Chapter Text
At 6:47 AM on a Tuesday in early summer, the kitchen in the Swiss chalet was so quiet that Jungkook could hear his own pulse.
He'd been standing at the Wolf induction stove for eleven minutes, watching olive oil heat in the copper pan. Not because he needed to watch it. Because watching it gave him somewhere to put his eyes, and his eyes, left unsupervised, had a way of finding Jimin.
Outside, birds had started again after the rain — soft, persistent, indifferent to everything. Snow still held the mountain peaks white. Inside, the refrigerator's compressor hummed at a frequency that settled in his back teeth and stayed there. The sound of a freedom that was theirs, finally, finally theirs, to make Jungkook feel brave in a way for the first time in a long time.
He'd sent their manager away two days ago. Told him they needed space to decompress after everything — the military service, the albums, the two years of living a completely different life that let you say everything and nothing at all. Their manager's mouth had done that thing at the corners, tightening, the expression of a man who disagreed and had decided not to say so. Then he'd left. And now it was just the two of them in this borrowed house at the edge of the world, and Jungkook's hands were not quite steady as he reached for the garlic.
Jimin was asleep upstairs. Had been for four hours. Jungkook knew because he'd checked twice, which was not something he would be admitting to anyone — standing in the bedroom doorway long enough to feel the particular embarrassment of a person doing something they can't explain even to themselves. Watching the slow rise and fall of Jimin's chest under the duvet. He'd been sleeping a lot since they arrived, his body finally releasing an exhaustion it had held off for months through sheer stubbornness. That first night, Jimin had collapsed into bed still fully dressed, still wearing his airport shoes, and Jungkook had stood in the doorway for a full five minutes before crossing the room, kneeling down quietly, and unlacing them. Setting them side by side against the nightstand like a small, careful prayer.
Something had cracked open in his chest then. Not for the first time. It had been cracking open for years, accumulating hairlines, until the whole thing was more fracture than structure.
He minced the garlic with slow precision, the knife rocking against the board in a rhythm his hands knew without being told. Somewhere in the middle of his thoughts, he realised he'd been mincing the same garlic for three minutes, and it was practically a paste now. He scraped it into the pan anyway. This was how his mind worked — it latched onto a thing and forgot to let go, forgot that time was passing, forgot everything except the loop it had decided was important. Usually, the loop was Jimin.
The pasta water hit a rolling boil. He added salt — two tablespoons, measured so many times that his hand knew the weight before his mind caught up — and watched the grains dissolve into nothing.
Footsteps on the stairs. Soft, a little hesitant. The third step from the top creaked.
Jungkook didn't turn around. His grip on the wooden spoon tightened. He knew the weight of those steps, the particular quality of the way Jimin moved through space when it was just the two of them — careful, like he was still apologising for taking up room. Years of cameras and crowds had given Jimin two versions of himself: the one that filled a stadium and the one that moved through a quiet kitchen like he wasn't sure he was allowed.
"You're cooking." Jimin's voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep and something else Jungkook couldn't name.
"You should rest more."
"I've rested enough." A pause. Jungkook heard fabric shift—Jimin's weight settling against the doorframe. "What are you making?"
"Pasta. The one you like. With the cream sauce."
He heard Jimin move closer. Felt the warmth of another body entering his orbit the way you feel a change in light — not loud, just suddenly present. In his peripheral vision, Jimin had settled against the counter, arms folded over his chest. He was wearing Jungkook's black hoodie from 2018 or something — the one with the small bleach stain on the left pocket that Jimin had made by accident and apologised for six times over the course of a week until Jungkook had wanted to shake him. It hung loose on him now, the cuffs pulled down over his hands.
Jungkook had packed it, knowing Jimin would take it. He'd packed it specifically, so Jimin would take it, and then pretended, as he always did, that this hadn't been a deliberate decision.
"Jungkook-ah." Jimin's voice had dropped slightly. "I should start watching what I eat again. I gained so much weight during service. All that rice and—"
"No."
The word came out sharper than he intended. His hand went still on the spoon. The cream sauce was already at the wrong temperature — too hot, beginning to pull apart — and he yanked it off the heat before it broke.
Jimin went quiet.
Jungkook exhaled slowly, whisked the sauce back into itself, and moved the pan to a lower flame. When he spoke again, he had it under control. "Hyung, please eat what I cook. All of it." He made sure to pout the way he always does when he wants his way.
"I'm just saying—"
"We will loose the weight together. But not right now hyung." He turned to look at him then.
Jimin's face was soft with sleep, hair pushed up on one side, a crease from the pillowcase running down his left cheek. He looked young in a way that made something tighten in Jungkook's throat. Not young like before — young like someone who had set something very heavy down and hadn't yet decided what to do with his empty hands.
“We don’t have to loose weight just yet. We don’t even have a comeback plan yet.”
"And hyung, you're healthy," Jungkook said, quieter. "You're perfect. Please eat."
Something moved across Jimin's face — surprise, or the ghost of an old hurt. But then came the smile, practiced and light. "Okay, okay. Don't be so serious."
But Jungkook was serious. He had never in his life been more serious about anything.
He turned back to the stove and dropped the pasta into the water, watching the dry edges soften and go translucent. Behind him, Jimin settled onto one of the barstools — the leather creaked once, then went still.
"Smells good," Jimin offered.
"It will be tasty too," he smirked.
"You've really gotten good at this."
"I had good motivation."
What he didn't say: I learned because of you. Because every meal I make is a quiet promise — that you'll always have someone to make your favourite thing, for as long as you'll let me.
Cooking had become his meditation, his prayer, his penance. Every meal he made for Jimin was an apology and a confession his mouth didn't know how to shape.
He plated the pasta carefully. When he turned to set it in front of Jimin, their eyes met.
"Thank you," Jimin said softly. "I'm honored to eat what you cook."
Jungkook nodded. His own plate was still on the counter, forgotten.
He watched Jimin take the first bite, watched the small crease between his brows smooth out, and the tightness in his chest loosened just slightly. Just enough.
"Aren't you eating?" Jimin asked.
"In a minute." Jungkook pulled out the stool across from him. "I want to make sure it's good first."
Jimin laughed, the sound bright and unguarded for just a moment. "It's always good. You know that."
Maybe. But Jungkook would never stop checking, never stop watching, never stop making sure that Jimin ate and smiled and stayed solid and real in front of him.
Outside, the summer breeze continued to hum through the valley. Inside, for this moment, everything was warm.
Jimin ate, and Jungkook watched, and neither of them spoke about the years of silence that sat between them like a third person at the table. Not yet.
But soon.
Soon, they would talk about everything. About the trainee days, the careless jokes, and the moment everything shattered. About the videos Jungkook couldn't stop watching, the realization that had brought him to his knees. About love that had no name, no shape, no place to exist except in the careful space between them.
But for now, there was just this: pasta and summer breeze and the quiet rhythm of Jimin's fork against the plate.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
Jungkook finally pulled his own plate close. The pasta had gone lukewarm. He didn't care. Across from him, Jimin's shoulders had softened, and that was everything.
Jimin, for his part, noticed.
He'd been noticing for years — the way Jungkook watched him eat, the specific quality of attention he brought to it, like the most important test result he'd ever been waiting on. It used to confuse him. Now he just let himself be watched, and felt something warm settle in his chest that he refused to name over breakfast. He found peace in these moments when he felt special. Something he might not really get to enjoy freely outside these stolen moments.