, bold ceramics, a chaotic but cozy kitchen that smells like garlic and simmering beef.
Yoongi shrugs off his shoes, glancing around like he hasn’t been here a hundred times before.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Seokjin says, already moving back toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Namjoon eyes Yoongi and Jimin with open amusement. “I hope you don’t burn our house down.”
Yoongi scoffs. “I’m insulted.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Namjoon says mildly. “Do you remember how bad you two used to get?”
Jimin groans. “Hyung, that was years ago.”
“Oh, I remember it vividly,” Namjoon continues, ignoring him. “Broken lamps. Shouting matches. That one time you almost knocked over my bookshelf.”
Yoongi smirks. “That wasn’t my fault.”
“You started it,” Jimin snaps.
“You bit me.”
“You drew me like a potato.”
Seokjin pauses mid-step. “A what?”
Namjoon laughs, shaking his head. “See? This. This exact energy.”
Jimin crosses his arms. “I’m not a child anymore, hyung.”
Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “Never said you were.”
Yoongi stays quiet, watching Jimin from the corner of his eye. The sharp tongue is still there. The fire too. But there’s something else beneath it now—something tighter, more controlled.
Dinner is loud but comfortable. Seokjin fusses over plates, Namjoon pours drinks, conversation flows easily around work, travel plans, memories. Yoongi answers when spoken to, laughs when expected, but his attention keeps drifting back to Jimin.
Jimin, who sits across from him, legs crossed neatly, expression carefully neutral whenever their eyes meet.
The tension hums between them—low, constant, unnoticed by everyone else.
And Yoongi knows, deep down, that tonight is only the beginning.
Dinner winds down slowly.
Plates are cleared, leftovers packed away with Seokjin’s usual insistence that everyone take more than they need. The cake is cut, candles lit even though no one’s celebrating anything in particular. Laughter fills the house in soft bursts, rising and falling like background noise Yoongi can’t fully tune into.
He laughs when expected. Nods in the right places. Responds on instinct.
But something in him stays tight.
Jimin moves easily around the space now, familiar with it in a way that only family can be. He helps Seokjin in the kitchen without being asked, steals bites off the counter, argues lightly over nothing. He looks… settled. Confident. Like someone who believes he belongs wherever he stands.
That, more than anything, unsettles Yoongi.
Because this isn’t the kid he remembers. And it isn’t the stranger he’d braced himself for, either.
At some point, Seokjin shoos them all away from the kitchen, declaring it “post-dinner territory,” and Namjoon suggests stepping outside for air. Drinks are poured—simple, unceremonious—and the back door slides open to the small garden behind the house.
It’s quiet out here.
The city noise fades into a distant hum, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the faint chirp of insects. Soft lights are strung along the fence, casting a warm glow over potted plants and a small wooden table.
Jimin excuses himself first, mumbling something about taking a call. Seokjin follows shortly after, claiming he needs to check on something inside.
That leaves Yoongi and Namjoon alone.
They lean against opposite sides of the table, drinks in hand.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
Yoongi stares out at the garden, watching the shadows shift as the breeze moves through the leaves. He feels the weight of the night settling into his shoulders—the familiarity of this house, the echo of old memories layered over new ones.
Namjoon breaks the silence first.
“You okay?”
Yoongi hums. “Define okay.”
Namjoon smiles faintly, lifting his glass to his lips. “Fair.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter, “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
Yoongi glances at him. “What is?”
“Seeing him like this,” Namjoon says. “All grown. Making his own choices. Thinking he’s got the world figured out.”
Yoongi lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Yeah.”
Namjoon watches him carefully now. “He’s excited about Seoul. Thinks life really starts here.”
Yoongi scoffs softly. “You already told him that’s bullshit.”
“I did,” Namjoon says. “Multiple times.”
“And he didn’t listen.”
“Of course not. He’s a brat.”
They share a small, knowing smile.
Yoongi takes a sip of his drink, the burn grounding him. “You’re just overprotective.”
Namjoon shrugs, unbothered. “I probably am. You can’t blame me.”
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away.
Because he can’t.
He knows why Namjoon is like this—why he watches Jimin with a careful eye, why his voice tightens when he talks about him being alone in the city, why he asked Yoongi for that favor instead of anyone else.
Yoongi knows what it’s like to lose control of something precious. To look back and realize you missed the moment things changed.
“I know,” Yoongi says finally.
Namjoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly, like that’s all he needed to hear. “I’m not asking you to babysit him. I just—” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I want him to have someone. Someone who won’t sugarcoat things. Someone who’ll step in if he’s about to do something stupid.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens.
“And you thought of me,” he says, tone light but edged with something else.
Namjoon meets his gaze steadily. “I trust you, dumbass.”
That lands heavier than Yoongi expects.
He looks down at his glass, swirling the liquid slowly. He thinks of Jimin’s sharp tongue, the way his smile faltered for half a second earlier. The confidence that feels hard-earned. The stubbornness that hasn’t gone anywhere.
He thinks of how easily old habits slip back into place.
“How busy is he?” Yoongi asks instead.
Namjoon tilts his head. “Busy enough that he won’t tell me what he’s doing until it’s ‘final.’” He huffs a quiet laugh. “I told you about that.”
Yoongi nods slowly. “That sounds like him.”
Namjoon studies him for a moment. “You don’t have to say yes.”
Yoongi looks up, surprised.
“I mean it,” Namjoon continues. “If this is uncomfortable for you—I get it.”
Yoongi considers that.
The truth is, he doesn’t know if he’s saying yes because it’s the right thing to do—or because some part of him wants to stay close to the mess, even if it burns.
“I didn’t say no,” he replies.
Namjoon smiles, small and relieved. “That’s enough for me.”
They stand there in companionable silence, drinks slowly emptying, the garden holding their quiet understanding.
Inside the house, laughter rises again—Seokjin’s voice, Jimin’s following close behind.
Yoongi closes his eyes briefly.
He knows what he’s agreeing to.
And he knows it’s already too late to pretend otherwise.
“But hey,” Namjoon bumps his arm, “I also mean it.”
“What?” Yoongi asks, confused.
Then Namjoon dead stares at him, “He’s off-limits.”