Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t supposed to be anything special.

Just a party. Loud music that bled through the walls, too many people packed into a space that was definitely too small, cheap drinks passed around like it was a competition instead of a bad idea. Someone’s laugh kept cutting through the bass. Someone else kept bumping Jimin’s shoulder like they expected him to dance just because they did.

Jimin almost hadn’t come.

“Come on,” Jeongguk had said earlier that day, dragging himself into the seat across from him like he owned the place. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair still damp like he’d just showered, and he had that bright, restless look that always made it hard to say no. “You never go to these.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Yeah, because you’re boring.”

“I’m not boring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much bite to it. There never really was, not with Jeongguk.

“…fine. I’ll go,” Jimin said after a second, already regretting it.

The grin he got in response was immediate. “Knew it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep agreeing with me.”

That was the problem.

It had always been easy with Jeongguk. Too easy.

Now, as soon as they stepped inside, the heat hit them. The air smelled like perfume, sweat, and something sugary spilled on the floor hours ago. The living room lights were dimmed to a lazy orange, and the kitchen was crowded with people leaning over cups like they had secrets to trade.

Jeongguk moved through it all like he belonged here, a hand briefly pressing to the small of Jimin’s back to steer him around a knot of strangers. It was casual. Automatic.

“See?” Jeongguk shouted near Jimin’s ear over the music. “Not that bad.”

Jimin made a face. “It’s exactly that bad.”

Jeongguk laughed, loud and unguarded, and Jimin felt the sound in his chest like someone had flicked a finger against glass.

Friends.

That was all it was.

They’d been friends long enough that everything just… worked. Same sense of humor, same rhythm in conversation, the kind of understanding that didn’t need explaining. Jeongguk knew what Jimin liked without asking. Jimin knew when Jeongguk was pushing too hard, even when Jeongguk tried to play it off.

Which was why Jimin didn’t question it.

Didn’t question why he noticed when Jeongguk laughed a little harder than usual.

Didn’t question why he always ended up standing closer to him than anyone else, shoulder-to-shoulder in a room full of space.

Didn’t question why, when the crowd shifted and voices rose, he instinctively looked for Jeongguk first.

Because Jeongguk was always there.

And Jeongguk kept looking back.

He kept watching Jimin like he was checking for something, like he was waiting for the moment Jimin might decide to disappear. Every time someone tried to pull Jimin into a conversation, Jeongguk hovered just close enough to slide in with a joke. Every time Jimin’s cup got low, Jeongguk was the one to take it and trade it for a fresh one, like it was nothing.

Jimin told himself it was just Jeongguk being Jeongguk.

Jeongguk’s fingers brushed his wrist when he handed the new cup over. Warm. Quick. Jimin’s skin tingled anyway.

“Drink,” Jeongguk said, eyes bright. “Loosen up.”

“I am loosened up.”

Jeongguk’s smile turned softer around the edges. “Sure you are.”

Jimin drank, mostly to prove a point.

The alcohol burned sweet down his throat. The music got louder or maybe Jimin just stopped fighting it. People pushed past, laughing, shouting, dancing badly. At some point, someone tugged Jeongguk away for a game, and Jimin let him go without thinking.

He shouldn’t have noticed how empty it felt immediately.

A minute later, Jeongguk was back, cheeks flushed, hair falling into his eyes.

“Miss me?” Jeongguk teased.

Jimin snorted. “Hardly.”

Jeongguk’s gaze held for half a second too long, like he wanted to say something else. Then he looked away, tipping his cup back.

Friends.

That was all it was.

-

Now, standing in the middle of the party, Jimin was starting to regret agreeing.

The apartment felt like it had been built for half this many people. Heat clung to everything—skin, clothes, the air itself—thickened by perfume and sweat and the sharp, sugary sting of something spilled near the entryway. Bass from the speakers pulsed through the walls like a second heartbeat. Every time Jimin tried to breathe, it tasted faintly like cheap alcohol and someone’s fruity vape.

“It’s too loud,” he said, leaning in until his mouth was just beside Jeongguk’s ear.

Jeongguk’s laugh vibrated through his chest when he turned, bright-eyed, flushed with the kind of energy Jimin never understood. “That’s the point.”

“People are already drunk.” Jimin nodded toward a cluster by the kitchen who were swaying like the floor was optional.

“So?” Jeongguk shot back, grinning. “Join them.”

“I’m not getting wasted.”

“You say that every time.” Jeongguk’s smile sharpened, like he’d been waiting for the line.

“Because I mean it every time.”

“Sure you do.”

Before Jimin could argue, Jeongguk stole his empty hand—just for a second, just enough to guide him out of the way of a couple stumbling past—and then a plastic cup was pressed into his palm from somewhere behind them. The liquid sloshed amber under the dim lights.

Jimin stared at it like it might bite. Then he looked at Jeongguk, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You will.” Jeongguk’s voice dropped a little, the words pitched close to Jimin’s ear like they were a secret. When he pulled back, his eyes lingered on Jimin’s face in that way that always made Jimin feel like he was being watched for… something. Like Jeongguk was waiting for the moment Jimin would catch up.

Jimin tightened his grip on the cup. “One,” he said, mostly to prove he could.

“That’s how it starts.”

“Shut up.”

He took a sip.

It burned brighter than he expected—sweet at first, then harsh, catching the back of his throat and making his eyes water. He turned his face away before Jeongguk could see the full wince, but it was too late.

Jeongguk laughed anyway, loud and unguarded, like Jimin’s discomfort was his favorite kind of entertainment. “Lightweight.”

“Oh, you’re going to regret that.” Jimin coughed once, tried to make it sound casual.

Jeongguk’s grin turned slow. “Am I?”

“Yeah.”

The next drink showed up before Jimin could talk himself out of it. Jeongguk didn’t even ask—just traded cups with him. Their fingers brushed when they switched. Warm skin, quick contact. Jimin felt it anyway.

One drink turned into two. Then three.

The noise didn’t get quieter, but it stopped feeling like it was clawing at him. The voices blended into a manageable blur; the lights softened around the edges. He found himself laughing at things he would’ve rolled his eyes at earlier, letting Jeongguk tug him into conversations and out again before anyone could trap him.

And somehow—like the night had been gently herding them into place—Jimin ended up right where he always ended up.

Beside Jeongguk.

Not across the room, not in a circle of other friends—just… there. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Their arms close enough that every time either of them shifted, fabric brushed fabric. Too close to be accidental, except it always happened, so Jimin never thought to call it anything else.

“…okay,” Jimin admitted after a while, leaning his back against the wall to steal a pocket of air. His head felt pleasantly light. “Maybe this isn’t completely terrible.”

“Told you,” Jeongguk said, smug and bright.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Jimin huffed a laugh and turned his head—and stopped.

Jeongguk was already looking at him.

That part wasn’t new. Jeongguk had always looked for him in rooms, always checked in with a glance like it was instinct. The difference was that this time, Jeongguk didn’t pretend it was nothing. He didn’t dart his eyes away. He didn’t cover it with a joke.

He just held Jimin’s gaze.

In the dim orange light, Jeongguk’s pupils looked bigger, darker. His mouth was parted slightly like he’d been about to say something and lost it. The noise of the party seemed to slide farther away, leaving only the thin space between them and the soft, steady pull of Jeongguk’s attention.

“…what?” Jeongguk asked, raising an eyebrow like he could make it teasing if he wanted to.

“Nothing,” Jimin said too fast.

“That wasn’t nothing.” Jeongguk’s voice was quieter now, almost careful.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but his smile came out softer than he meant it to. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

Jeongguk went still.

The pause was short—barely a beat—but it landed heavy, like something had been dropped between them and neither of them wanted to bend down and name it.

Then Jeongguk let out a breath that sounded like a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah?” Jimin asked, leaning into it, feeling brave in the way alcohol made him brave.

“Yeah.”

“…okay.”

But Jeongguk still didn’t look away.

And that—more than the drinks, more than the noise, more than the heat—was where the night started to feel different.

Something small.

Something sharp-edged, hiding under familiar things.

Something easy to ignore… if Jimin had been paying attention to anything but Jeongguk.

_

It had been a bad idea from the start.

Jimin knew that the second a third drink was pushed into his hand, because the room was too loud, too warm, and his best friend was already leaning a little too close, like the rest of the party was just background noise.

“You’re lightweight,” Jeongguk said, laughing. The words came out bright, but the edges were starting to smear, the way his grin always got when he’d had just enough to stop pretending he was careful.

“I’m not,” Jimin shot back, even as he nearly missed the edge of the table when he set his cup down.

“You are.”

“You’ve had more than me.”

“Yeah, but I can handle it.” Jeongguk tapped the side of his own cup, as if that proved something.

“That’s debatable.”

They laughed at that—too easily.

Friends.

That’s what they were.

Had always been.

Which was exactly why this felt—

Off.

Jimin didn’t notice it at first. Not really. It was just… small things.

The way their shoulders kept brushing when there was plenty of space. The way neither of them moved away right away. The way Jeongguk’s gaze lingered for half a heartbeat too long, like he kept catching himself mid-thought and didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re staring,” Jeongguk said, squinting at him like he was trying to focus through the buzz.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I just like your face.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Jimin murmured, quieter. The alcohol made honesty feel like a joke he could hide behind. “Maybe.”

Something in his chest tightened anyway—quick and stupid and sharp.

Jeongguk’s laugh didn’t land the same this time. It stumbled, turned into something softer.

“Okay,” Jeongguk said, like he needed to do something before his mouth betrayed him. “You’re cut off.”

“Hey—”

“Nope. Done. Water.”

“I don’t want water.”

“You’re getting water.”

He stood—maybe a little unsteady, maybe pretending he wasn’t—and elbowed his way to the kitchen counter. Jimin watched him weave between people like it was nothing, like the whole room naturally parted for him. When Jeongguk came back, he pressed a cold bottle into Jimin’s hand.

Their fingers brushed.

And stayed.

That was new.

Jimin felt it immediately: the warm catch of Jeongguk’s thumb against his knuckles, the way Jeongguk didn’t pull away like it was an accident. The music was still pounding. People were still shouting over each other. But it all slid farther away, like someone had turned the volume down and left only the two of them turned up.

“…you’re doing it again,” Jimin said, voice smaller than he meant it to be.

“Doing what?” Jeongguk asked, but he didn’t sound annoyed. He sounded… careful.

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Jimin opened his mouth—and blanked. The obvious answer would’ve been normal. Like you always do.

Except it wasn’t.

“…I don’t know.”

Jeongguk tilted his head, studying him in a way that wasn’t casual at all.

“…do you want me to stop?”

The question should’ve been easy.

Yes. Simple. Obvious.

Instead, Jimin swallowed, throat tight around a laugh that wouldn’t come.

“…I don’t know.”

That was worse.

A lot worse.

Something shifted between them, heavy and quiet and there. Jeongguk’s grip on the bottle tightened, just enough to make the plastic creak.

“You ever think,” Jeongguk started, voice slower now, like he was picking each word up with both hands, “that maybe we’re… not just—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

Jimin knew what he meant. Of course he did.

He’d just never let himself actually think it for longer than a second.

“That’s the alcohol talking,” Jimin said too quickly.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Jeongguk’s eyes didn’t leave his. “What if it’s not?”

Jimin dragged in a shaky breath and shoved a hand through his hair, fingers catching on sweat-damp strands. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I—” Jimin stopped, because there was no good answer. Because none of this had a good answer.

Because the truth was—

Jimin had thought about it.

Late at night, when everything was quiet enough to be honest. In small flashes: Jeongguk’s laugh right in his ear, Jeongguk’s hand on the small of his back, the way his stomach twisted when someone else touched Jeongguk like they had the right.

He’d just never said it out loud.

“…this is a bad idea,” Jimin muttered, staring at Jeongguk’s mouth for half a second before he forced his eyes back up.

“Probably,” Jeongguk admitted.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved. The space between them felt like a line drawn on the floor—step over it and there was no stepping back.

“…you should go sit down,” Jimin added, because he had to say something that sounded normal.

“Okay,” Jeongguk said.

He didn’t.

Instead, Jeongguk stepped closer.

Not by much.

Just enough.

Enough that he could feel Jeongguk’s heat, the faint sharp-sweet scent of liquor on his breath, the way Jeongguk’s presence filled up the air like it had been waiting to.

“…you’re not sitting down,” Jimin pointed out.

“No.”

“That was the deal.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to anything.”

“You said ‘okay.’”

“I lied.”

That almost made Jimin laugh. Almost.

“…you’re an idiot,” Jimin whispered, but there was no bite in it.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk said, like it was a confession of his own.

Another small step.

Now it wasn’t subtle.

Now it was deliberate.

“…if we do something stupid,” Jimin said quietly, “we can’t pretend it didn’t happen tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“That’s it. That’s the warning.”

“I heard you.”

“Okay.”

Jeongguk’s voice dropped, almost unsteady. “…do you want to stop?”

There it was again.

That question.

This time, Jimin didn’t hesitate as long.

“…no.”

The word barely left his mouth before everything shifted.

The last inch between them disappeared, replaced by something electric—something that had been building all night, maybe longer, tucked into every laugh and every touch they’d both pretended was nothing.

Jimin’s hand caught Jeongguk’s wrist first, instinctive, like he needed an anchor. Like he needed proof this was real.

“…we’re really doing this,” Jimin breathed.

Jeongguk’s eyes flicked down to his hand, then back up. “Yeah.”

A pause.

One last chance to pull away.

Then Jeongguk tugged him closer.

And this time, neither of them held back.

Jimin stumbled into it—into Jeongguk’s space, into the warm press of his chest, into the way Jeongguk’s hand slid up his arm like he’d been trying not to do it all night and finally gave up. The room kept moving around them, bodies swaying, laughter bursting and breaking, music pounding so hard it made the air feel thick.

But right here, between Jeongguk’s fingers and Jimin’s mouth, it went strangely quiet.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk said, like it was a warning and a plea at the same time.

Jimin’s laugh came out breathless. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re—” Jimin stopped, because the rest of the sentence lodged somewhere sharp in his throat. Like you’re about to ruin me. Like you’ve wanted to for a while. He swallowed instead and tightened his grip on Jeongguk’s wrist. “Just… don’t.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flicked down to Jimin’s hand, then back up, and something in his expression shifted—something rawer than the teasing, softer than the bravado.

“Okay,” Jeongguk said quietly. “Then tell me what you want.”

Jimin stared at him. It was ridiculous, the question. They were both a little drunk, both too warm, both standing too close in a room full of people who didn’t matter. Jimin had a hundred answers, and all of them felt like stepping off a ledge.

So he went for the simplest one.

“Kiss me,” Jimin said.

Jeongguk went still again, like his body needed a second to catch up to the words. His throat moved when he swallowed. His grip on Jimin’s arm tightened—not hard, just enough to say I’ve got you.

“Yeah?” Jeongguk asked, voice low, careful.

Jimin’s heart kicked against his ribs like it was trying to get out. “Yeah.”

Jeongguk’s gaze dropped—just once—to Jimin’s mouth.

And then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t sloppy. It was slow like Jeongguk was giving him time to change his mind, like he was still being careful even as everything between them broke wide open. His nose brushed Jimin’s, breath warm and sweet with alcohol, and Jimin’s entire body lit up at the closeness.

Jimin didn’t pull away.

He tilted his chin up instead, closing the last inch himself—because if they were doing this, he wanted it to be obvious that it was him too.

Jeongguk’s mouth met his.

Soft at first. Almost hesitant.

Jimin felt it like a shock anyway, a clean, bright hit straight through his chest. The contact was gentle, but it carried the weight of every shoulder brush, every too-long look, every touch they’d both pretended didn’t mean anything.

Jeongguk made a sound under his breath—half a sigh, half a ruined laugh—and the hesitation cracked. His hand slid up to cup Jimin’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of Jimin’s mouth like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed to feel it.

The kiss deepened. Warm. Real. Jeongguk’s lips moved with more certainty now, like he’d been waiting for permission and finally got it. Jimin’s fingers curled into the front of Jeongguk’s hoodie, tugging him closer until there was no space left to misunderstand.

Somewhere behind them, someone shouted. Glass clinked. The bass dropped into a heavier beat.

Jimin barely noticed.

Jeongguk’s tongue brushed his lower lip, tentative—asking, not taking—and Jimin answered without thinking, parting his mouth and letting Jeongguk in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like they’d been doing this forever.

The moment Jeongguk realized Jimin wasn’t going to stop him, he kissed him like he was starving. Not messy, not rough—just hungry, like every second mattered. Jeongguk’s hand slid from Jimin’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into damp hair, holding him there with a steadiness that made Jimin’s knees threaten to give out.

Jimin pulled back for half a breath, forehead bumping Jeongguk’s, both of them breathing too hard.

Jeongguk’s eyes were dark, blown wide. His lips were pinker, a little swollen already.

“Tell me to stop,” Jeongguk whispered.

Jimin laughed, shaky. “You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking like you think I’m gonna run.” Jimin’s voice dipped, honest in a way he didn’t usually let himself be. “I’m right here.”

Jeongguk’s expression broke—just for a second, like something inside him had been holding tight for too long and finally slipped.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk said, almost to himself. “You are.”

Jimin should’ve said something smart. Something that would make Jeongguk roll his eyes and call him dramatic.

Instead, Jimin leaned in and kissed him again.

This time, Jimin started it. This time, Jimin didn’t hesitate at all.

Jeongguk responded immediately, a soft sound in his throat, his arms coming around Jimin’s waist and pulling him in so close Jimin could feel the shape of his breath. The kiss turned slower again, heavier—like they were both trying to memorize it, like tomorrow might try to pretend none of this happened.

Jimin’s hand slid up Jeongguk’s chest, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck, and Jeongguk shivered. Actually shivered, like Jimin had hit a nerve.

Jimin smiled into the kiss.

Jeongguk felt it and kissed him harder, like he was offended by the idea that Jimin could find any part of this funny.

Jimin’s head spun—not just from alcohol, but from the way Jeongguk kissed like he meant it. Like he wasn’t playing. Like the line between friends and something else hadn’t just been crossed, it had been set on fire.

When they finally broke apart again, Jeongguk kept his forehead pressed to Jimin’s, still holding him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Jeongguk exhaled a laugh that sounded wrecked. “This is… really happening.”

Jimin’s chest rose and fell too fast. His lips tingled. “Yeah.”

Jeongguk’s thumb brushed Jimin’s cheek, gentle enough to make Jimin’s throat ache. “You’re okay?”

Jimin stared at him, stunned by the softness.

“Are you?” Jimin asked.

Jeongguk’s smile flickered—small and careful. “I think so.”

Jimin nodded once, like he could lock the moment into place with the motion. “Good.”

Jeongguk’s eyes searched his again, like he was still trying to find the trap door in the floor. Like he couldn’t believe Jimin would stay.

Jimin tightened his arms around Jeongguk’s neck.

“Jeongguk,” he said, quiet but firm, “stop looking at me like that.”

Jeongguk blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to change my mind.”

Jeongguk’s throat moved. He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t tease. He just held Jimin a little tighter, like admitting the truth would make it real.

“…okay,” Jeongguk whispered.

Jimin kissed him again, quick and sure.

And Jeongguk kissed him back like he’d been waiting years.

Jimin didn’t know how long it went on like that—breaking apart just long enough to breathe, just long enough to look at each other like they were trying to confirm they were both still real, and then surging back in again like the space between them was unbearable.

Jeongguk’s hands stayed busy, like he didn’t know what to do with all the wanting. One moment they were at Jimin’s waist, pulling him close; the next, one was sliding up his side, fingers pressing into warm skin through thin fabric, the touch firm enough to make Jimin’s stomach turn over.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk muttered against his mouth—barely a sound, more breath than word.

Jimin’s pulse jumped. “Don’t—”

Jeongguk kissed him again, cutting him off, like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been holding it back for too long.

Somebody shoved past them hard enough that Jimin’s shoulder bumped the wall. The noise of the party crashed back in for a second—laughter, music, someone yelling shot!—and reality tilted.

Jimin pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead still close. “We can’t do this here.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flicked past him to the room, like he’d forgotten there were other people in it. His mouth was still parted, lips red, a little dazed.

“…yeah,” Jeongguk breathed, like agreement hurt. “Yeah. Okay.”

Jimin expected him to let go.

He didn’t.

Jeongguk’s hand slid down, fingers threading through Jimin’s, and he tugged—gentle, insistent.

“Come with me,” Jeongguk said.

“Where?” Jimin asked, even though his body was already moving.

Jeongguk’s smile twitched, small and wrecked. “Upstairs. Just—somewhere.”

Jimin’s throat tightened around a laugh. “You don’t even know whose house this is.”

“I don’t care,” Jeongguk said, and there was something almost fierce in it. Then, softer, like he was confessing: “I just… don’t want to stop.”

Jimin’s fingers tightened around his. “Then don’t.”

Jeongguk’s eyes snapped back to his, and for a second Jimin thought he’d made a mistake—said too much, given too much.

But Jeongguk just swallowed hard, and then he pulled Jimin through the crowd.

Slipping between bodies, Jeongguk’s hand still locked with his like he was afraid if he let go, the whole night would disappear. Jimin tried to keep his face neutral, tried to pretend his mouth wasn’t still tingling, tried to ignore the way his skin felt too tight under his clothes.

Someone called Jeongguk’s name—loud, teasing.

Jeongguk didn’t even look back.

The staircase was cramped and dim, the railing sticky under Jimin’s palm when he grabbed it for balance. Jeongguk took the steps two at a time like he was rushing. Jimin followed, breath quick, heart beating too hard for a kiss that should’ve been simple.

At the top, the music softened into a muffled thump. The hallway was darker.

Jeongguk hesitated for the first time, hand still on Jimin’s. His chest rose and fell, fast.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

The question landed heavy.

Jimin looked at him—really looked. Jeongguk’s hair was messy, eyes bright and a little wild, but the carefulness was back in his voice. Like he was trying to make sure this wasn’t just heat and alcohol and momentum.

Jimin’s chest ached with something that felt terrifyingly fond.

“Yeah,” Jimin said, quiet. “It’s okay.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath for an hour. “Okay.”

He opened the nearest door.

The room was someone’s bedroom—messy in the harmless way of a party house. A pile of clothes on a chair. Posters on the wall. A bedside lamp that cast a warm pool of yellow light across the sheets. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and somebody else’s cologne.

Jeongguk shut the door behind them.

The click was small.

It sounded enormous anyway.

For a second, they just stood there. Jimin’s back to the door, Jeongguk in front of him, both of them breathing like they’d just run.

Jeongguk’s eyes dropped to Jimin’s mouth again.

Jimin’s heartbeat tripped.

“Stop doing that,” Jimin whispered.

Jeongguk’s gaze flicked up, guilty and unapologetic at once. “I can’t.”

“Then—” Jimin’s voice broke on the edge of a laugh. He pulled Jeongguk in by the front of his hoodie. “Don’t.”

Jeongguk kissed him like he’d been given permission to finally stop being gentle.

Jimin’s spine pressed to the door as Jeongguk crowded him close, heat and breath and hands. Jeongguk’s mouth moved slow for half a second—like he was savoring it—and then deeper, hungrier, like he was trying to swallow the sound Jimin made when their tongues met.

Jimin’s hands slid up Jeongguk’s shoulders, fingers tightening, needing something solid. Needing him. The hoodie fabric bunched under Jimin’s fists.

Jeongguk’s hand found Jimin’s waist again, firm, and then slipped behind him, pulling him flush. The contact made Jimin’s breath stutter.

“…you’re shaking,” Jeongguk murmured against his mouth.

“I’m not,” Jimin lied.

Jeongguk huffed a laugh and kissed him again, softer this time, and the softness was worse. It felt like being seen.

Jimin tipped his head back, letting Jeongguk chase his mouth, letting Jeongguk kiss along the corner of his lips, the line of his jaw, the spot under his ear that made his whole body react like it remembered.

“Jeongguk—” Jimin said, a warning that didn’t have any teeth.

Jeongguk’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Tell me to stop.”

Jimin’s fingers curled into Jeongguk’s hair and tugged him back to his mouth. “No.”

The kiss that followed was all heat.

Jeongguk’s hands slid up Jimin’s sides, thumbs pressing, almost hesitant at the edge of his ribs like he was waiting for another yes.

Jimin gave it without words—arching into the touch, pulling him closer, kissing him harder.

Jeongguk made a low sound that went straight through Jimin’s stomach.

They ended up moving without thinking, stumbling a step, and then another, until the backs of Jimin’s knees hit the bed.

Jimin broke the kiss just long enough to inhale.

Jeongguk hovered over him, eyes blown wide again, hands braced on either side of Jimin like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to follow.

Jimin stared up at him, chest heaving, mouth still warm.

“Come here,” Jimin whispered.

Jeongguk’s breath hitched.

And then he did.

The mattress dipped under Jeongguk’s weight. He hovered for one last second like like the wrong movement could wake him up.

Jimin reached up, fingers catching the edge of Jeongguk’s hoodie and tugging him down until their mouths met again.

Jeongguk kissed him like he’d been holding himself back with both hands and finally let go.

Jimin felt it everywhere—heat flooding his chest, the dizzy, too-full pull in his stomach, the way Jeongguk’s hands shook just slightly when they slid to Jimin’s hips.

“Tell me if—” Jeongguk started, breath broken against Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin bit back a laugh, not because it was funny, but because it was so Jeongguk it hurt. “Stop asking,” he whispered.

Jeongguk’s forehead pressed to his for a second. “I just—”

“I know.” Jimin’s voice came out softer. He threaded his fingers into Jeongguk’s hair, tugged just enough to make Jeongguk’s breath catch. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in Jeongguk’s face tightened like he’d been bracing for the opposite.

Then he kissed Jimin again—slower, deeper, like he was trying to make the words true.

Jimin shifted on the bed, pulling Jeongguk closer by the back of his neck until Jeongguk was pressed between Jimin’s thighs, their bodies lined up in a way that made Jimin’s whole brain go stupid with awareness.

A muffled shout from downstairs bled through the floorboards. Laughter. The bass line, dull and distant.

It reminded Jimin that this wasn’t his room. That there were people right below them who had no idea what was happening up here.

Jeongguk’s mouth moved to the corner of Jimin’s jaw, then down his throat, kissing like he was mapping something he’d wanted to touch for a long time.

Jimin’s hands tightened in his hair.

“Jeongguk,” he breathed, voice thin.

Jeongguk hummed against his skin, the sound vibrating straight into Jimin’s pulse. “Yeah?”

Jimin tried to find words that didn’t sound like a confession. He failed. “I can’t believe you—”

“Me?” Jeongguk pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark, mouth red. “You told me to kiss you.”

“I know,” Jimin said, and his laugh came out wrecked. “I did.”

Jeongguk’s gaze dropped again—mouth, throat, the way Jimin’s chest rose too fast—and then flicked back up like he was checking for permission. Always checking.

Jimin swallowed, palm warm on Jeongguk’s cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking for the exit.”

Jeongguk blinked.

Jimin didn’t give him time to hide behind a joke. “I’m right here,” he said again, firmer. “I said yes.”

Jeongguk’s throat bobbed.

For a second, his expression went almost raw, like the carefulness finally ran out and there was something underneath it that had been waiting.

“Okay,” Jeongguk whispered.

And then he kissed Jimin like he believed him.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t clumsy.

It was intent.

Jeongguk’s hands slid under the hem of Jimin’s shirt, warm palms against heated skin, and Jimin gasped—quiet, involuntary. Jeongguk froze immediately, eyes snapping up.

“What?” Jeongguk asked, breathless.

Jimin shook his head quickly, cheeks hot. “Nothing. Just—your hands are cold.”

Jeongguk’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and couldn’t quite manage it. “Liar.”

Jimin’s ears burned.

Jeongguk leaned down again, kissing him softer this time, like an apology he didn’t think Jimin needed. His hands stayed under Jimin’s shirt anyway, thumbs tracing small, careful arcs along his ribs.

Jimin’s body reacted like it had been waiting for that touch for a long time.

He hooked his leg around Jeongguk’s waist, pulling him closer without thinking.

Jeongguk sucked in a sharp breath, forehead dropping to Jimin’s shoulder. “Jimin,” he said, like the name meant stop and please and don’t make me regret this all at once.

Jimin’s heart lurched.

He cupped the back of Jeongguk’s neck and forced him to look up. “Hey.”

Jeongguk’s eyes met his, bright and unsteady.

Jimin lowered his voice. “Is this what you’ve been doing all night?”

Jeongguk didn’t pretend not to understand. “Maybe.”

“Watching me like I’m going to disappear?”

Jeongguk’s jaw worked like he was swallowing something. “I didn’t want to—”

“Scare me?” Jimin guessed.

Jeongguk let out a thin, miserable laugh. “Yeah.”

Jimin stared at him, chest tight, because it wasn’t a joke. Because Jeongguk looked like he’d been carrying that fear around for a while.

Jimin ran his thumb across Jeongguk’s cheekbone. “You’re not scaring me,” he said quietly. “You’re just… you.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flickered shut for a second, like the words hit somewhere tender.

When he opened them again, he looked almost stubborn. “I’ve wanted to kiss you,” Jeongguk said, voice rough, “for a long time.”

Jimin’s breath stopped.

The confession hung between them, heavy and real.

Jimin should’ve panicked.

Instead, something inside him softened—like the shape of the truth finally matched the feeling he’d been trying not to name.

“…yeah,” Jimin whispered, barely audible. “Me too.”

Jeongguk’s eyes widened, and for a second he looked like he didn’t know what to do with happiness.

Then he kissed Jimin again.

Jimin’s fingers fisted in Jeongguk’s hoodie, pulling him closer until there was nowhere for either of them to hide.

Outside the door, the house creaked. Someone ran down the hallway, laughter fading fast.

Jeongguk froze.

Jimin held his breath too, listening.

Footsteps passed by, distant and careless, and then the hallway quieted again.

Jeongguk let out a shaky exhale, forehead dropping to Jimin’s. “We should lock it,” he murmured.

Jimin’s laugh came out breathless. “You’re the one who dragged me up here.”

“I know,” Jeongguk said, sounding almost helpless. “I’m still trying to be responsible.”

Jimin’s chest ached with fondness. He reached behind him, fingers finding the small lock on the doorknob, and turned it.

The click was quiet.

It sounded like a decision.

Jeongguk’s gaze snapped to him.

Jimin held it. “There,” he said. “Responsible.”

Jeongguk stared for a beat, then smiled—small and stunned, like he couldn’t believe Jimin had just done that.

And then Jeongguk kissed him again, hands cradling Jimin’s face like he was something precious he didn’t trust himself to hold.

Jimin kissed him back, slower now, letting himself feel it.

Letting himself admit it.

Friends.

Maybe that’s what they’d been.

But right now—locked in a stranger’s bedroom with Jeongguk’s mouth on his and Jeongguk’s hands trembling against his skin—Jimin wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to the version of them that pretended this wasn’t true.

Jeongguk shifted his weight like he was trying to find somewhere to put all the nerves. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at once—on Jimin’s face, at his waist, then hovering like he didn’t trust himself.

Jimin watched him for a second, suddenly struck by how careful he still looked, even now, even with the door locked and Jimin literally pulling him closer.

“Hey,” Jimin said again.

Jeongguk’s eyes snapped up immediately. “What?”

“Come here,” Jimin repeated, slower this time, like it was a promise instead of a dare.

Jeongguk swallowed. The movement in his throat was too obvious.

He leaned down, but he didn’t kiss Jimin right away. He just pressed his forehead to Jimin’s and breathed.

Jimin could feel the tremor in him.

“You’re shaking,” Jimin murmured.

“I’m not,” Jeongguk lied, and it would’ve been funny if it didn’t make Jimin’s chest ache.

Jimin slid his hands up Jeongguk’s sides, under the fabric of his hoodie, fingers splaying against warm skin. Jeongguk inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

“There,” Jimin said, voice low. “Now you are.”

Jeongguk’s laugh broke, small and breathless, and he kissed Jimin like he couldn’t help it.

The kiss turned hungry again, but it stayed controlled—Jeongguk’s mouth moving like he was trying to keep it gentle, like he was trying to prove something to himself.

Jimin tugged at the hem of Jeongguk’s hoodie, frustrated. “Take this off,” he said.

Jeongguk froze.

Jimin felt it immediately—the way Jeongguk’s body went still, like his brain had slammed into a wall.

Jimin’s heart tripped. “Hey—”

“No,” Jeongguk said too fast, then his eyes widened like he’d said the wrong thing. “No, I mean—yes. I just—”

Jimin stared at him, the room suddenly too quiet in the spaces between the bass downstairs.

Jeongguk’s hands curled into the bedsheet on either side of Jimin’s hips. He looked almost embarrassed, like being honest was worse than being brave.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Jeongguk admitted, voice rough. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and—”

“Regret it?” Jimin finished, softer.

Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

Jimin exhaled, slow.

He reached up and cupped Jeongguk’s face, forcing him to stay still, forcing him to look.

“I’m drunk,” Jimin said, and Jeongguk’s expression tightened like he was bracing.

Jimin didn’t let him run with it.

“I’m not that drunk,” Jimin added. “And I’m not confused. And I’m not—” he swallowed, because the word mattered, because saying it out loud felt like stepping into something real, “—I’m not going to regret kissing you.”

Jeongguk’s eyes went glossy, quick.

“Jimin,” he whispered.

Jimin’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “You can still stop,” Jimin said, voice steady. “If you want to. I won’t be mad.”

Jeongguk stared at him like the option didn’t exist in his universe.

Then Jeongguk shook his head, small and fierce. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Okay,” Jimin breathed.

Jeongguk’s hands moved, finally sure. He grabbed the hem of his hoodie and yanked it over his head in one impatient motion, hair sticking up messily afterward.

Jimin blinked, half stunned.

Jeongguk huffed a laugh, cheeks flushed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched. “Like what?”

“Like you’re going to—” Jeongguk cut himself off, like the rest was too honest to say.

Jimin tugged him back down by the shoulder. “Like I want you?”

Jeongguk’s breath hitched.

Jimin kissed him before he could overthink it.

Jeongguk kissed him back hard, the carefulness turning into something edged—still controlled, still asking, but with a tension that made Jimin’s skin feel too small.

Jeongguk’s hands slid to the buttons of Jimin’s shirt.

He paused.

Looked up.

Always checking.

Jimin rolled his eyes, but his voice stayed gentle. “Yes,” he said.

Jeongguk’s shoulders loosened like the word unclenched him.

He unbuttoned Jimin’s shirt with clumsy fingers, impatience making him fumble. Jimin helped, laughing once under his breath, tugging the fabric open and shoving it off his shoulders.

Jeongguk stared.

It wasn’t a hungry stare.

It was worse.

It was like Jeongguk was trying to memorize him.

Jimin’s throat tightened. “Stop,” he whispered, because he couldn’t take that kind of looking.

Jeongguk blinked, startled. “What? Did I—”

“No,” Jimin said quickly, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “Not that. Just—don’t look at me like I’m made of glass.”

Jeongguk’s eyes softened in a way that made Jimin want to crawl out of his own skin.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk whispered.

“Don’t be.”

Jimin kissed him again, slow.

Jeongguk’s hands slid over Jimin’s bare skin—warm, gentle, then firmer when Jimin arched into it. Jimin made a sound he didn’t recognize, and Jeongguk froze again, staring like he couldn’t decide if he was allowed.

Jimin grabbed Jeongguk’s wrist and pressed his hand back to his waist.

“Don’t stop,” Jimin said, voice low.

Jeongguk’s eyes went dark.

He didn’t stop.

They moved together in small, messy shifts—Jeongguk kissing down Jimin’s throat again, Jimin dragging him back up when it got too much, both of them laughing in tiny, breathless bursts like they couldn’t believe their bodies were doing this.

A sharp thump hit the wall outside the room.

Both of them went still.

Jeongguk’s eyes widened.

Jimin held his breath.

A voice in the hallway—muffled, distant—laughed and said something unintelligible. Another voice answered. Footsteps lingered.

Jeongguk’s hand tightened on Jimin’s hip like he was anchoring himself.

The footsteps moved on.

The house exhaled.

Jeongguk let out a breath that shook. “We’re going to get caught.”

Jimin’s laugh came out strained. “Then stop kissing me.”

Jeongguk stared at him, offended. “No.”

Jimin’s chest filled with something bright and reckless.

He tugged Jeongguk down again. “Then shut up,” he whispered.

Jeongguk’s mouth crashed into his.

Jimin clutched at Jeongguk’s shoulders, pulled him closer, and for a few minutes the only thing that existed was the bed and the locked door and the soft, ruined sounds they couldn’t swallow fast enough.

Eventually, Jeongguk slowed.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he was looking at Jimin again.

Jimin’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Jeongguk swallowed. “Are we… okay?”

Jimin stared at him, breathing hard, shirt open, skin flushed, mouth sore from kissing.

He should’ve made a joke.

Instead, he reached up and slid his fingers into Jeongguk’s hair, steadying him.

“Yeah,” Jimin said. “We’re okay.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flickered, fragile.

Jimin added, quieter, because Jeongguk always needed the extra line: “I want this.”

Jeongguk’s whole face changed, like relief hit him all at once.

He kissed Jimin’s forehead—quick, almost reverent.

Then he met Jimin’s mouth again, slower now, softer, like he was finally letting himself have it.

And for the first time all night, Jimin felt Jeongguk stop bracing for the fall.

He felt Jeongguk stay.

It should’ve made everything easier.

Instead, it made the silence between kisses feel louder.

Jeongguk’s hand slid to the side of Jimin’s neck, thumb resting over his pulse like he could feel how fast it was going. Jimin could feel Jeongguk’s pulse too—through his wrist, through his jaw, through the way his whole body seemed wound tight even when he was trying to be gentle.

Jimin dragged in a breath and pulled back just enough to see him.

Jeongguk blinked, like he’d forgotten for a second that Jimin could look at him too.

“What?” Jeongguk asked again. The question came out automatic.

Jimin huffed a laugh, soft and tired around the edges. “You’re really not going to stop asking.”

Jeongguk’s mouth twitched. “I can if you want.”

“Don’t,” Jimin said quickly, and watched the relief flash across Jeongguk’s face before Jeongguk could hide it. Jimin’s chest tightened. “Just… let me talk.”

Jeongguk went still. “Okay.”

Jimin stared at him for a second, because Jeongguk looked like he was waiting to be told he’d done something wrong.

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Jimin muttered, mostly under his breath.

Jeongguk’s eyebrows knit. “Me?”

Jimin nodded once, then leaned forward and kissed him—quick, sure, like punctuation.

Jeongguk softened immediately, hands sliding back to Jimin’s waist as if the kiss had turned him back on.

Jimin pulled away again, forehead staying close. “You keep acting like I’m going to disappear,” he said quietly.

Jeongguk’s breath stuttered.

Jimin didn’t let him dodge. “Have I ever disappeared?”

Jeongguk’s eyes flicked away for half a second.

That was answer enough.

Jimin swallowed, throat tight, because the truth behind it wasn’t about tonight. It never was.

Jeongguk’s voice came out low. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it,” Jimin said.

Jeongguk’s jaw worked. His hands tightened on Jimin’s waist like he needed something solid.

“I always—” Jeongguk started, then stopped, like he hated how vulnerable it sounded.

Jimin waited.

Jeongguk exhaled hard. “I always think you’re going to realize I’m… too much.”

Jimin blinked.

Jeongguk’s laugh came out sharp, unhappy. “Like—like you’re going to look at me one day and go, why the fuck did I let him do that?”

Something hot flashed behind Jimin’s ribs.

“You mean,” Jimin said, voice going flat, “why did I let my best friend take care of me at parties? Why did I let you stand too close? Why did I let you—”

“Don’t,” Jeongguk muttered.

“No,” Jimin said, sharper. He grabbed Jeongguk’s face with both hands, forcing him to look. “Yes. This. Because you keep doing it like it’s a crime.”

Jeongguk’s eyes widened.

Jimin could feel his own hands trembling now. He hated it.

“You’ve been acting like you’re guilty,” Jimin said, quieter. “Like you’re stealing something from me.”

Jeongguk swallowed. “I am.”

Jimin stared at him.

Jeongguk’s voice cracked around the edges. “Time. Space. You. I—”

Jimin kissed him.

It was a bad habit now. A reflex.

But the kiss wasn’t soft.

It was frustrated.

Jeongguk made a small sound and kissed him back immediately, hands gripping Jimin tighter like he’d been starving again.

When Jimin pulled back, his mouth was sore and his chest hurt.

“Stop talking like that,” Jimin said.

Jeongguk’s eyes were blown wide. “Like what?”

“Like you’re taking,” Jimin said. “You’re not taking. You’re asking. You’ve been asking all night.”

Jeongguk’s throat bobbed.

Jimin exhaled, forced himself to slow down. “And I keep saying yes.”

Jeongguk stared at him like the words were in a language he didn’t trust.

Jimin’s thumb brushed his cheek. “I’m right here,” Jimin repeated, gentler this time. “I’m still here.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flickered, almost wet. “Yeah.”

Jimin’s chest tightened at the way Jeongguk said it, like it was something he’d been hoping for.

He didn’t know how to fix whatever had made Jeongguk like this.

He only knew how to be here.

So Jimin kissed him again, slower this time, and Jeongguk let him.

Jeongguk’s hands slid up Jimin’s back, palms broad and warm, pulling him closer until Jimin could feel the beat of his heart through skin.

Jeongguk’s mouth moved to Jimin’s jaw again, then down his throat, and Jimin’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk murmured, lips against his skin.

Jimin’s fingers curled into Jeongguk’s hair. “If you’re going to keep checking,” Jimin whispered, “then check one thing.”

Jeongguk paused, breath hot. “What?”

Jimin swallowed. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Jeongguk went still.

Jimin forced himself to keep eye contact when Jeongguk lifted his head. “Ask me tomorrow,” Jimin repeated, voice steady. “When we’re sober.”

Jeongguk’s eyes searched his like he was looking for the trick.

“And if I say yes tomorrow,” Jimin continued, “will you stop acting like I’m going to run?”

Jeongguk’s throat worked.

Then he nodded once, small and shaky. “Okay.”

Jimin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Jeongguk’s forehead pressed to his. “But what if you don’t?”

Jimin’s heart twisted.

He didn’t want to lie.

So he didn’t.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Jimin said quietly. “Like we always do.”

Jeongguk’s eyes squeezed shut for a second, like the answer hurt and soothed at the same time.

Then he kissed Jimin again, slow and deep, like he was trying to imprint the promise into Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin let him.

Let himself melt into it.

Let the party downstairs become just a distant thump and the hallway outside become nothing at all.

Jeongguk shifted them without thinking—guiding Jimin further onto the bed, pressing him into the sheets like he wanted to be close enough to make sure Jimin couldn’t vanish.

Jimin laughed under his breath and tugged him down.

“Still here,” Jimin whispered.

Jeongguk’s mouth curved against his. “Good.”

And then the doorknob rattled.

Hard.

Both of them froze.

Jeongguk’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

Jimin’s heart lurched so violently it actually hurt.

The knob jiggled again.

A muffled voice slurred through the door. “Yo—who’s in there?”

Jeongguk’s breath went silent.

Jimin stared at the door like it might explode.

“Occupied,” Jimin said, voice coming out too loud.

Jeongguk made a strangled sound, half laugh, half panic.

The voice outside scoffed. “Aw, come on. I gotta pee.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flew to Jimin, pure horror.

Jimin’s mouth twitched. “Wrong room,” Jimin called.

There was a pause.

Then someone outside muttered, “Fuckin’ locked,” and kicked the door lightly.

Jeongguk flinched.

Jimin’s hands tightened on Jeongguk’s shoulders. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” Jeongguk whispered back, like that was impossible.

The doorknob rattled one more time, then stopped.

Footsteps shuffled away down the hall.

The house thumped on.

For a second, neither of them breathed.

Then Jeongguk dropped his forehead to Jimin’s shoulder and let out a laugh that sounded more like he was going to die.

“Oh my god,” Jeongguk breathed.

Jimin’s laugh came out shaky, too. “You wanted privacy.”

“I wanted—” Jeongguk lifted his head, eyes wild. “I wanted you. Not… that.”

Jimin stared at him, and the urge to laugh turned into something warm and stupid in his chest.

“Yeah,” Jimin said, quiet. “Me too.”

Jeongguk looked at him like he was trying to decide if they were allowed to keep going.

Jimin reached up, cupped his cheek, and kissed him.

It was slower now.

Careful again.

But the carefulness didn’t feel like fear this time.

It felt like choice.

Jeongguk stayed over him, breathing hard, like he didn’t trust his body not to do something reckless if he moved too fast.

Jimin’s fingers slid into Jeongguk’s hair and tightened—just enough to make Jeongguk’s eyes flick up.

“Still here,” Jimin whispered.

Jeongguk’s mouth softened around the edges. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

He leaned down and kissed him again.

It wasn’t sweet this time.

It was slow and hot and deliberate—the kind of kiss that made Jimin forget how to keep his hands still. Jimin pulled him closer by the back of his neck, and Jeongguk made a quiet sound into his mouth like the contact hurt in the best way.

Jeongguk’s hands traced down Jimin’s sides, thumbs pressing into warm skin, mapping him like Jeongguk needed to learn the shape of yes. Every time Jeongguk’s fingers hesitated, Jimin shifted into them on purpose.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed, voice breaking a little.

Jeongguk’s mouth left his and moved to his throat again—kissing, lingering, the drag of lips that made Jimin’s whole body pull tight.

Jimin’s head tipped back. The bed creaked softly under them.

Jeongguk paused, breath hot against Jimin’s skin. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered.

Jimin swallowed, throat tight. “You,” he said, too honest to be brave. Then, rougher: “More.”

Jeongguk’s breath caught.

He lifted his head just enough to look at Jimin’s face. His eyes were dark, focused—no teasing left, no escape route.

“Okay,” Jeongguk said, like it was a vow.

He kissed Jimin again, deeper, and Jimin kissed him back like he’d been waiting for someone to stop pretending.

Jeongguk shifted his weight, careful not to crush him, but the closeness turned heavier—hips, thighs, heat. Jimin gasped into Jeongguk’s mouth, and Jeongguk froze on instinct.

Jimin rolled his eyes, breathless and shaking. He grabbed Jeongguk’s wrist and guided his hand back—firm, impatient.

“Don’t,” Jimin whispered. “Don’t stop every time I make a noise.”

Jeongguk stared at him for a beat, jaw tight like he was trying to hold onto control with his teeth.

Then he exhaled.

And he didn’t stop.

Jeongguk’s touch turned surer—still careful, still asking, but with a hunger that made Jimin’s skin feel too bright. Jeongguk kissed him like he was trying to swallow every sound Jimin couldn’t help making.

Jimin’s hands wandered—down Jeongguk’s back, along his ribs, over the curve of muscle and heat, fingers digging in when it got too much.

Jeongguk shuddered.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk breathed, the word soft and wrecked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Jimin’s laugh came out ruined. “Yeah,” he whispered, and it sounded like agreement.

Jeongguk kissed him again, then again, like he couldn’t decide where to put all the want. His mouth dragged along Jimin’s jaw, his throat, back to his lips—every touch a question Jimin kept answering with his hands.

Jeongguk’s forehead dropped to Jimin’s for a second, both of them breathing like they’d been running.

“Tomorrow,” Jeongguk whispered, the reminder threaded with need. “You’ll still—”

“I’ll still,” Jimin cut in, tugging him closer. “I told you. Ask me tomorrow.”

Jeongguk’s eyes flashed—relief first, then something sharper. “Okay,” he breathed.

He kissed Jimin like he couldn’t afford to waste another second.

Jimin’s hands tightened, pulled, demanded.

Jeongguk responded like he’d been waiting for permission to stop being polite about it.

The party downstairs kept pulsing, distant and irrelevant.

The locked door held.

Jeongguk’s mouth stayed on Jimin’s, and Jimin let himself stop thinking—let himself feel the rhythm of it, the heat of it, the way Jeongguk moved like he wanted to make sure Jimin remembered this in the morning.

Eventually, Jeongguk slowed only long enough to press his lips to Jimin’s temple.

“Still okay?” he whispered, one last time.

Jimin’s chest rose and fell too fast. His hands were still tangled in Jeongguk’s hair.

“Yeah,” Jimin said. “I’m more than okay.”

Jeongguk made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a breaking point.

Then he kissed Jimin again, and the rest of the night blurred into breath and warmth and the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.

And downstairs, the music kept playing like nothing in the world had changed.

Jeongguk’s hand slid down—slow, deliberate—to Jimin’s waist, and the touch wasn’t hesitant anymore. It was warm. Possessive in the quietest way. Like Jeongguk had finally decided to stop apologizing for wanting.

Jimin’s stomach flipped.

“Okay,” Jimin whispered, and the word came out like permission.

Jeongguk kissed him again.

It started soft—just mouths, just breath—but it didn’t stay that way. Jeongguk’s hands moved with more purpose now, pulling Jimin closer until there was no space left, until Jimin could feel the shape of every inhale.

Jimin made a sound into the kiss, low and helpless, and Jeongguk froze for half a second—then kept going, like he’d chosen not to be scared of it.

Jeongguk shifted them again, careful with the movement but not with the intent—guiding Jimin back against the sheets, leaning over him like he belonged there.

Jimin’s hands slid over Jeongguk’s shoulders, down his back, feeling skin, heat, the way Jeongguk shivered under his touch.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed.

Jeongguk’s mouth left his for a moment, pressing to his jaw, then to the side of his throat—kissing, lingering, like he was trying to tell Jimin something without words.

Jimin’s head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut.

Jeongguk’s voice was rough when he spoke. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Jimin laughed, breathless. “You’re doing it again.”

“I know.” Jeongguk’s laugh was a soft exhale against Jimin’s skin. “I can’t help it.”

Jimin opened his eyes and found Jeongguk looking at him—serious, steady.

Jimin swallowed. He reached up, grabbed Jeongguk’s wrist, and guided his hand where Jimin wanted it, pressing it against his crotch like he was rewriting the rules between them.

“Don’t stop,” Jimin said.

Jeongguk’s breath caught, sharp.

The look on his face was too much—like relief and want and disbelief all tangled together.

“Okay,” Jeongguk whispered.

He leaned down and kissed Jimin again, deeper this time, and Jimin kissed him backlike he’d been starving for someone to look at him like that.

Jeongguk’s hand moved—experimentally at first, then with more confidence—rubbing over the fabric of Jimin’s pants, slow, then faster, then slower again, like he was learning what made Jimin gasp.

Jimin’s hips moved with it, involuntary, needy.

“Yeah,” Jimin breathed.

Jeongguk’s other hand slid under Jimin’s shirt, warm and broad against his stomach, and Jimin arched into the touch like he’d been waiting for this for years.

Which he had.

Jeongguk’s mouth moved to Jimin’s ear, and his breath was hot when he spoke. “Tell me what feels good.”

Jimin’s face flushed hot. “Everything.”

Jeongguk laughed softly. “That’s not specific enough.”

“You’re—” Jimin gasped as Jeongguk’s thumb pressed exactly right— “You’re doing fine.”

Jeongguk’s smile was evident in the way he kissed Jimin’s neck again. “I can do better than fine.”

He adjusted his angle, and—oh.

Jimin’s whole body pulled tight, a jolt of pleasure that made his back arch.

“Fuck,” Jimin whispered, and the word was wrecked.

Jeongguk’s breath hitched. “Okay,” he said, like he’d just unlocked a door. “Okay.”

He kept that rhythm, steady and sure, until Jimin was panting against him, hands clutching at Jeongguk’s back, at the sheets, at anything to keep himself from floating away.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed, “please.”

“Please what?” Jeongguk whispered, the question teasing but gentle.

“Please more,” Jimin said again, and the word came out desperate.

Jeongguk’s movements stuttered.

He lifted his head just enough to look at Jimin—really look at him, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk said, like he finally understood. “Yeah, okay.”

He shifted back, and the sudden loss of touch made Jimin whine.

But Jeongguk’s hands went to Jimin’s waistband, and the look on his face was intent, focused—like this was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Jeongguk paused. “Okay?”

Jimin nodded, wordless.

Jeongguk’s hands were steady as he pulled Jimin’s pants down, slow enough to give Jimin every chance to change his mind.

Jimin didn’t.

He lifted his hips to help, and the movement was a surrender he hadn’t realized he was making until it was done.

The cool air hit Jimin’s skin, and he shivered. Jeongguk’s breath caught.

“Wow,” Jeongguk whispered, the word reverent.

Jimin flushed, cheeks hot. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying it to make you blush,” Jeongguk said, and he sounded so sincere it made Jimin’s chest ache. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Jimin didn’t know what to do with that. So he didn’t do anything.

He just lay there, exposed and vulnerable, and let Jeongguk look.

Jeongguk looked.

Then Jeongguk leaned down, and kissed him again, slow and deep, like he was trying to pour all the things he couldn’t say into the kiss.

Jimin kissed back, hands in Jeongguk’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, closer. Jeongguk’s body settled over Jimin’s, and the weight of him was grounding, real, perfect.

He could feel Jeongguk’s arousal, hard against his thigh, and the reality of it—the knowledge that he was the one making Jeongguk feel this way—sent a fresh wave of heat through him.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin whispered. “I want—”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk said, like he knew. “Me too.”

Jeongguk reached over, fumbled in the bedside drawer for a second, then came back with a bottle of lube and a foil packet. Jimin’s heart hammered against his ribs.

Jeongguk set them on the bed beside them, then paused, his gaze on Jimin’s face. “You sure?”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but the effect was ruined by the tremor in his hands. “If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to kick you out.”

Jeongguk laughed, a real, unguarded sound that made Jimin’s stomach flip.

“Okay,” Jeongguk said, and the word was a promise.

He leaned down and kissed Jimin’s chest, his stomach, his hips—kissing him like he was trying to memorize him.

Jimin’s breath hitched.

Jeongguk’s hands were warm and steady as he slicked his fingers.

The first touch was tentative, just a pressure against Jimin’s entrance, and Jimin’s whole body went tight.

“Relax,” Jeongguk whispered, his breath warm against Jimin’s skin. “I’ve got you.”

Jimin forced himself to breathe, to unclench, to trust.

He’d always trusted Jeongguk.

Slowly, carefully, Jeongguk pressed one finger inside.

Jimin gasped, the feeling a strange, not-quite-painful stretch.

Jeongguk paused. “Okay?”

Jimin nodded, unable to speak.

Jeongguk waited, giving Jimin a moment to adjust, then moved—slowly, carefully, a gentle in-and-out that made Jimin’s toes curl.

“Okay?” Jeongguk asked again.

“Yeah,” Jimin breathed. “Yeah, okay.”

Jeongguk added another finger, and the stretch was more intense this time, a burn that was quickly fading into something else, something deeper, more.

“Good?” Jeongguk whispered.

“Good,” Jimin confirmed, his voice ragged.

Jeongguk’s fingers scissored, stretching, preparing, and every movement sent a new wave of pleasure through Jimin, until he was panting, pushing back against Jeongguk’s hand, wanting more, needing more.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed, “please.”

“Please what?” Jeongguk asked, the question a gentle tease.

“More,” Jimin said, the word a desperate plea.

“Okay,” Jeongguk whispered.

He added a third finger, and the stretch was a sweet ache, a fullness that made Jimin’s head spin.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathed, the word a prayer.

Jeongguk’s fingers found that spot inside him, and Jimin saw stars.

“Fuck, Gguk, right there,” Jimin gasped, and Jeongguk’s breath hitched.

He hit that spot again, and again, until Jimin was a writhing mess, panting and pleading, lost in a haze of pleasure.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed, “I’m ready.”

Jeongguk’s movements stilled.

“Are you sure?”

Jimin let out a frustrated groan. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m so sure. If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Jeongguk laughed, a soft, breathy sound that was filled with relief.

“Okay,” he said, and he finally, finally reached for the foil packet.

The sound of the wrapper tearing was loud in the quiet room.

Jeongguk rolled the condom on, then slicked himself with lube, and Jimin watched, his breath held, his heart pounding.

Jeongguk settled over him, bracing himself on his elbows, and the look on his face was so raw, so open, it made Jimin’s chest ache.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk whispered, like it was a prayer.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin whined back, like he was answering.

Jeongguk lined himself up, and the pressure against Jimin’s entrance was making him go insane.

“Ready?”

Jimin nodded, wordless.

Jeongguk pushed inside, slowly, carefully, and the stretch was a burn, a sweet ache, a fullness that made Jimin’s head spin.

He paused, giving Jimin a moment to adjust, and Jimin breathed through it, focusing on the weight of Jeongguk’s body, the warmth of his skin, the look in his eyes.

“Okay?” Jeongguk whispered.

“Yeah-,” Jimin breathed. “More than okay.”

Jeongguk started to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually grew deeper, more confident, until he was buried inside Jimin to the hilt.

Jimin gasped, the sensation overwhelming, a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathed.

Jeongguk’s hips moved, a slow, steady rhythm that built a fire in Jimin’s blood.

“God, you feel so good,” Jeongguk groaned, the words a low rumble against Jimin’s skin.

“Yeah,” Jimin breathed, “you too.”

Jeongguk’s rhythm increased, a slow burn that built into a wildfire, and Jimin met him thrust for thrust, their bodies moving in a dance .

Jeongguk’s hand found Jimin’s cock, and the touch was electric, a jolt of pleasure that made Jimin’s whole body arch.

“Fuck, Jeongguk,” Jimin gasped, and Jeongguk’s breath hitched.

Jeongguk’s thumb swiped over the head of Jimin’s cock, smearing pre-come, and the pleasure was so intense, so sharp, it was almost too much.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin breathed, “I’m close.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk breathed, “me too.”

Jeongguk’s thrusts became erratic, desperate, and Jimin could feel the tension coiling in his gut, the pleasure building, building, building, until—

“Jeongguk,” Jimin cried out, his body arching, his cock spilling over Jeongguk’s hand, over his own stomach.

Jeongguk followed him over the edge a moment later, a strangled cry against Jimin’s skin, his hips shuddering as he came.

They lay there for a long moment, breathing, hearts pounding, bodies slick with sweat.

Then Jeongguk shifted, carefully pulling out, and the loss was a sudden emptiness that made Jimin ache.

He disposed of the condom and slid into the bed again, careful with the movement, and wrapped an arm around Jimin’s waist, pulling him in until Jimin’s back fit against his chest like it had always belonged there.

For a second, Jeongguk just held him—no questions, no checking, only a long exhale that made his whole body loosen.

Jimin let his eyes fall shut.

The party downstairs was still alive in that distant way—muffled bass, a burst of laughter, the faint thud of footsteps—but it felt like it belonged to another universe. Up here, everything was slow and warm and quiet.

Jeongguk’s voice came out against the back of Jimin’s neck, hoarse and a little stunned. “So.”

Jimin hummed. “So.”

Jeongguk shifted like he was trying to find a joke to stand on. “We… definitely can’t call you boring anymore.”

Jimin snorted, the sound coming out tired and fond. “You can’t call me boring because you dragged me to a party and then ruined my life?”

Jeongguk made a quiet, broken laugh. “I did not ruin your life.”

“Mhm.” Jimin tilted his head back just enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded. “You’re right. That was a team effort.”

Jeongguk stared for a beat, like the words short-circuited something in him. Then his face did that thing it always did when he couldn’t decide between shy and cocky—his mouth tugging up, but his eyes still too honest.

“A team effort,” Jeongguk repeated, like he was testing it.

Jimin’s smile softened. “Yeah.”

Jeongguk’s throat moved. The grin faded into something quieter. “Can I say something?”

Jimin blinked. “You’re literally always saying something.”

Jeongguk huffed a laugh, but his hands tightened just slightly at Jimin’s waist, like he needed to anchor himself. “Shut up. I mean—something real.”

The tone of it made Jimin’s chest pull tight in that warm, stupid way. He nodded once. “Okay. Say it.”

Jeongguk looked at him for a second too long, like he was choosing his words carefully even now.

“I’ve—” Jeongguk started, then stopped, then tried again, voice quieter. “I’ve liked you. For a long time.”

Jimin went still.

Not shocked. Not exactly. Just… caught in the moment where the truth finally gets spoken out loud and it changes everything.

Jeongguk’s eyes flicked away, embarrassed and determined at the same time. “Which sounds insane, because obviously I like you. You’re my best friend. But I mean—” He waved a hand like the gesture could fix it. “Like-you-like-you.”

Jimin stared at him.

Jeongguk winced. “Okay, I hate that I said it like that.”

A laugh punched out of Jimin before he could stop it—small and breathless and a little disbelieving. “Like-you-like-you?”

Jeongguk groaned softly and dropped his forehead to Jimin’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

Jimin was still laughing, but it softened on the edges. He turned in Jeongguk’s arms until they were facing each other, close enough that their knees brushed under the sheets and their noses almost did too.

Jeongguk looked up at him, eyes wide and bare in the dim light.

Jimin exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said.

Jeongguk blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jimin repeated, like he was making it easy on purpose. “I like-you-like-you too.”

Jeongguk’s face froze, like his brain stalled on the landing.

Then his smile broke open—bright and stunned, like he’d just been handed something he hadn’t let himself expect.

“Shut up,” Jeongguk whispered, but he was smiling so hard it ruined the words.

Jimin’s mouth twitched. “No.”

Jeongguk let out a laugh that sounded half like relief and half like disbelief. “We’re idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jimin said, and then he couldn’t hold it back—he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jeongguk’s mouth. Nothing hungry. Nothing urgent. Just… there.

When he pulled back, Jeongguk was still staring at him like he was trying to keep the picture.

Jimin brushed his thumb along Jeongguk’s cheek. “What?”

Jeongguk’s voice was quiet. “I keep thinking you’re going to tell me it was a mistake.”

Jimin’s smile faded into something gentler. He didn’t want to make it heavy. He didn’t want to turn it into a whole thing.

So he didn’t.

He just nudged his forehead against Jeongguk’s and said, “If it was a mistake, I’d be meaner right now.”

Jeongguk’s laugh came out wet around the edges. “That’s your reassurance?”

“It’s my charm,” Jimin corrected, deadpan.

Jeongguk stared at him for a second, then laughed again—real this time, a quiet shake of his shoulders. He tightened his arms around Jimin like he couldn’t help it.

“Okay,” Jeongguk murmured. “Okay, then. Tomorrow.”

Jimin nodded once. “Tomorrow.”

“And—” Jeongguk hesitated, then said it in a rush like he was afraid of the answer. “Can we still be us?”

Jimin’s chest warmed, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… upgraded.”

Jeongguk’s grin turned soft. “Upgraded.”

Jimin yawned, the exhaustion finally catching up now that the adrenaline was gone. He tucked himself back into Jeongguk’s arms like it was the most natural place in the world.

Jeongguk kissed the side of his head, careful and quiet.

Downstairs, someone whooped. The bassline thudded on.

Up here, Jeongguk’s voice drifted into the dark like a promise he was trying not to sound too happy about. “Hey, Jimin?”

“Mm?”

“I’m gonna take you on a real date.”

Jimin’s eyes stayed closed, but his smile didn’t. “You don’t even know how to plan things.”

Jeongguk pinched his side lightly. “I can learn.”

Jimin hummed, warm and sleepy. “Okay.”

Jeongguk went still for half a second, like the word mattered.

Then, softer: “Okay?”

Jimin shifted, turned his face into Jeongguk’s chest. “Okay,” he repeated, voice muffled. “Now shut up.”

Jeongguk laughed under his breath. “Yes, sir.”

Jimin’s hand found Jeongguk’s in the dark, their fingers tangling without thinking.

And this time, when the house creaked and the party roared on like nothing had changed, Jimin didn’t feel like laughing at the idea.

Because something had.

Because they had.