Archive of Our Own

Private Showing 
an exclusive, non-public viewing arranged for selected individuals, often implying intimacy, discretion, or special access.

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“Either you are going to fuck me harder, or we can stop right here,” Jimin said as he looked over his shoulder back at Jungkook while the alpha thrust into him with a steady pace.

“Are you serious right now,” Jungkook huffed and drove into the omega even harder, making sure to hit the spot he knew would make Jimin squirm. 

The omega let out a moan, sinking even further against the window, pressing both of his hands against the glass to steady himself against the relentless pounding. Jungkook had to admit that the omega was taking his length really well today, and had already been dripping with slick, when he had practically ripped his clothes off and pressed him against the window to finish what they had come here to do.

“Yes,” Jimin moaned and nodded approvingly, his hot breath fogging up the window where his mouth was pressed against it. Jungkook couldn’t help but find that unbelievably hot, wishing this position would allow him to claim the omega’s sweet, plump lips himself. What a day to be jealous of a window. 

“We don’t have much time today,” Jimin noted, while he was trying to look back at the alpha again. 

“Oh, is that so?” Jungkook snarled, while increasing his speed. “Maybe we should have chosen another time-slot then, huh? What use is this if I can’t take my sweet time with you?”

“Oh please. Get over yourself! You can also finish if we do it quickly.”

“That may be so, but I can only enjoy it half as much. I wanted to eat you out on that loveseat over there, sunshine.”

Jimin shuddered against him at the thought, looking a little regretful. “Mmh,” he moaned while he tried to push himself a little further away from the window, only to be pressed back into it with Jungkook’s next thrust.

“Maybe next time,” his voice hitched.

“In this penthouse?” Jungkook asked, as he increased his speed even more. 

He was going so fast and hard that Jimin couldn’t manage more than broken sounds in response. 

“Mmh. Eh. N– … no?” It was clear that Jimin was close, so the alpha slid his hands over the omega’s stomach, down his abdomen towards his length and gripped it, stroking up and down in languid movements. The omega’s cock was quite warm to the touch, already leaking with pre-cum.

“No? Why not sunshine? Tell me …” Jungkook had to admit that he was enjoying himself entirely too much. Normally, it was Jimin who seemed to have the upper hand in their conversations, always finding the words to disarm him completely. 

But in moments like these, when Jimin was under him, willing and pliant, Jungkook was the one holding the reins, making the omega move however he wanted, bending him over counters, and possibly every surface in the apartments and penthouses where they met up. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he whispered into the omega’s ear, after he still hadn’t answered. Jimin whimpered and moaned, his walls clenching deliciously around Jungkook’s cock. 

Jungkook was losing his mind with the way Jimin was coming undone. It made him really proud, his alpha preening and urging to do even better. It was always like this when he was with Jimin. He stopped stroking the omega’s length and started caressing the soft skin of his abdomen again, pressing down against it until he could feel himself moving in and out of the omega. 

Jimin’s whines grew louder and he squirmed, trying to get out from under Jungkook. It was almost embarrassing, how close Jungkook was, from that sound alone. With a grunt, the alpha remained in control and kept Jimin right where he wanted him.

Though, as he did not want the omega to give out under him completely, he slowed his pace a little and started to draw soft circles on the omega’s back, right over his gorgeous moon cycle tattoo. His alpha bristled, desperately wanting to sink his teeth into the delicate skin and finally make this omega his.

But that wasn’t in the cards. There were rules Jungkook had promised to adhere by, just to be able to even see this sight of the omega.

“The apartment is probably going to sell today … so–,” Jimin was finally able to catch his breath to formulate a proper answer. “The seller isn’t really interested in dragging this out with counters.”

“Then the first serious offer takes it,” Jungkook huffed, realising that Jimin talking business to him had made him even more aroused. 

The omega’s movements under him indicated that the omega was almost satiated, his little whines growing quicker and more high pitched. Music to Jungkook’s ears.

He leaned in closer, burying his nose against Jimin’s scent glands, breathing in the soft jasmine scent, his whole body prickling with recognition and want. Every time they did this, it was harder and harder to hold back, every cell, every atom in Jungkook’s body screaming at him to let his instincts take over and finally give way for his desires.

But deep down his rationality knew that that would be the end to this. Whatever it was. At least it was safer and surer than not being anything at all. 

So Jungkook pushed all of his instincts down as best as he could, and focused on his cock pulsing in the slick heaven that was Jimin’s ass, grounding himself in that feeling.

“Should we close this deal then?” 

“Yes please,” Jimin moaned and pressed his ass closer into the alpha. “I have to get back to the office in twenty, so make it quick please.”

“As you wish, sunshine.”

Jungkook was a little sad to finish this session so soon, but he also had another showing to get to and tonight would be an open house in SoHo. 

He quickened his pace steadily, thrusting deep into where he knew the omega’s sweet spot was, making him quiver, moan and beg and not long after, finish into his hand, while the alpha was also reaching his climax, finishing into the condom. He quickly pulled out before his knot had the chance to pop, which would make for quite an embarrassing situation—one they wouldn’t make it out of for at least thirty minutes. 

Jungkook stayed close for a moment longer than necessary, breath heavy against Jimin’s shoulder, the city stretching before them endlessly beyond the glass. The penthouse hummed around them, quiet again, as if it had already forgotten what had just happened. 

It was quite the nice place, also giving a hefty commission, so Jungkook was happy that Jimin would finally be able to close the deal on this. 

All the hard work had really paid off. 

Jimin rested his forehead against the window, eyes closed, catching his breath. When he finally straightened, he did so with practiced ease—composure settling back into place like a well-tailored jacket. 

Jungkook had always marveled at how easy it seemed for Jimin. To just switch back to professional mode and pretend like he hadn’t just moaned the alpha’s name, asking him to fill his pretty hole.

“Okay,” Jimin said softly, his cheeks still slightly flushed. “That’s all the time we get.”

Jungkook stifled a quiet laugh. “You say that like time is ever negotiable with you.”

Jimin glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curving. “Well, that’s because it isn’t. Time is money, and money is time. And my time—” He paused for a second, rebuttoning his shirt, “—is really precious.”

They moved apart reluctantly, the space between them widening in small, deliberate increments, as if neither of them quite trusted the moment not to pull them back together. Jungkook adjusted his clothes first, smoothing himself back into the role he wore so well—top agent, unflappable, already recalibrating for the rest of the day.

Jimin turned toward the kitchen instead. He washed his hands at the sink, cool water running a second longer than necessary, then reached into his bag for the small, unmarked spray bottle he kept there. 

Scent blocker. He misted the air like his life depended on it, then himself—neck, wrists, the inside of his collar—routine movements done without thought. Then he opened one of the windows and started to air out the space, trying to remove all the traces of their indiscretions.

“Need some?”He turned to the alpha, offering up the bottle.

“Yes please.” As much as Jungkook liked having the omega’s sweet jasmine scent on him, he also couldn’t show up to the office like this. Everyone would know what he had just been up to, and that wouldn’t do. 

He especially couldn’t risk their co-workers realizing he had done it with Jimin.

While everyone respected the omega—as he was damn well good at his job—there was also still a certain stigma surrounding full-time working omegas. And Jungkook knew that Jimin had worked too hard to let everything be ruined by a little bit of friendly, no-strings-attached, co-workers with benefits sex at their listings. 

Screw this, if Jungkook wanted to be ready in time, he needed to get his thoughts straight, concentrate, and not think about Jimin too much. Even if that was really hard to do, while the omega was bending down to tie his shoe laces, that plump, pretty, and pristine ass on full display.

Self-discipline, self-control, Jungkook thought.

By the time he caught his reflection in one of the mirrors that decorated the apartment walls, what looked back at him was calm and unassuming again. 

Everything about him was polished, presentable, and good looking—if he might say so himself. Nothing out of place. Nothing saying: I just fucked the omega of my desire against a penthouse window overlooking Manhattan. 

One look at his Hublot confirmed that he had about fifteen minutes left. Better hurry now, as traffic at this time of day could very well give him hell, if the deities were particularly displeased with him. But as he had just fucked the prettiest omega in this world so good, maybe they would watch over him with kinder eyes. 

“Text me if they come in strong,” Jungkook tried to sound calm and collected, shrugging into his suit jacket.

“I will,” Jimin replied, looking unbothered, while applying some lipgloss. Then, quieter, almost offhand, he added, “Have fun at your open house.”

Jungkook paused at the door, hand on the handle. He didn’t turn around right away, his heart thumping in his chest with barely contained disappointment.

“Are you not coming tonight?”

The question hung there between them—casual on the surface, weighted underneath. In his fantasies, Jungkook had already imagined the omega and him doing it against the bathroom stall—he had always been a sucker for the thrill of voyeurism—and then maybe taking him back to his home, rolling around in his sheets, and then not washing them for two weeks, to preserve the scent. 

Though the possibility of taking Jimin home was very slim to begin with. An alpha could dream though.

Jimin hesitated, just long enough to be honest without saying too much. “I’ve got paperwork. And Hoseok wants me in early tomorrow.”

Jungkook nodded once. He’d already expected that answer. “Right.”

The door closed softly behind him, the sound clean and final. 

It was always like this with the two of them. Secret meet-ups in their respective listings, fucking, a bit of small-talk, and then pretending like it never happened. That was how it was supposed to be.

It was like any other day.

Another showing. Another private showing.

Another day at Vanguard Realty.

But still, Jungkook couldn’t help himself imagine what it would be like. To have more of the omega. To give in to instincts. To desire. 

To break all the rules that they had so carefully established. 

And to finally get a look behind the facade that Park Jimin—one of the top listing agents of Vanguard Realty—had built to keep everyone out. 

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Surprisingly, it had been quite an uneventful start to the day for Park Jimin.

Like any morning, he had woken up at five am sharp and spent about ten minutes scrolling on his phone before finally scraping together enough motivation to get up. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and then spent fifteen minutes choosing his outfit for the day, because contrary to what some people believed, looking effortless required quite a bit of effort.

Afterwards, he quickly applied a little of his favorite shimmer eyeshadow—which was both elegant and subtle at the same time—a touch of berry lip gloss, and then left his apartment to grab coffee before making his way to the office.

The barista, who flirted with him every morning with the dedicated optimism of an alpha who believed persistence and coffee were a love language, had written his phone number on Jimin’s coffee cup.

Jimin was still deciding whether to text him or not.

Every time he tried to get to know someone, a certain alpha haunted the subconscious of his mind, smirking and taunting him. Telling him that he would never find dick better than his.

Which, unfortunately, was true.

Jeon Jungkook, second-best agent at Vanguard, unfortunately had the most perfectly shaped cock to ever grace this earth. Or, more specifically, to grace Jimin’s eyes and ass. It never failed to astonish him how easily the alpha seemed to reach all of Jimin’s sweet spots, as if his body had been designed with Jimin’s undoing in mind.

And Jimin had tried it with enough alphas to know that this was, in fact, not the case.

When he finally reached the office building and entered the elevator, he tried to force his mind back into work mode.

No more thinking about a certain alpha’s perfectly shaped dick.

The Vanguard Realty office occupied most of the thirty-second floor, wrapped in glass that looked out over Midtown like it was trying to keep all of their listings in check.

The bullpen was already half full when Jimin stepped inside. A bombardment of intermittently ringing phones, low voices, clicking keyboards, making him wish, briefly and passionately, that he could turn around and leave again.

The light was sharper this high up, reflected off polished surfaces of pale wood desks, brushed metal fixtures, and the glass walls of private offices. It was the luxury of a place that made its money quickly and expected everyone inside it to do the same.

Jimin paused just long enough to survey the room before moving toward his desk.

Someone was already there.

The chair opposite his was pulled back slightly, a jacket draped over it. Jungkook’s jacket—dark, tailored, familiar enough that Jimin recognized it without needing to look too closely. He had taken it off the alpha often enough to remember, vividly, how the fabric felt under his fingers.

The alpha himself was already walking toward Jimin’s desk, scrolling through something on his phone, posture loose in a way that suggested he owned the space.

Even if he did not.

Jimin set his coffee down beside a stack of papers and turned the cup just enough to hide the phone number, his attention fixed on gauging the situation.

“You’re early,” he murmured as a greeting.

Jungkook glanced up. His expression was neutral, but his scent—kept carefully in check with scent blockers, like always when he was in the office—warmed the air just a fraction.

“And you’re late.”

“It’s eight forty-three.”

“You’re usually here by thirty-five.”

Jimin tilted his head, trying to keep the smirk at bay. “Do you track my schedule now?”

“I track the listings I care about.”

Jungkook’s voice sounded low and controlled, almost commanding—a jarring contrast to the way he usually groaned Jimin’s name during sex.

Was something wrong?

Jungkook held up his phone. “Which brings me to this.”

Jimin sighed softly and opened his tablet, a suspicion already forming.

“If this is about Mercer—”

“It is about Mercer.” Jungkook turned the phone toward him. “You sent the seller update last night.”

Jimin blinked once. “Yes. Because I am the listing agent.”

“You recommended holding at nine-eight.”

“I did.”

“After eighteen days on market and no second showings.”

Jimin’s fingers stilled briefly on the tablet screen.

Ah.

So they were doing this now.

He hated how much Jungkook’s disapproval affected him. He tried to remain unaffected and composed. 

Like Aspen—his yoga and meditation instructor—always said: Do not let any alpha, no matter how balls-deep he has been inside of you, make you feel worthless or incompetent. They are the ones with the blood always draining to their dicks instead of their brains. You have the upper hand. You have the upper hand. You have the upper hand.

He could already feel himself calm down, his mind sharpening.

Oh, how right Aspen was.

Worth every penny.

“Correct,” Jimin said, focusing his attention back on the matter at hand. “I advised against a price improvement for now.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re pricing it out of the active buyer pool.”

Jimin scrolled through his notes. “It’s a corner unit with south-facing windows, deeded parking, private storage, and a renovated kitchen. The seller has low carrying costs and no urgency.”

“I know what it is,” Jungkook said. “I showed it to three buyers last month.”

That made Jimin pause.

This little—

He looked up, trying to keep his expression carefully neutral. “And?”

“And all three walked before a second showing because they thought nine-eight was inflated.”

“Then they weren’t right for it.”

“They were cash buyers,” Jungkook replied, frustration sharpening his voice. “Serious ones. No financing contingency. Flexible closing. Clean offers if the price made sense.”

“Serious buyers do not dictate my pricing strategy,” Jimin said evenly. “They respond to it.”

Jungkook leaned his hip against the desk, crossing his arms. The glass behind him caught the light, throwing sharp lines across the floor.

“They didn’t respond. They left.”

Jimin smiled, slow and deliberate. “Then perhaps your buyers were not as serious as you thought.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed.

The tension that snapped between them was immediate and familiar, sharp enough that Jimin felt it somewhere low in his stomach.

“Oh,” Taehyung said pleasantly, glancing between Jimin and Jungkook with open interest. “Is this about Mercer? I love that apartment.”

His chair scraped softly as he rolled into the conversation without even asking. He stopped just short of blocking the aisle, one leg hooked over the armrest.

Kim Taehyung was one of Vanguard’s senior agents, though the firm rarely used the word senior when they talked about him. They preferred terms like creative, magnetic, natural. As if the numbers he brought in were merely coincidence rather than a pattern. As if being an omega meant success had to come with an asterisk.

Jimin didn’t look at him. “You love every apartment. That doesn’t count.”

“That is absolutely not true,” Taehyung complained. “I hate apartments with bad lighting, bad flooring, and bad spiritual energy. Mercer, however, has drama. I respect that.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to Jungkook with slight accusation. “Anyway, why do you care so much? It’s not your exclusive.”

“It was my client,” Jungkook countered.

“Past tense,” Jimin added, without lifting his gaze.

Taehyung hummed as if he had looked right through the alpha. “Still stings, am I right?”

Across the aisle, Yoongi shifted in his chair, peeking out from behind his computer to join the conversation.

Min Yoongi had been at Vanguard long enough to know everything and everyone’s business while simultaneously remaining so unbothered that it always surprised Jimin when he deigned to add something to a conversation. As always, he occupied his corner of the bullpen like load-bearing infrastructure, his intelligence lethal.

“For what it’s worth,” Yoongi mused, voice even, “nine-eight isn’t insane. Ambitious, sure. But not insane.”

Jungkook shot him an accusatory look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m contextualizing,” Yoongi replied mildly, completely unaffected by the alpha’s wrath. “There’s a difference.”

Taehyung pointed at him, pleased. “See? Context.”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked to him for the briefest moment, softening so quickly that Jimin almost missed it.

Almost.

Taehyung smiled at him, bright and shameless, and Yoongi immediately looked back at his screen as if his spreadsheet had become really fascinating.

Jimin closed his tablet with a soft, final click. He was too tired to deal with their lot, and he had too much to do.

“I appreciate the buyer feedback,” he said, tone smooth enough to pass for politeness. “But Mercer is my listing. The seller hired me to protect their position, not hand every hesitant buyer leverage because three people with cash got scared of a number.”

Jungkook straightened.

Jimin wanted to strangle him.

Instead, he took a sip from his coffee. As the hot liquid from heaven warmed his mouth and throat, it seemed to infuse some calm back into him.

He could do this.

“You’re letting it sit,” Jungkook said.

“It has been eighteen days.”

“Eighteen days in this price band is not nothing.”

“It is also not a crisis.”

“It is if the showing traffic drops and the listing starts to look stale.”

Jimin looked up again. “Mercer is not stale.”

“No,” Jungkook said, voice lower now. “But buyers will start asking why no one else wanted it badly enough to write up a check.”

Jimin hated that he had a point.

He hated even more that Jungkook knew he had a point.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time Jungkook had interfered in Jimin’s listings—or in Jimin’s business in general—but he had to admit it was going quite far this time. It was unusual for Jungkook to lose his composure like this.

What was so different about Mercer?

The alpha’s chest was heaving slightly from how agitated he seemed to be. He was even biting his pretty lower lip, eyes darting over Jimin like he was trying to read something beneath the argument.

Enough was enough.

Jimin stood, moving a little closer to the alpha.

For a singular second, Jimin thought he sensed distressed pheromones beneath the blocker—the weight of them pressing against him like pleading hands. It was as if they were screaming at him to give, to let this go.

But Park Jimin would not be one of the best agents at Vanguard if he gave in that easily.

“You lost buyers because they wanted a discount dressed up as market feedback,” Jimin said, as calmly as possible. “I am not giving it to them.”

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he could feel his omega wanting to curl into a ball.

Deep breaths.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. Jimin could see the muscle there pop from the pressure. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Jimin maintained. “Because I ran the comps, reviewed the absorption rate, spoke to the seller, and calculated the carrying costs. I know the difference between genuine resistance and buyers trying to create leverage.”

“Market feedback matters.”

“So does seller motivation.”

“The seller’s motivation won’t matter if the market decides the price is wrong.”

“And your buyers’ feelings won’t matter if another buyer decides it’s right.”

Taehyung leaned back, folding his arms, clearly enjoying the cinematic experience playing out in front of him.

“This is getting tense,” he said. “I should start charging admission. Yoongi-hyung, could you prepare popcorn?”

Yoongi did not look up from his keyboard, though he did chuckle a little under his breath.

Jungkook ignored them, narrowing his eyes at Jimin. “You’re taking this too personally. Again.”

“Wrong,” Jimin said. “I’m taking it professionally.”

“You always say that when it’s personal.”

Jimin smiled, thin and precise. “And you always call it buyer feedback when you don’t like being told no. Dressing up your frustration and inability to see things differently as professionalism.”

That landed.

The alpha stared at him as if Jimin had struck him, using his knowledge against him like a knife.

For one awful second, Jimin regretted it.

Then Jungkook’s expression hardened.

He looked like he might push back, like the conversation might tip from sharp to outright dangerous. The tension was palpable. Jimin could feel it burning on his skin and in his throat.

Pheromones, maybe.

Or the hurt he could see in the alpha’s eyes.

He did not know which was worse.

Suddenly, the ambient noise of the office shifted as the glass door to the biggest office in Vanguard slid open.

Jung Hoseok stepped out with a tablet tucked under one arm and his favorite coffee order—a vanilla latte with cinnamon powder on top—in the other.

The one and only owner, managing broker, and very colorful heart attack risk of Vanguard Realty.

His presence immediately changed the whole mood in the office. People perked up to greet him with smiles and waves, even the ones who had been pretending not to watch Jimin and Jungkook verbally claw each other open beside the desks.

Hoseok’s honey-brown hair was slicked back, while his steel-gray suit was impeccable as always. The tangerine-colored tie added a pop of color, bright enough to be cheerful and dangerous enough to be deliberate.

Hoseok had told Jimin once that he could never go without a little bit of color in his outfits, no matter how boring or one-dimensional the suit was supposed to be. Where was the fun in clothes if you could not self-express?

Jimin agreed, even if he preferred his suits elegant and classic.

As Jimin observed Hoseok, he could see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the smile locked carefully into place.

It wasn’t that Hoseok was mean or uncaring. Quite the opposite. Jung Hoseok was warm, generous, occasionally ridiculous, and the kind of boss who remembered birthdays, coffee orders, and which agent needed to be told to go home before they collapsed on the office carpet.

But he was also strict.

Painfully so.

He was the broker of record. His license sat beneath every deal in this office, every contract, every private showing, every agency disclosure, every mistake someone thought they could hide in a calendar note instead of documenting properly. He trusted his people, but he trusted paper proof more. He loved his team, but love had never stopped him from asking for written confirmation by the end of the day.

Under that bright shell was someone who cared deeply.

Sometimes a little too much.

Someone who worked himself to the edge of his energy reserves, wanting to get everything right. No matter how tired he got or how hard something was, he always did his best, locking the smile onto his face as if it were the anchor holding his whole team together.

His eyes flicked once over Jimin.

Then Jungkook.

Then Taehyung’s badly concealed expression of delight.

Then Yoongi’s suspiciously aggressive typing.

Hoseok smiled wider.

“Oh good,” he said brightly. “Everyone looks alive, caffeinated, and lawsuit-adjacent. Conference room. Now.”

A few people laughed.

Hoseok lifted his coffee. “I brought pastries for everyone who wants some, and compliance reminders for everyone who thinks rules are a suggestion. Hope you guys are hungry.”

Loud cheers of thank-yous erupted, everyone scrambling to get to the conference room as quickly as possible, wanting to secure their favorite pastry before Taehyung could claim all the fruit tarts.

When everyone was finally seated, the meeting was brisk and tightly run. Hoseok could joke his way through a room, but once the tablet opened, his warmth sharpened into structure.

On today’s agenda: active listings, buyer pipelines, upcoming open houses, offer timelines, showing feedback reports, agency disclosures, seller communication, and broker compliance.

Wasting time meant losing money.

And no one wanted that.

“First,” Hoseok said, tapping his tablet, “if you are representing the seller, your seller updates need to include showing traffic, buyer feedback, comparable activity, and any recommendation you did or did not make regarding price adjustments. I don’t want vibes. I don’t want ‘the energy felt better this week.’”

Taehyung’s head lifted.

Hoseok pointed at him without looking. “Yes, I mean you.”

Taehyung sank back into his chair, offended but not surprised.

“Second,” Hoseok continued, “buyer reps, if your client walks because of price, I want that feedback logged in the system properly. Not whispered dramatically near someone’s desk like we are in a divorce proceeding.”

Jimin looked down at his notebook.

Jungkook shifted across the table.

Hoseok took a sip of his latte, eyes glittering.

“Third, private showings.”

Jimin’s pen slowed for half a second before he forced it forward again.

No matter how hard he tried, the word would never be casual ever again.

“All private showings need to be documented with time, client name, agent present, access method, and follow-up notes. If a seller asks for restricted access, we respect it. If an owner requires notice, we give it. If you use a lockbox, you log it. If you borrow keys, you return them.” Hoseok paused, smiling sweetly. “If I have to chase anyone for missing showing notes again, I will become the kind of broker people warn new agents about.”

A ripple of laughter moved around the table.

Jimin’s eyes shot up to where Jungkook sat across from him.

Their gazes met for the span of one blazing second.

Both of them remembering their unofficial private showings, which were so much more than that.

Jungkook’s expression remained neutral.

His eyes, in fact, did not. It was as if just the mention of the two magic words was enough to make the alpha want to eye-fuck Jimin out of this world.

He held the eye contact.

For far too long.

Long enough that it stopped being accidental and became its own form of communication. There was no smile on his face, no visible crack in the professional mask he wore so well, but Jimin could read him anyway. In the slight darkening of his gaze. In the way his attention dropped, just briefly, to Jimin’s mouth before returning to his eyes. In the almost imperceptible tension along his jaw, as if he were physically holding back every reckless thing he wanted to do.

It was obscene, really, how much Jungkook could say without moving at all.

I remember.

I want you.

I would do it again.

And beneath that, something quieter. Something far more dangerous than lust.

I want more.

They knew how unprofessional it was. It could get them fired for more than one reason: violating seller trust, failing to document private showings properly, bending the truth about why they needed access, and, of course, sleeping with a coworker on company time.

Jimin looked away first, trying not to remember Jungkook fucking him against a floor-to-ceiling window, or in the bathtub of a particularly nice penthouse—one of his listings, of course.

When the meeting ended, Hoseok offered a smaller smile, thanking everyone for their hard, consistent work and telling them he couldn’t have wished for a better team.

Moments like these were always precious where their boss was concerned.

Everyone in the room knew why.

Hoseok had lost his former team to his ex-co-owner at his last company, one of the deepest betrayals possible in this industry. On the surface, he had taken it well. At least, that was how it seemed. Almost immediately after it happened, he had begun again: assembling a new team, renting a brand-new office, building Vanguard as if nothing had broken inside of him.

He had once told Jimin that you should never despair or stand still for too long—that the world keeps moving, no matter how you respond.

So you might as well move with it and make the best of what’s left.

But in Jimin’s opinion, Hoseok had never truly dealt with the emotions of that loss. He had simply converted them into policies, spreadsheets, and trust issues with excellent branding.

Then again, who was Jimin to play therapist for his boss?

The omega kept his distance, just as he had always learned to do.

Chairs scraped back, and the bullpen gradually reclaimed its noise.

Jimin slung his bag over his shoulder, already a little late for a meeting with a new homeowner wanting help pricing his property before signing a listing agreement.

Jungkook waited until they were close enough that the conversation would not carry.

“Mercer,” he said quietly. “After your showing at three.”

Jimin hesitated only a beat. “Fine. But I am not recommending a price improvement just because your buyers got cold feet.”

Jungkook sighed. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

The defeat and acceptance on his face irritated Jimin more than the argument had.

They passed each other between the desks without touching, the space between them tight and deliberate. Jungkook’s sleeve brushed Jimin’s wrist for less than a second.

It still felt intentional.

Taehyung watched them go, expression unreadable now.

“That,” he commented softly, with a lot of mirth, “is not how two agents argue about a listing.”

Yoongi typed a little harder than necessary, the keys clicking sharp and uneven.

Taehyung’s eyes slid toward him, slow and amused.

“Jealous, hyung?”

Yoongi did not look up.

“Of whatever that was?” he asked dryly. “No.”

Taehyung smiled like he had heard the lie perfectly.

“Whatever you say.”

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

2 years earlier

Jimin arrived at Vanguard Realty fifteen minutes early on his first day and still felt late.

The office was already alive when he stepped off the elevator, phones ringing, printers breathing out contracts, voices low but constant under the sharper rhythm of heels and dress shoes crossing polished floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Midtown like a promise he wasn’t sure he had earned yet, the city spread out beneath the thirty-second floor in glass, steel, and money.

He paused just inside the bullpen, straightened his jacket, and reached discreetly into his bag.

Scent blocker. Light mist. Neck, both wrists, collar. Routine, already established.

One could never be prepared enough.

Being an omega in a space like this meant he had to arrive prepared, not just qualified. Jimin had learned that long before Vanguard. Credentials mattered. Presentation mattered even more. So did posture. So did tone. So did the exact softness of a smile, the degree to which confidence could be made palatable before someone decided it had become arrogance.

He kept his expression neutral, his shoulders squared, and followed the directions he had memorized twice over to Hoseok’s office, where he had had his job interview two months prior and the signing of the contract a week ago.

The owner of Vanguard greeted him with a wide smile and a firm handshake.

“Park Jimin,” he exclaimed, warm enough that it almost caught Jimin off guard. “Welcome to Vanguard. I’m really glad you’re joining us.”

Jung Hoseok was the kind of man who filled a room without making it smaller for anyone else. He was dressed immaculately, as always, in a charcoal suit with a sunflower-yellow tie that should have looked ridiculous in a luxury brokerage office and somehow did not. There was a vanilla latte on his desk, a stack of disclosure forms beside it.

“Coffee?” Hoseok asked, already gesturing to the cup on the side table. “Or are you one of those frightening people who function without it?”

Jimin blinked, then smiled despite himself. “Coffee would be wonderful, thank you.”

“Good. I trust you already.” Hoseok grinned, then tapped the tablet in front of him. “People who say no to coffee before a compliance meeting are either lying or dangerous.”

The meeting that followed was brief, but not careless. Hoseok moved quickly through policies, expectations, agency disclosures, client communication rules, and Vanguard’s documentation standards for private showings and off-market inquiries. He was warm, even funny in places, but the warmth never blurred the lines. When he spoke about contracts, fiduciary duties, and client trust, his voice sharpened into something that made Jimin sit a little straighter.

“We are friendly here,” Hoseok said, swiping to the next page. “We are not sloppy. Every showing gets logged. Every offer gets documented. Every verbal promise gets followed up in writing. If you think something is too small to put in an email, that usually means it belongs in an email.”

Jimin nodded. “Understood.”

“And because I know you’ll be working primarily on the listing side,” Hoseok continued, “I want you to be especially careful with seller expectations. Pricing strategy, staging recommendations, showing notes, feedback reports, price adjustments if needed. Sellers get emotional. Buyers get opportunistic. Agents get dramatic.” He paused. “Sometimes all three at once.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched.

Hoseok noticed and looked pleased. “Good. You have a sense of humor. You’ll need that.”

When they stepped back out into the bullpen, some people greeted him openly. Others threw curious glances in his direction, quick and assessing, nodding only when their eyes met.

It was obvious that they were sizing him up, evaluating if he was a potential friend or foe. Someone they could use, or someone they would have to watch.

Hoseok gestured toward an empty desk near the windows. “That’ll be yours. Listings team sits mostly on this side, buyer reps across from you. In theory, this encourages collaboration.” His smile sharpened. “In practice, it encourages arguments with commission potential.”

“I’ll try to keep my arguments profitable,” Jimin said before he could stop himself.

Hoseok laughed.

It was bright and genuine, and some of the tension in Jimin’s shoulders eased despite his better judgment.

“Excellent answer.” Hoseok clapped him lightly on the shoulder, then lowered his voice, not enough to be secretive, but enough to be kind. “You came highly recommended, Jimin. I know first days are strange. Take your time, ask questions, and if anyone makes you feel like you have to prove twice as much to take up half the space, send them to me.”

The words comforted Jimin—it felt like Hoseok was a protective parent, keeping watch over him, should anything happen or go wrong.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

Hoseok’s expression softened for half a second before the broker in him returned. “Good. Now, if you need help—or if you want to know where the office hides the actually decent coffee—Jeon Jungkook sits across from you. He can show you the ropes.”

Jimin followed the direction of Hoseok’s glance.

At first, he only saw the jacket.

Dark, tailored, and expensive, draped over the back of a chair with the kind of careless precision that suggested its owner had never once worried about looking like he belonged somewhere.

Then the owner of the jacket leaned back in his chair and looked at him.

Unmistakably alpha.

Unmistakably aware of it.

He was younger than Jimin had expected for someone Hoseok had mentioned with that much casual trust. His black hair fell into his eyes in deliberate disarray, soft where it framed his face, darker where it shadowed his brows. His suit was immaculate, though he wore it like an afterthought, jacket abandoned, tie slightly loosened. A small silver hoop glinted at his lower lip, catching the light every time his mouth curved, just barely, as if he found the situation amusing before it had even begun.

He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t look bored.

He looked like someone who had already sold three apartments before Jimin had finished misting scent blocker on his wrists.

Hoseok moved away, already calling across the office for someone to send him a revised seller net sheet before noon, and Jimin was left standing at his new desk with the distinct impression that the man across from him had been watching him for longer than strictly necessary.

Jimin set his bag down carefully, lining things up with unnecessary precision. Tablet next to notebook. Favorite fountain pen parallel to phone. Coffee placed far enough from the paperwork to avoid disaster. He was halfway through creating a to-do list when he felt it.

He looked up.

The alpha was watching him, coffee cup balanced loosely in one hand.

“First day?” he asked, with a lopsided grin.

Jimin blinked once. “That obvious?”

“Only because your pen is aligned with your phone like it’s part of a staging plan.”

Jimin stared at him.

The alpha’s grin deepened. “Not an insult. Good staging sells.”

“What a relief,” Jimin said, voice dry. “For a second I thought you were being annoying.”

The alpha laughed, low and surprised, and the sound curled through the space between their desks in a way Jimin decided immediately not to notice.

“I’m Jeon Jungkook,” he said. “Buyer representation, mostly. Relocation clients, cash buyers, people who think a pre-approval letter is a personality trait.”

“Park Jimin,” Jimin replied. “Listings.”

“I know.”

Jimin’s brows lifted. “Do you?”

“Hoseok mentioned you,” Jungkook said, easy. “Said you were joining the listing side. Seller strategy, pricing, presentation, all that.”

“All that,” Jimin repeated, not sure yet whether to be amused or offended.

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, studying him without quite making it feel invasive. “We need more people who actually care about the seller.”

That made Jimin pause.

It wasn’t what he had expected.

“And what do you care about?” he asked.

“Buyers,” Jungkook replied immediately. “Someone has to translate.”

“Translate?”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, one hand resting over the mouse, posture loose. “A buyer says they want charm, but they mean natural light. They say they want character, but they mean exposed brick that won’t bankrupt them. They say they’re open-minded, but the second the bathroom tile is green, they act like the property personally betrayed them.”

Jimin tried not to smile.

But he failed, slightly.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Useful,” Jungkook corrected. “The listing side sells the story. Buyer reps figure out which part of the story the client actually believes.”

Jimin closed his notebook with one finger. “That’s a very generous way of saying you enjoy ruining a perfectly good listing copy.”

“I prefer improving it through market feedback.”

“Ah,” Jimin said. “So you’re unbearable professionally.”

“Only when necessary.”

“Lucky everyone, then.”

Jungkook’s eyes warmed with something like interest. Not flirtation exactly, though it brushed close enough to make Jimin aware of the fine line between the two. “You always this sharp before ten?”

“Only when provoked.”

“Good to know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The bullpen moved around them, voices rising and falling, phones ringing, someone arguing gently but desperately with a client over closing costs near the printer. Jimin should have looked away first. Instead, he let himself hold Jungkook’s gaze one second too long.

The alpha’s attention flicked briefly to his mouth.

Then back up.

Jimin’s pulse did something deeply unnecessary. It was his first day at this job, for the goddesses sake. And it really wasn’t like him to start salivating over some random alpha at this hour of day.

Jungkook cleared his throat and looked toward Jimin’s coffee. “You drink that?”

Jimin glanced down. “Usually, yes. That is the purpose.”

“No, I mean that coffee. The onboarding coffee.” Jungkook made a face. “It’s fine if you enjoy suffering, but there’s a better place downstairs.”

Jimin should have said no. He had work to do. He had an entire new system to learn, internal folders to sort through, listing templates to study, and enough first-day anxiety buzzing under his skin to power the office lights.

Instead, he heard himself ask, “Are you offering to show me where the decent coffee is?”

Jungkook stood, already reaching for his jacket. “Consider it professional courtesy.”

“How generous.”

“I’m known for my charity.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

Jungkook’s smile widened. “You’ll learn.”

Jimin hated how much he wanted to.

The café downstairs was tucked just off the lobby, all dark tile, brass fixtures, and baristas who looked like they judged people by their milk alternatives. It was busy enough to feel safe, quiet enough to allow conversation. Jungkook ordered without hesitation, then glanced at Jimin.

“What do you want?”

“I can pay for myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes.

Jungkook looked back, infuriatingly calm.

It was such a small thing. Nothing, really. A coffee. A first-day courtesy. Still, Jimin felt the old instinct flare: do not accept too easily. Do not owe anyone anything. Do not give anyone a handle.

“I’ll have an oat latte,” he said finally. “Small.”

Jungkook turned to the barista. “Medium oat latte. And an iced Americano.”

Jimin stared at him. “I said small.”

“You looked like you needed medium.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment.”

“I know first-day panic when I see it.”

“I am not panicking.”

Jungkook paid, then slid the card back into his wallet, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Of course not.”

Jimin should have been annoyed.

He was annoyed.

He was also, unfortunately, a little amused.

They took their coffees to a narrow standing counter by the window, where the city moved past in expensive coats and purposeful steps. For a moment, they simply drank, the silence between them less awkward than Jimin expected.

Then Jungkook asked, “So why listings?”

Jimin looked at him over the rim of his cup. “Why buyers?”

“You first.”

“That’s not how conversation works.”

“It is when I ask first.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but the coffee was good enough to make him more forgiving. “Listings make sense to me,” he said after a moment. “A seller thinks they’re selling a property, but most of the time, they’re selling a version of their life they’re done with. Or a version they failed to have. You have to understand what the home means before you can price it properly.”

Jungkook’s expression shifted.

His amusement quieted into peaked interest.

Jimin looked away first, focusing on the street outside. “A good listing isn’t just pretty photos and adjectives. It’s positioning, comps, timing, the right buyer pool, the right first impression. You need to know when to push, when to hold, when to recommend a price adjustment without making the seller feel like you’re insulting their entire existence.”

Jungkook took a slow sip of his Americano. “That’s not how most agents talk about listings.”

“Most agents are lazy.”

He laughed again, and Jimin wished the sound did not feel so easy to earn.

“Fair,” Jungkook said. “I had a seller last month who described his apartment as ‘European elegance.’”

“Was it?”

“It had one narrow hallway and a broken intercom.”

Jimin pressed his lips together.

Jungkook pointed at him. “See? You’re judging.”

“I am not judging.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am evaluating the listing.”

“Okay, listings expert.”

Jimin’s smile broke through properly this time, small but real. “What did the apartment actually need?”

“A contractor, therapy, and a realistic asking price.”

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

“Did it sell?”

Jungkook sighed. “Eventually. After three weeks, two failed open houses, and one buyer who tried to make their offer contingent on the seller removing a chandelier that did not exist.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“I know.”

“How does that even happen?”

“The buyer saw a chandelier in the listing photos.”

“And?”

“It was a reflection.”

Jimin stared at him for half a second.

Then he laughed.

It escaped before he could measure it, bright and startled and entirely too honest. Jungkook looked at him like he had just discovered something worth remembering.

Jimin stopped laughing almost immediately.

Too late.

Jungkook’s gaze had softened.

“What?” Jimin asked, defensive by instinct.

“Nothing,” Jungkook said, but his voice had changed. “You should do that more often.”

Jimin’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Laugh at incompetent buyers?”

“Laugh in general.”

Jimin looked down at his coffee, suddenly aware of how close they were standing, shoulders almost aligned, Jungkook’s scent carefully blocked but not entirely erased beneath the clean bitterness of coffee and his cologne. Something citrus at first. Something warmer underneath.

Expensive. Restrained.

Annoyingly good.

“And you?” Jimin asked, because he needed the attention away from himself. “Why buyers?”

Jungkook leaned one hip against the counter, considering. “Because buyers lie less.”

Jimin raised a brow. “That is absolutely not true.”

“No, they lie constantly,” Jungkook conceded. “But badly. Sellers lie with attachment. Buyers lie with fear. Fear is easier to read.”

Jimin looked at him then.

Jungkook’s fingers tapped once against his cup. “People think buying is about desire. Most of the time, it’s about terror. Too much money. Too much commitment. Too many ways to be wrong. My job is to figure out what they actually need before they panic themselves into a terrible decision.”

Jimin hated how much sense that made.

“So you translate fear,” he said.

Jungkook’s gaze found his again. “And you translate attachment.”

The sentence sat between them, strangely intimate for something said over coffee on a first day.

Jimin swallowed.

“That almost sounded insightful,” he said.

Jungkook smiled. “Careful. Compliment me again and I’ll start expecting more of them.”

“I said almost.”

“I’ll take it.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the city moving behind the glass, coffees cooling in their hands. Jimin knew he should go back upstairs. He also knew, with a small and irritating certainty, that something between them had shifted, into a direction he really wasn’t comfortable evaluating yet.

By the time they returned to the thirty-second floor, Jimin felt steadier than he had that morning. Not relaxed, exactly, but less like he was walking through a room full of invisible tripwires. Jungkook held the elevator door for him with a casual hand, and Jimin stepped past him, careful not to brush too close.

Back in the bullpen, Jimin returned to his desk, setting his coffee down with more care than necessary, while the alpha walked past his desk, grabbing Jimin’s old coffee and tossing it into the nearest trash can.

“Hey, there is still liquid in there. What if it spills?”

Jungkook dropped into his chair across from him, easy again, like the softness downstairs had been a brief showing and the listing had already closed, shrugging as if that was none of his concern.

Cocky much?

For a while, they worked in silence.

Then one of the senior agents, a beta named Daniel whose cologne entered rooms before he did, stopped by Jungkook’s desk with a folder in hand.

“This the new listing hire?” Daniel asked, glancing at Jimin in a way that made the word new sound like incompetent.

Jimin looked up.

Jungkook leaned back slightly. “Park Jimin. Listing side.”

Daniel’s gaze moved over Jimin’s face, his suit, the careful arrangement of his desk. “Right. Hoseok said he came recommended.”

There it was again.

Recommended.

A small word. A polished word. A word with teeth if said the wrong way.

Jimin kept his expression pleasant. “I did.”

Daniel gave a vague hum. “Well. Always good to have more seller-side polish. Some clients like that refined touch.”

Jimin’s smile stayed in place, though something inside him went cold.

Jungkook’s jaw shifted.

For a second, Jimin thought he might say something helpful.

Instead, Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh and said, “Don’t underestimate him. He’s not just polish. He knows the script.”

Those words left a bad taste in Jimin’s mouth. Once again, the alpha assumed things about him, even though they had only just met. 

Daniel laughed. “Good. Scripts are half the job.”

Jimin’s fingers went still on his keyboard.

Jungkook turned back to his screen, apparently unaware of what he had done. Maybe to him, it had sounded like he had come to the omega’s defense. Maybe to him, “he knows the script” meant Jimin was prepared, competent, and fluent in the performance the job required.

But to Jimin, it sounded like every other careful compliment he had ever received.

Pretty, but trained.

Polished, but rehearsed.

Recommended, but not self-made.

Good, because he had learned the script.

Not because he had made it on his own.

The warmth from the coffee downstairs vanished so quickly it was almost embarrassing.

Jimin closed his notebook with a soft, precise motion.

Jungkook looked up then, finally noticing the change. “You okay?”

“Perfectly,” Jimin said.

His voice was smooth enough to pass inspection.

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed slightly, attention sharpening. “That didn’t sound—”

“I should get started on the onboarding files,” Jimin interrupted, already opening his tablet. “Thank you for the coffee.”

The thank you was polite.

Jungkook seemed to understand that much, at least. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was replaying the last minute and trying to find the misstep.

Jimin didn’t help him.

He turned back to his screen, posture immaculate, face calm, every part of him locking neatly into place.

Across from him, Jungkook was still watching.

Jimin felt it.

He ignored it.

First day.

New firm.

Decent coffee.

Dangerous alpha.

Warmth and friendliness was never free.

Not without a clause hidden somewhere in the contract.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

The townhouse sat on a quiet, tree-lined street just off the main artery—one of those pockets of the city that felt deliberately preserved, insulated from noise and urgency. Three stories of restored brownstone, limestone façade meticulously cleaned, ironwork railings still original. The kind of place buyers described as timeless when they meant expensive and pulling your emotional strings.

Jimin arrived first under the very thin excuse of checking the staging before an afternoon broker preview.

Technically, he did need to make sure the terrace lights worked, that the floral arrangement hadn’t begun to wilt, and that the lockbox still registered properly in the showing log.

Technically.

He let himself in with the lockbox code, the door opening into a narrow entry hall that smelled faintly of lemon oil and old wood. The floors were wide-plank oak, refinished but not overworked, the grain still visible beneath the satin sheen. To the right, a formal sitting room with floor-to-ceiling built-ins and a decorative fireplace; to the left, a dining area staged with a table no one would ever actually eat at.

Straight ahead, the kitchen.

It was the selling point—always was. Open-plan but still anchored by a marble island with waterfall edges, soft-veined and cool-toned. Custom cabinetry in a muted greige, panel-ready appliances seamlessly integrated, brass fixtures that caught the light beautifully. A wall of glass at the back opened onto a small private terrace, the city filtered through greenery and wrought iron.

Jimin dropped his bag on the counter and rolled his shoulders once.

He didn’t waste time admiring it. Mostly, because he had seen it at plenty of showings already and after a while, it became redundant and unremarkable. Which was a shame because it was quite a beautiful listing.

He heard Jungkook before he saw him. The alpha’s presence filled the space almost immediately, scent carefully muted but still there beneath the blocker: something warm, grounding, restrained, which Jimin never had the pleasure to fully smell before. 

“You’re early,” the alpha said.

“You’re late,” Jimin replied, trying to sound bored.

“Two minutes.”

“Unforgivable.”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh as he stepped into the kitchen, his finger tracing over the kitchen counter. “Corner townhouse, south-facing, with a private outdoor space and you didn’t even look impressed.”

Jimin finally faced him, leaning back against the island and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen far better kitchens.”

“Oh, come on,” Jungkook huffed, “You know that’s a lie.”

“Barely,” Jimin said, eyes flicking over him. The alpha’s suit was impeccable as always, like he wanted Jimin to grab it and pull it off him. 

“Are we going to do this, or are you going to keep pretending this is about the kitchen?”

Jungkook stopped a few feet away from the omega, one brow raised.

It was clear that Jimin was starting to feel uncomfortable with the small-talk. He always cut it short before it could get too deep.

“You’re in a hurry again,” Jungkook stated.

“I have a showing in forty minutes.”

“And yet,” Jungkook replied mildly, “you chose a townhouse instead of a condo.”

Jimin’s mouth curved. “Privacy.”

“Or intimacy,” Jungkook countered, grinning as he took another step forward. Closer and closer into the omega’s personal space.

Tired of being circled like prey, Jimin pushed off the counter and closed the distance between them, stopping just inside Jungkook’s personal space. Close enough that the alpha could feel him—the heat, intent, and impatience.

“You talk too much for someone who usually tries not to,” Jimin assessed.

“And you avoid talking when it might actually matter,” Jungkook shot back, just as sharply.

Jimin’s retort was already on his tongue, sharp and ready to cut the moment back into something more manageable. 

But Jungkook was too close now. Close enough to catch the uneven pull of his breath, the way his fingers flexed once against the marble before stilling again. 

It made Jimin want to put the alpha back where he belonged: at arm’s length, preferably with fewer clothes on and absolutely no opinions about Jimin’s habits.

Annoyingly, nothing came to mind now, his mind wiped clean by the musk and pheromones, he could now almost taste on his tongue.

Jungkook’s gaze shifted, catching the failure with infuriating quickness. Though he didn’t even look triumphant about it. 

What was going on today?

“I didn’t come here just for … that,” Jungkook continued, voice lower now. “Not today.”

Jimin scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “You always say that as of late.”

“Well,” Jungkook rebutted. “Today I came because the image of you looking at me in the conference room like you wanted me to either fuck you or disappear one week ago won’t leave my mind, and I’m tired of not knowing which one would make you feel safer.”

Jimin turned away, pacing a few steps before stopping at the island again. He braced his hands on the marble, fingers splayed, breathing out slowly.

“This is supposed to be simple … and casual,” he straightened again, opened his designer purse with shaky hands, pulled out a lip gloss and applied it, clearly trying to deflect.

Jungkook followed him, but this time he didn’t crowd him. He leaned back against the opposite counter, mirroring Jimin’s posture without reaching out to touch him.

“Is it?” he asked.

Jimin glanced up. “For you, maybe it’s a problem. For me, it’s simple logistics.”

Jungkook smiled faintly. “You talk about people the same way you talk about square footage.”

“That’s because both can be deceiving if you don’t analyze them carefully.”

“Sit,” Jungkook ordered suddenly.

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Sit,” he repeated, nodding toward the island. “Please.”

There was something different in his tone—not commanding, not teasing. It sounded earnest for once.

Jimin hesitated for a second before hoisting himself onto the counter, the marble cool beneath his palms. Jungkook stepped closer, stopping between Jimin’s legs, bracing his hands on either side of him.

“Talk to me,” Jungkook said. “Just for ten minutes.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re always already halfway out the door when you’re with me. Why you can’t seem to relax a bit.”

Jimin laughed under his breath, though it sounded hollow to his own ears. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?”

Jungkook tilted his head, studying him the way he always did when he was really paying attention. Like Jimin was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Or worse, like Jimin was something shelled and secretive, an oyster clamped shut against the world, while Jungkook looked at him as though he knew exactly where to press the blade to reach the softness hidden inside.

“You know,” Jungkook said quietly, “buyers fall in love with houses when they can imagine staying and making a home there.”

Jimin swallowed, entirely unsure of where this conversation was heading.

“And sellers,” Jungkook continued, “let go of the property when they believe the deal is done.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and buzzing with tension.

“This place,” Jungkook added, glancing around, “it is really beautiful. But it’s also so empty. Even though it is filled with all of these beautiful items and designed to create a narrative, all of it is staged. It's not real.”

Jimin’s fingers curled against the edge of the counter. He hated the fact that when the alpha chose to speak, his words so often landed uncomfortably close to the truth.

“And then you walk in,” Jungkook continued, eyes back on him now, “and suddenly it stops feeling that way.”

Jimin looked away first, his heart beat suddenly accelerating. 

“You’re not supposed to say things like that,” he muttered.

“Why?”

The question lingered, soft but unyielding.

Jungkook was too close now. Close enough that Jimin could feel the warmth of him through the thin space between their bodies, radiating against the inside of his thighs where Jungkook stood between them. Close enough that every careful breath the alpha took seemed to brush against Jimin’s mouth before disappearing. His lips were right there—soft, parted slightly, trembling around words he either did not know how to say or did not trust himself to say yet.

Jimin’s body reacted before his pride could stop it.

Heat unfurled low in his stomach, slow and humiliating, slick gathering between his thighs from nothing more than proximity, from Jungkook’s restrained scent pushing faintly through the blockers, from the unbearable patience of his hands braced on either side of Jimin’s hips without touching him.

That was the worst part.

Jungkook was not touching him.

Jimin’s fingers tightened against the marble. He hadn’t expected it—not the question itself, but the way Jungkook asked it. As if he wanted to see Jimin. Not for what he presented to the outside, but for who he truly was. 

“Because,” Jimin said finally, voice controlled, “you’re standing too close for comfort without actually fucking me.”

Jungkook blinked.

Then he glanced down, as if only now becoming aware of the narrow space between them. Of how his body framed Jimin’s without really touching him. Of how the counter behind Jimin and the alpha in front of him left very little room to breathe.

“Okay,” Jungkook said quietly.

And then, he finally stepped back to give the omega some space.

Jimin’s shoulders eased despite himself. The reaction annoyed him.

“I’m not good at this,” Jimin added, almost reluctantly. “People …”

“That’s funny,” Jungkook said, a hint of dry humor returning. “You sell houses and apartments to people for a living.”

“That’s different. Those people don’t look at me like they’re trying to see through the walls.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard.”

Jimin shot him a look. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the tension shifting.

Jungkook leaned back against the other counter instead of boxing him in, folding his arms loosely. “I’m sorry if I went too far. I wasn’t trying to corner you.”

The townhouse creaked softly around them—city noise muted by thick walls. Jimin glanced around again, then back at Jungkook.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “is easier when it’s physical.”

“I figured,” Jungkook replied.

“And when you start talking like that, it feels like you’re moving furniture around inside my head without asking.”

The alpha’s expression softened, but he didn’t step closer this time. “Noted.”

Jimin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his mind was whirling. For some reason, Jungkook’s words had made something inside of him give. As if he had made a crack in the wall that he had so carefully built around his heart. 

He wanted to open up, to share a little bit of himself with the alpha—just to test how it was. Maybe—just maybe—he would be able to show more of himself to other people again.

“Okay … Ten minutes,” he agreed, carefully, “But you stay right there.”

Jungkook lifted his hands slightly in surrender, a smile spreading across his lips, “Deal.”

“So,” Jungkook went on, voice lighter now, intentionally so, “if we’re not talking about listings or logistics … what do you do when you’re not at Vanguard?”

Jimin frowned faintly. “That’s a trick question.”

“It’s really not.”

“People always ask that,” Jimin said. “And they always ridicule my answer.”

Jungkook smiled. “Try me.”

Jimin hesitated, then shrugged. “I read.”

“Okay,” Jungkook said easily. “What kind of books?”

“That’s already a follow-up question.”

“I’m curious.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but there was less bite in it than usual. “History. Architecture. Design theory. Sometimes fiction, if I’m in the mood.”

“In the mood?”

“Nothing with a plot that yells at me,” Jimin said. “I spend all day with people who want things. I don’t need a book demanding emotional engagement on top of that.”

Jungkook chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Okay.”

Jimin eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not going to make a joke?”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” Jungkook laughed. “Just not yet. Though I am very tempted to call out your chronic emotional constipation.”

Jimin snorted despite himself, then quickly schooled his expression back into something neutral.

“And you?” he asked, a little stiffly—the small talk with Jungkook was still something he needed to get used to. “What do you do when you’re not terrorizing me with market comps?”

Jungkook chuckled under his breath, “First of all, I don’t terrorize you. I simply educate.”

“Debatable.”

“I cook,” Jungkook said.

That got Jimin’s attention.

“You cook,” he repeated, eyebrows lifting.

“Yeah.”

“What kind of cooking?” Jimin pressed, suspicious. “Like … actual cooking? Or ‘I can scramble eggs’ cooking?”

Jungkook feigned offense. “I’ll have you know I make a very respectable braised short rib.”

Jimin blinked. “You do not.”

“I do.”

“With red wine?”

“Obviously.”

“And you also make side dishes and everything?”

Jungkook’s grin turned smug. “Always.”

The omega stared at him for a moment longer than necessary, then looked away, lips pressing together as if to hide a reaction. He didn’t want to admit how badly he wanted to taste the alpha’s cooking.

“That’s … unexpected,” he admitted.

“Most things about me are,” Jungkook said lightly. Then, after a pause, “I also run. Early mornings. Helps me think.”

Jimin glanced back at him. “You don’t strike me as a Type A kind of person.”

“Neither do you,” Jungkook shot back.

“That’s because I’m not.”

“See?”

Silence settled again, but this time it was looser, more comfortable.

Jimin shifted on the counter, the marble no longer feeling quite as cold beneath his palms.

“I don’t really have any other hobbies,” he said suddenly, as if annoyed with himself for the admission. “I like … routines. Order. Things that make sense.”

“But that does count,” Jungkook said. “Hobbies don’t have to be whimsical.”

Jimin scoffed. “Good. Because I’m not.”

“I never thought you were.”

That earned him a look. “Is that supposed to be flattering?”

“It’s supposed to be accurate.”

Jimin considered that, then nodded once. “Fair.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I also like walking. Late. When the city’s a bit calmer and less chaotic.”

Jungkook didn’t comment right away. He just tucked the information away carefully, like something fragile.

“Night walks,” he said eventually. “I do that too. Different reasons, I think.”

“What reasons?”

Jungkook shrugged. “It’s easier to be alone when everyone else is asleep.”

Jimin glanced at him sharply, something in his expression shifting.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It really is.”

Jungkook checked his watch, then looked back up, a teasing glint in his eyes. “We’re at six minutes.”

Jimin huffed softly. “You’re counting.”

“Well, you said ten.”

Jimin studied him for a long second, then slid off the counter, landing one careful step away from the alpha.

“You know,” he said, adjusting his jacket, “you’re a lot less unbearable when you’re not trying to sell me something.”

Jungkook smiled, slow and genuine. “Good to know.”

“Don’t get used to this.”

“I won’t,” Jungkook said. “But I’ll remember it.”

Jimin paused at that, then shook his head as if to clear it.

“Well, now that you know some of my hobbies, can we finally do what we came here for?”

Though he didn’t wait for an answer.

The omega stepped forward, crowding Jungkook’s space until there was none left, until the alpha had to brace a hand on the counter behind him. The look Jungkook gave him—dark, half-lidded, and already gone—was answer enough.

Jimin surged forward, claiming the alpha’s lips.

The kiss was brutal. Mouths colliding, teeth clashing, the sound of it sharp and indecent in the quiet kitchen. Jimin made a startled noise that turned into a breathless groan when Jungkook grabbed his jacket and shoved him back against the island, marble biting cold through fabric.

Jimin loved it.

He kissed back just as hard, fingers fisting in Jungkook’s tie, yanking him closer until there was no room left between them. The tie went crooked. Then useless. Then Jungkook tore it free entirely and tossed it aside without looking.

Jungkook’s mouth was everywhere—claiming, biting, dragging kisses that burned. He bit Jimin’s lower lip hard enough to make him gasp, then swallowed the sound like it belonged only to him.

Jimin clawed at him in response, nails scraping down Jungkook’s chest through his shirt, shoving him back just enough to flip their positions. Jungkook hit the counter with a surprised huff that turned into a laugh when Jimin climbed into his space, knees pressing in, bodies lining up with reckless precision.

“Fuck—” Jungkook muttered, cut off when Jimin kissed him again, slower now but no less unhinged, all heat and pressure and intent.

His hands were everywhere, Jungkook’s grip bruising at Jimin’s hips, fingers digging in like he needed leverage. Jimin’s hands sliding up Jungkook’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch.

The scent blockers didn’t stand a chance.

The air thickened, sharp and electric, instinct flaring hot under skin. Jungkook pressed his forehead to Jimin’s for half a second—breathing hard, jaw clenched—before kissing him again like he’d lost the argument with himself.

They rocked together, friction rough and desperate. Jimin bit at his mouth again, harder this time, smiling when Jungkook groaned low and dangerous.

“May the goddess help me,” Jungkook breathed against his lips, completely lost to his instincts and desire.

Jimin kissed him instead of answering.

After a while, Jungkook decided he’d had enough of the omega’s attempt at fighting for dominance. He grabbed Jimin’s ass with both hands, squeezed once, then slid his grip lower—hooking under his thighs and lifting him effortlessly. Jimin had no choice but to wrap his legs around the alpha’s hips to stay where he was.

“Unfair,” Jimin muttered, breathless.

Jungkook smiled like he’d just won something.

He turned and started for the stairs without asking, carrying the omega like he weighed nothing, one arm solid beneath him, the other steadying himself at the banister. The townhouse shifted around them as they moved—wood creaking softly underfoot, the air warmer upstairs and quieter.

Jimin hooked an arm around Jungkook’s neck, more for spite than necessity. “You know I could have walked myself,” he grinned, clearly into the display of strength.

“I know,” Jungkook grinned, already halfway up the stairs. “But it is more fun this way, is it not, sunshine?”

The bedroom sat at the back of the top floor, tucked away from the street. It was beautiful in a way that felt intentional rather than showy with its high ceilings, tall windows draped in sheer linen that let the city lights blur into something soft and distant. The walls were painted a muted, warm neutral, catching the low lamplight instead of reflecting it.

The bed dominated the room—wide, low, dressed in crisp white sheets and a charcoal throw folded neatly at the foot. A single abstract painting hung above the headboard, all movement and shadow. Fresh flowers sat on the nightstand, fragrant enough to notice only when you were close.

Jungkook didn’t slow down.

He crossed the room and, without ceremony, tossed Jimin onto the bed.

Not rough enough to hurt. Just enough to make the mattress dip and the sheets rustle, to leave Jimin sprawled for half a second, stunned and breathless, hair mussed, lips already swollen.

Jungkook followed him immediately, hands braced on either side of him, gaze dark and intent.

“The bedroom’s nice, isn’t it?”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh. “I will give you an answer after it is actually used.”

The room felt smaller with both of them in it. Warmer. Charged.

The alpha lowered himself again, kissing the omega, softer this time.

Slow and deliberate. His lips traced Jimin’s with maddening patience, coaxing instead of taking, the pressure easing just enough to make Jimin breathe him in.

The alpha kissed along the omega’s jaw, unhurried, lingering where his pulse jumped. He paused there, lips brushing skin, as if memorizing it. As if grounding himself. 

Jimin whimpered impatiently, when the alpha’s hand was finally sliding down his sides and under his shirt, caressing and admiring the softness of the omega’s skin.

“Can you … just fuck me … please?” 

Jungkook tsked and shook his head. 

“Let me take my time, as I did not get to do this last time.”

Reverently, he slid further down, following the line of Jimin’s body, unfastening each button from the bottom up, his mouth following in their wake, kissing every newly exposed stretch of skin until he reached the omega’s chest.

When he was finally able to open the shirt without ripping any buttons off—the omega would have his head if he were to accidentally damage his clothes—he yanked it off and threw it off somewhere to the side. Then he sat up and admired his work. 

The omega looked up at him, still panting slightly from all the kisses that had stolen his breath. Slowly, Jungkook traced the line between Jimin’s pectorals, down his sternal line, shamelessly indulging in the touch. The omega trembled at the touch, especially when the alpha reached his V-line and dipped lower, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down.

After the alpha had also removed his underwear, Jimin lay before him exposed and shivering a little. 

“You are so breathtakingly gorgeous, you know that, sunshine?”

The omega shook his head lightly, trying to cover himself, but the alpha immediately gripped his wrist and pushed his arms beside his head into the mattress. 

“It’s the truth, sunshine. No matter what anyone says, remember that to me, you are the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth.” 

The omega’s eyes had gone suspiciously glassy. Jungkook swiped the moisture away with his thumb, then brought it to his mouth, tasting the salt, eyes never leaving his.

Jimin stared up at the alpha with wide eyes. Never in his life had he felt this worshipped. It was making him feel a little dizzy with the delight of it. 

Without uttering another word, Jungkook trailed kisses down the omega’s chest, nipples, down his abdomen and then started to indulge himself between Jimin’s thighs. Taking the omega’s length fully into his mouth, licking up and down, lightly scraping his teeth against the shaft and then releasing him with a soft pop. 

Jimin was writhing under touch, every little caress utterly too much. 

From the beginning, he had always wondered where the alpha had learned to fuck like this. But who was he to question the alpha’s talents? Jungkook seemed to be good at everything that he did or put his hands on. Especially when his hands were on Jimin’s body.

No wonder so much slick had gathered at the omega’s entrance. The alpha let out an appreciative moan, when he pushed Jimin’s legs further apart and gazed at his handy work. 

“Look at you,” it was clear that he was lost to his lust. “You are so wet, just from my touch.”

The omega was slowly starting to lose his patience. He whined and yanked at the alpha’s shirt, trying to get it off, not caring if a button should rip.

Jungkook chuckled, dragging his tongue over his incisors and front teeth, his gaze dark and intent. Though he obliged the omega and slowly, teasingly unbuttoned his shirt. After it was finally off, he threw it to the side as well, joining Jimin’s clothes on the floor.

Then he slid down further, hooking the omega’s knees over his shoulder. The first lick was sweet hell. 

Jimin had to clasp his hand over his mouth to not scream. The sensation was too much and too good at the same time. What was this alpha doing to him and his sanity? This couldn’t possibly be healthy for his heart. 

Even though he had to admit that his mood had exponentially increased since they had started fucking. 

With each lick and bite, Jimin stumbled closer to the edge, his fingers fisting the sheets below him. 

“Alpha,” the moan escaped his lips before he could stop himself. But oh well, he was beyond saving anyway so he might as well go all out now. Future Jimin would die of shame, but right now he was Jungkook’s in every possible way.

“Please …,” he whined. “I need you … I feel so– so empty!”

The alpha growled, all of his self-control snapping. He got up too fast, fumbling with his trousers as he reached into his pocket for a condom. After he had finally rid himself off his trousers, he almost tripped on his way back to the bed, breath uneven, hands shaking just enough to betray how thin his restraint had become as he slipped the condom on.

Whatever restraint Jungkook had shown before was gone now, or at least fraying badly enough that Jimin could feel the difference in every movement.

He came back to him with shaking hands and a mouth still damp from Jimin’s body, settling between his thighs with the kind of focus that made the room narrow around them. The first thrust stole the air out of Jimin’s lungs. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was Jungkook—because it always was Jungkook—and somehow his body still reacted as if it had been waiting for him all day.

Both of them were lost to the pleasure, moving against and with each other with frantic movements, chasing their release, before reality would settle back in and they had to get back to their daily life.

Jimin’s back arched off the mattress, fingers twisting into the sheets as Jungkook found a rhythm that was neither gentle nor careless. It was controlled in the way storms were controlled: inevitable, overwhelming, guided by something larger than either of them wanted to name.

Every movement pressed him deeper into the bed, into the heat, into the terrifying certainty that this had stopped being casual long before either of them had admitted it. Jungkook’s breath broke against his neck, low and uneven, his restraint splintering in little sounds he seemed unable to swallow back.

“Oh fuck,” Jungkook rasped against his ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath it. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

Jimin tried to answer, but words had become useless things. All he could do was hold on while Jungkook moved over him, around him, through him—steady and relentless and devastatingly present. The pleasure built too quickly, bright and unbearable, but beneath it there was something worse. Something softer. The way Jungkook kept looking at him as if he wanted to remember every second. As if this was not just a body to want, but someone to keep.

As they both reached their climax almost simultaneously, Jimin looked up into the alpha’s molten obsidian eyes and tried and failed not to lose himself. 

This was what he had feared. That he was already too far gone. That it had been a mistake to start this agreement with the alpha.  

They didn’t speak at first.

The moment stretched in the aftermath—breaths slowing, bodies gradually remembering gravity, the room coming back into focus piece by piece. Jungkook shifted first, careful, pulling out and giving Jimin space without fully retreating. The bed creaked softly as they disentangled, the sudden absence of contact almost louder than the closeness had been.

Jimin dragged a hand through his hair and stared up at the ceiling for a second, as if recalibrating. His pulse was still loud in his ears. His thoughts weren’t much better.

Post-nut clarity was a real thing.

“Okay,” he said eventually, voice steadier than he felt.

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh, already reaching for the neatly folded towels staged at the foot of the bed. “Yeah.”

They cleaned up without talking much—efficient, practiced, the way people did when pretending something hadn’t just rearranged them internally. Jungkook moved through the room with the same competence he brought to everything else, opening windows just enough to let fresh air cut through the lingering heat, grabbing the scent blockers from Jimin’s bag where he’d dropped it earlier.

The sharp, neutral spray broke the intimacy decisively.

Jimin watched as Jungkook misted the room, then himself, then offered the bottle over without comment. Jimin took it, mirroring the motion, grounding himself in the familiarity of the routine.

They redressed in silence.

Buttons re-fastened, shirts smoothed, and jackets straightened.

The townhouse slowly reverted to what it was meant to be—immaculate, untouched, plausible again. Jungkook fluffed the pillows back into their staged arrangement, tugged the duvet into clean lines. Jimin adjusted the throw at the foot of the bed, aligning it precisely with the frame.

“… It does look better,” he admitted reluctantly.

Jungkook glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Because we had sex in it?”

Jimin shot him a look. “Because it looks less sterile now.”

“So yes.”

“I will deny this conversation happened.”

Something flickered across Jungkook’s face—satisfaction, maybe—but he didn’t comment any further.

By the time they headed downstairs, the space had been reset. Just another pristine listing, ready to sell a fantasy.

At the door, Jimin slipped back into himself easily, professional and composed, like he hadn’t just been unraveled upstairs.

“Lock up when you leave,” he said. “And don’t touch anything else.”

Jungkook lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Jimin headed for the door, then stopped, hand on the handle.

“Jungkook?”

“Yeah?”

“… Your short ribs better be as good as you claim.”

Jungkook’s grin widened. “Careful. That almost sounded like you were asking to be invited for dinner.”

Jimin didn’t turn around.

“Don’t push it,” he said—but there was a smile in his voice as the door closed behind him.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Aspen looked like the kind of man who had once tackled people professionally and then discovered emotional regulation through expensive incense.

He was six foot three, broad-shouldered, tattooed from wrist to elbow, and wore linen pants. His hair was tied back into a small bun, a string of wooden prayer beads wrapped around one wrist, and there was a tiny gold hoop in his left ear that caught the soft studio light whenever he tilted his head.

He had, according to his own introduction, played college football, “broken his body in pursuit of masculine validation” (because he wasn’t born as an alpha), spent one very intense summer in Sedone—where he got lost in wild nature and had to survive on nothing but puddle water and bugs for one month—and returned as a changed man.

Now he taught meditation, restorative yoga, breathwork, and a workshop called Releasing the Inner Alpha: A Journey Toward Non-Competitive Masculine Energy, which Jimin had, of course, not attended but read about at two in the morning with mountain fascination and mild concern.

Aspen was also, unfortunately, very good at his job.

“Jimin,” Aspen said softly, standing at the front of the studio with his hands folded in front of his chest. “Your energy feels clogged today, my friend.”

Jimin, who had been attempting to roll out his mat without making any unnecessary eye contact with anyone, froze.

Several heads turned.

Jimin smiled politely, though he hoped his eyes conveyed enough murderous intent, to communicate to Aspen that today was just not the day, “Good evening to you as well, Aspen.”

Aspen smiled back with terrible serenity, “Is it now?”

Jimin stared at him, then took one long, careful breath through his nose. 

“It is a perfectly fine evening,” he said.

Aspen hummed. It was a deep, suspicious hum. It was clear that he had seen through at least seven layers of repression and was now politely waiting for Jimin to confess to a crime.

“Perfectly fine, you say … Interesting,” Aspen murmured.

“Interesting?”

“Quite so.”

Jimin set his mat down with slightly more force than necessary, “I came here to stretch and destress. Not to be bullied by you.”

“If you’d be more honest for once, you’d say you came here to run from your own nervous system.”

“I came here because I paid for a monthly package.”

“Money is often the language fear uses to disguise hidden desires.”

“Aspen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to lie down now.”

“Wonderful,” Aspen said, still smiling. “The body speaks most honestly when horizontal.”

Jimin closed his eyes for one single second and prayed to the goddess for patience.

The studio itself was quite beautiful and relaxing in a way that irritated Jimin, precisely because it always worked. With its warm wood floors, the pale curtains flowing in the light breeze, and the soft overhead light, it felt as if everything was specifically designed to keep Jimin’s nervous system and thoughts at bay.

Everything smelled faintly of sandalwood and lavender—the aroma diffuser in the corner of the room working overtime. There were plants in every corner, all of them thriving, and a small fountain burbled near the entrance, providing the soothing sound of water and the less soothing reminder that Jimin had forgotten to drink anything besides coffee today. He really needed to fix his drinking habits.

He chose his usual spot near the back wall, setting his mat down and sinking down into a cross-legged position.

Aspen began his class with breathwork, of course.

“Settle on your mat,” he said, voice low and warm. “Feel the ground beneath you—how it supports you. Take a deep breath in. Focus how your chest rises and falls, how the air flows in through your knows, filling your lungs.”

Jimin lay on his back and immediately the thought of Jungkook entered his mind.

Specifically, of Jungkook standing between his thighs in that townhouse kitchen, hands braced on either side of him, close enough that he could feel his warmth.

Jimin’s eyes snapped open again. Absolutely not!

“Notice what comes up,” Aspen continued, unperturbed. “Try not to run from your thoughts. Simply observe them. Let them come to you.”

Jimin observed that Jungkook was a huge problem. Literally.

A handsome, broad-shouldered, emotionally intrusive problem with excellent arms and an apparently respectable braised short rib—which Jimin had to admit he really wanted to try for himself.

“Release the jaw,” Aspen’s voice wafted over.

Jimin unclenched his teeth.

“Push the tongue towards the roof of the mouth. Relax.”

Jimin did, reluctantly.

“Release all your thoughts.”

Jimin opened one eye. Aspen was looking directly at him. From across the room. While demonstrating a supported bridge pose. Jimin mouthed, Stop.

Aspen grinned, his eyes saying: Gotcha.

What was Jimin even paying this guy for?

The first half of class passed with the usual indignities. Various yoga poses with names that sounded gentle until they made his thighs burn like the nine circles of hell. There were gentle reminders courtesy of Aspen to “soften into the sensation and breathe through the pain”, which Jimin internally translated as suffer, but do so aesthetically.

Aspen floated around the room, adjusting people’s shoulders and offering encouragement in a voice so calm it bordered on turning into a tranquilizer.

When he reached Jimin during pigeon pose, he stopped. 

“Oh,” Aspen sighed, as if he just had some kind of revelation.

Jimin’s forehead was already resting on the mat, which was fortunate, because he didn’t have to look into Aspen’s cocky face. “Don’t say oh.”

“Jimin-ssi, you know what they say. Hips carry trauma.”

“My hips are none of your business.”

“They are my business, when you are stiff as a board—all locked up—and not doing the moves correctly.”

“Aspen-ssi?”

The women on the mat beside Jimin made a strangled sound that might have been a cough or laugher. Aspen crouched beside him, completely undisturbed. “There is a lot of blocked energy here.”

“Well, there is a lot of lactic acid here as well. What are you gonna do about that.”

“You are correct, my young padawan.” 

Jimin turned his head just enough to glare at the beta, “Can you spiritually diagnose someone else, please? I’m trying to relax here.”

Aspen’s expression was compassionate in a way that made Jimin want to throw a bolster at him, “You sacral chakra is very blocked today.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your creativity, desire, pleasure. And your emotional fluidity.”

“I know what the sacral chakra is, thank you very much.”

“Well, if you know what it is, then you must also know that it is blocked.”

“It is not blocked.”

Aspen titled his head, surveying Jimin from head to toe, “Is there any unresolved intimacy in your life?”

Jimin stared at his instructor in utter disbelief. The whole studio went dead quiet. 

“No?” Jimin whispered, his cheeks burning.

Aspen nodded, as if he had seen right through his padawan, “Well, that was fast.”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“Truth usually does not arrive that charged.”

Jimin lifted his head fully now, every relaxation he might have felt, shattered. “Do you say these things before or after you drink your mushroom tea?”

Aspen smiled serenely, “During, of course.”

Jimin dropped his forehead back onto the mat. Unfortunately, pigeon pose was already humiliating enough with Aspen crouched beside him like an oracle in linen pants.

“Perhaps,” Aspen concluded gently, “there is someone whose presence in your life is creating both expansion and contraction at the same time.”

Jimin’s left eye twitched, “No.”

“Someone who makes you feel things … who makes you want things you haven’t before.”

“No.”

“Someone who is throwing your life upside down at the moment, making you want to open up again.”

Jimin’s whole body locked up instantly. Aspen’s smile softened into something far too triumphant, “Aha.”

“There is no ‘aha.’”

“There was an ‘aha.’”

“I don’t know what ‘aha’ you are seeing, but maybe all those mushrooms have finally gone to your head.”

“Whatever makes you sleep better at night, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin inhaled slowly, then exhaled. Considered violence. Rejected the thought, because this studio charged a cancellation fee and probably a damage fee, if he were to punch his instructor.

As if sensing his distress, Aspen touched two fingers lightly between Jimin’s shoulder blades, grounding rather than invasive. His voice softened, though amusement stayed beneath it. “Breathe into the back of the heart.”

“Instruction unclear. My heart is fine.”

“Your heart just filed a formal complaint.”

“My heart is a little dramatic, as you know.”

“And yet severely underrepresented.”

This was, unfortunately, not the first time Aspen had done this to him. The worst part was not the weird metaphors. Jimin could survive those—he worked with Taehyung, for goddesses sake.

The worst part was that Aspen—in a weird, unhinged way—was almost always right.

After class was over, Jimin tried to escape quickly. He rolled up his mat, grabbed his water bottle, and was halfway to the small cubby area where he had stored his bag, when Aspen appeared beside him. 

“Walk with me,” Aspen commanded, leaving no room for refusal.

Jimin declined anyway, “No.”

Aspen began walking, Jimin’s body automatically following him—it had definitely decided that betrayal was a lifestyle.

They ended up by the tea station, where Aspen poured a pale gold, steaming liquid into two small ceramic cups. 

Jimin looked at it suspiciously, “What is that?”

“Chamomile, ginger, and a little spritz of lemon.”

“No mushrooms?” Jimin sniffed at the liquid, just to be safe.

“Not before seven.”

Jimin took the cup despite himself, while Aspen leaned against the counter, arms folded, his favorite shell necklace dangling from his neck, “You have been carrying alpha energy in your aura for three weeks, Jimin-ssi.”

The omega choked on his tea. How did he …?

Aspen waited patiently while he coughed.

“That,” Jimin said hoarsely, “is a wildly inappropriate thing to say to a client.”

“It is not inappropriate,” Aspen chided. “It is just an observation.”

“It is an insane observation.”

“Well, it is a perfectly fine Tuesday, so I can do whatever I want, no?”

Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose, “I hate it here.”

“And yet you renew your subscription every month.”

“Not coming is worse for my nervous system.”

Aspen sipped his tea, serene and gleeful, “Tell me, does this alpha have a name?”

“No.”

“If there is an alpha, there is a name.”

Jimin stared at the beta, already imagining multiple ways he could end his life prematurely. Though, he could feel an itch inside of him to open up a little. To get some advice from someone, who generally seemed to have his shit together. Ignoring the mushrooms and spiritual talk.

“Fine,” Jimin sighed after another moment of deliberation. “Hypothetically … there may be an alpha.”

“Of course there is. I’m never wrong when it comes to stuff like this.”

Jimin threatened Aspen with the back of his hand, though instead of flinching back, the beta just chuckled.

“So, tell me about him.”

“He is annoying.”

“Naturally. You seem into being teased.”

“And arrogant.”

“Common symptom.”

“And too observant.”

Aspen’s brow lifted, “Ah. So another fellow observer.”

Jimin pointed at him, “Do not ‘ah’ me again.”

Aspen pressed his lips together, visibly restraining himself.

Jimin continued, because apparently once a door opened, his mouth started treating emotional privacy like a suggestion.

“He keeps asking questions.”

Aspen’s brows lifted. “That sounds healthy though.”

“It feels invasive.”

“Because you experience being known as a security breach.”

Jimin stared at him.

Aspen smiled with unbearable gentleness. “Too accurate?”

“Quite.”

“Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.”

“I do not want to get anywhere. I want to stretch in peace and leave.”

“You say that every week.”

“And yet you keep ambushing me with personal questions.”

Aspen laughed then, warm and bright, the spiritual fog lifting just enough to reveal the former jock underneath. “All right. No more diagnosis for thirty seconds.”

“Generous.”

“Tell me one thing about him.”

“No.”

“One thing.”

Jimin hesitated.

Aspen waited.

That was another irritating thing about him. He was good at silence. Not the cold, punitive kind Jimin knew too well, but the soft kind that simply opened space. Jimin looked down into his tea.

“He cooks,” he said finally.

Aspen’s face lit up with immediate, devastating delight.

“Oh,” he said. “Does he cook for you?”

Jimin opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Aspen made a quiet sound of understanding that was somehow worse than words. “Jimin-ssi.”

“He has not cooked for me,” Jimin said quickly. “He merely mentioned short ribs.”

“Mentioned,” Aspen repeated.

“Yes.”

“And your entire nervous system filed an application for domestic partnership?”

“My nervous system did no such thing.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“My face is in disstress.”

“Mm.” Aspen took a sip of tea, looking far too peaceful. “Does he make you feel unsafe?”

“No,” he said, quieter.

Aspen nodded once. “Does he make you feel out of control?”

Jimin’s fingers tightened around the cup, “Yes.”

“There we go,” Aspen said softly. “Those are not the same thing.”

Jimin looked up.

Aspen was watching him steadily now, without teasing. Around them, the studio emptied in small, quiet movements: mats being rolled, shoes scuffing against wood, low voices drifting toward the hallway. 

“Sometimes,” Aspen continued, “your body mistakes unfamiliar safety for danger because danger is what it already knows how to survive.”

Jimin swallowed.

“I came here to stretch,” he muttered.

Aspen smiled. “You got stretching.”

“My hamstrings, Aspen-ssi. I meant my hamstrings.”

“Those too.”

Jimin sighed, but there was less force behind it now.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Aspen said, very seriously, “Do not let an alpha with good arms and emotional availability scare you into self-sabotage.”

Jimin blinked.

Then slowly turned his head. “Who said anything about good arms?”

Aspen’s mouth curved.

Jimin stared at him in horror. “Did I say that?”

“Your aura was very descriptive.”

“My aura is a liar.”

“Your aura is horny and terrified.”

Jimin set his tea down. “I am leaving.”

Aspen laughed so hard his prayer beads clicked against the counter.

“Before you go,” he said, still smiling, “homework.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I reject it preemptively.”

“You should speak more honestly with him.”

Jimin’s blood ran cold. “Absolutely not.”

“You do ten minutes of plank variations without complaining.”

“That is different. Planks are emotionally neutral. I hate this assignment,” Jimin muttered, and grabbed his bag, already regretting ever trusting a man named Aspen with access to his emotional landscape.

At the door, Aspen called after him, “And Jimin?”

Jimin stopped with deep reluctance. “What?”

Aspen smiled, bright and peaceful and entirely too pleased with himself.

“If he offers to make the short ribs, say yes.”

Jimin stared at him.

Then left before his face could betray him.

Outside, the city air hit cooler against his cheeks, loud and ordinary and mercifully free of incense. Jimin walked toward the corner, phone heavy in his pocket, Jungkook’s voice still sitting somewhere beneath his ribs.

Talk to him, Aspen had said.

Jimin rolled his eyes at the sky.

Then, because the universe apparently had a flair for humiliation, his phone buzzed.

Jungkook.

Still alive after yoga?

Jimin stared at the message for a long second.

Then typed: 

Barely. My nervous system has been smashed to bits and pieces.

The reply came almost immediately.

Do I want to know?

Jimin hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then, against all logic and self-preservation, he smiled.

No. But apparently you owe me short ribs.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Name the day, sunshine.

Jimin’s heart did something small and traitorous.

He locked his phone before he could answer too quickly, slipped it into his coat pocket, and started walking.

Goddess help him.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Namjoon’s place always felt a little too calm for someone who used to drive a machine at three hundred kilometers per hour for a living.

There were no sharp edges anywhere—just soft light, warm surfaces, and the quiet hum of a space that had been thoroughly claimed by shared domesticity, courtesy of Namjoon’s mate. It smelled like citrus and whatever expensive candle Seokjin had decided was essential for nesting. Jungkook suspected at least three of them were burning at once, stealing the much needed oxygen from the air.

Seokjin, his brother’s mate and omega, was seated at the dining table already, one hand wrapped around a glass of sparkling water, the other resting possessively on his stomach like the baby might try to escape if left unsupervised. He wore loose knitwear and an expression of deep satisfaction and happiness.

Namjoon moved between kitchen and table with practiced ease, barefoot, apron on, utterly homely in a way that still startled Jungkook every time he got to see it. 

It was weird to see his brother this way, when he had made his life a living hell as children (affectionately). 

“You’re late again,” Seokjin complained immediately, looking at him with a raised brow.

“I’m on time,” Jungkook replied unbothered, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.

“You said seven,” Seokjin countered.

“It’s seven-oh-three.”

Seokjin gasped, placing one hand on his heart, feigning shock. “Namjoon. He’s changed.”

His mate glanced at the clock, then shrugged. “He used to be worse.”

“Traitor,” Jungkook muttered, sitting down, not quite being able to hide his grin.

Meanwhile, his brother set a bowl of food in front of him. “Eat. You look like you forgot how to.”

“That’s because he lives on caffeine and spite,” Seokjin added. “I’ve been saying this for years.”

Jungkook took a bite. Paused. Then took another.

“… Okay,” he admitted reluctantly. “This is good. When did you learn how to cook?”

Namjoon smirked. “You’re welcome. And I won’t reveal my secrets.”

Seokjin looked at his mate affectionately, then leaned forward in Jungkook’s direction eagerly. “So … dearest brother in law. How is work?”

Jungkook stiffened. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Because,” Seokjin said sweetly, “you haven’t complained about anything yet.”

Jungkook gasped playfully, “What? That can’t be. I complain all the time.”

“I wouldn’t say you complain,” Namjoon teased. “You rant. Complaining has structure, at least.”

Seokjin nodded. “And emotional vulnerability.”

Jungkook groaned. “It was a mistake coming here. You always end up ganging up on me. I hate it here.”

“No you don’t,” Seokjin said. “You sold us this place. Which means you are emotionally invested.”

Namjoon added, helpfully, “Legally, as well.”

They ate for a moment, Jungkook hoping—foolishly—that the topic would drift away from work.

It did not.

“So,” Seokjin said again, drawing the word out. “Anything interesting happening at Vanguard? Any new listings worth mentioning?”

Jungkook swallowed, trying to divert the topic somehow. “No.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, looking at him with suspicion. “That was too fast.”

“It’s the truth. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“You usually say ‘nothing worth mentioning,’” Seokjin pointed out. “This was just ‘no.’”

Jungkook sighed. “You two have become unbearable.”

“Pregnancy,” Seokjin said proudly, caressing the gentle curve of his belly. “It unlocks new powers.”

Namjoon nodded. “Mostly mind-reading.”

Jungkook stabbed at his food. “Listings are fine. Clients are annoying. Market’s volatile. The end.”

Seokjin hummed. “That’s not interesting.”

Namjoon leaned back. “Try again.”

Jungkook glared. “Why are you guys like this?”

“Because we love you and care,” Seokjin remarked mischievously. “And because I’m bored and want to hear something interesting. So spill, please. Provide us with some much needed drama. ”

Namjoon gestured toward Seokjin’s stomach. “And because the little one has been keeping us on our feet with all the cravings it has awakened in my beautiful mate.”

Seokjin perked up. “Oh! Speaking of—did we tell you? We are not going to ask for the gender.”

Jungkook looked up. “Still?”

“Still,” Seokjin said. “We want it to be a surprise.”

Namjoon added, “Plus we like the chaos. And hate gender reveal parties. As something always seems to be going wrong for some reason.”

“But,” Seokjin continued, eyes sparkling, “we are talking about names.”

Jungkook froze, suspicion reaching a crescendo.

“… Why are you smiling like that?”

Namjoon grinned, clearly being in on the joke. “Oh nothing. We are just throwing ideas around.”

“No,” Jungkook said immediately, realizing what his brother was hinting at. “Don’t!”

“What?” Seokjin asked innocently. “We haven’t even said anything yet.”

“I know you guys inside out. We have spent too much time together.”

Seokjin clasped his hands. “What do you think of Jungkook Junior?”

Jungkook gagged.

“That is not—no. Absolutely not.”

Namjoon laughed out loud, clearly having achieved what he had wanted. “He hates it.”

“I don’t hate it,” Jungkook said, horrified. “I reject it on a fundamental level.”

Seokjin wiped at his eyes. “Imagine calling for him at the playground.”

“Stop.”

“‘Jungkook!’” Seokjin tried again, louder. “‘No, not you. The little one!’”

“That’s not funny,” Jungkook protested.

“It’s very funny,” Namjoon said.

“That is my name,” Jungkook insisted. “Singular. Unique. There should only be one.”

Seokjin tilted his head. “We could spell it differently, of course.”

Jungkook stared at him. “I will move countries if you do that!”

Namjoon was clutching his stomach now, he was giggling so hard. “Relax. We’re not naming our child after you.”

Seokjin sighed dramatically. “Sadly, we are not. But it was a very strong contender. As we envision a future like yours for our little one.”

Jungkook slumped back in his chair. “I need a drink.”

They settled again, food half-finished, good wine loosening the conversation, enough that the sharp edges of Jungkook’s day began to blur. The topics drifted from Seokjin’s newest craving to Namjoon’s plans for the nursery, and then to the baby name debate again. 

Jungkook let himself listen more than speak. The wine was thrumming through his system pleasantly, and the warmth and conversation around him created a comforting atmosphere of calm.

He loved watching the two bicker and adore each other, loved the care that they so freely expressed for each other, and the family they were building for themselves. In between all the affection he felt for them, he could feel something else. 

A feeling, he didn’t really want right this moment. It was a pang of longing he felt had no place here. 

He thought of Jimin—the thought sitting in Jungkook’s chest until it became too heavy to swallow down. 

So tired, a little tipsy and far too unguarded, with the wish of sharing his inner world lodged in the forefront of his mind, he heard himself say, “Well … there’s … someone at work.”

The air shifted.

Seokjin went still, intrigue making him sit up straight, while his brother slowly set his fork down.

“Oh? Someone …,” Seokjin echoed, heavy implication dripping from .

Jungkook immediately regretted having said anything, hiding his face behind the palm of his hands. “May the goddess help me!”

“You don’t just say ‘someone,’” Namjoon said carefully. “You usually use the terms ‘agent’ or ‘problem.’”

Seokjin leaned forward, eyes bright. “Is he hot?”

Jungkook choked. “That’s not—”

“A he,” Namjoon repeated.

Jungkook closed his eyes. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t correct it,” Seokjin said triumphantly.

Jungkook exhaled, defeated. And he also needed advice on how to get closer to his … situationship. If you could even call it that. “His name is Jimin.”

Seokjin gasped like he’d just been handed the keys to the city. “Oh, that’s a pretty name.”

Namjoon nodded. “An omega?"

“Yes.”

“At Vanguard?”

“Yes.”

Seokjin clasped his hands again. “Tell me everything.”

“There is not much to tell,” Jungkook said. “He’s just … a little bit complicated.”

Namjoon hummed. “That’s usually the beginning of it all. That’s how it started with me and Seokjin.”

“Well,” Jungkook added, rubbing the back of his neck, “he doesn’t like people being too close.”

Seokjin softened instantly. “Oh.”

Namjoon looked at Jungkook. “And you?”

Jungkook hesitated. “… Apparently, I got too close.”

Seokjin smiled, clearly happy that the alpha seemed to care about someone else than himself for once. “You want him to be more comfortable with you.”

Jungkook didn’t argue that. It was the truth. The more time he spent with the omega, the more he caught himself daydreaming about a future with him. Going on dates, learning everything there was to know about him, even the most minor details. He wanted it all with Jimin. And that thought scared him.

Because what if the omega would try to leave his life completely if he got a step too close. What if he left and Jungkook would never be able to see him again, to bury his face in the omega’s neck. He did not think he could survive a day without Jimin’s teasing, without his presence invading all of his senses. 

The sex was one thing, but the alpha had known for a while that this whole thing was developing into something more. Something vulnerable and soft. 

Jungkook had never felt that way before. He had thought he was in love with his past relationship but after his last breakup five years ago, he had felt so numb and lost that he had started to question love itself. Had he ever truly been in love? Was there even such a thing as true love—soulmates even? 

But Jimin … he made him believe. That there was some semblance of fate in this world. That the goddess had a plan for everyone. Even though he would never admit this fact aloud. 

His daydream though … they had become more frequent with every day that he spent with Jimin. With every laugh that he teased out of the omega and every rebuttal that left him speechless and thinking about it for hours afterwards. 

His alpha had grown more restless the last couple of days and the urge to claim Jimin for his own had gotten worse. But he held back for the omega’s sake. Because he knew that if he moved too quickly, it would be over. And that was even worse than everything staying how it had been since their agreement had started. 

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Six months working at Vanguard and Jimin had finally started to feel more comfortable at the office. Everyone was really nice and supportive, he had found great friends in Taehyung and Yoongi, regularly going out for drinks with them. Jungkook occasionally trailed along, though Jimin didn’t mind, as long as he stayed away. 

Jimin finally felt like it had all been worth it: the pre-licensing education, the license application, the networking, the interviews, the work it had taken to be hired by a prestigious real estate agency in the first place. It felt like all of it had become something solid beneath his feet.

One thing that hadn’t changed though was Jimin’s sleep schedule. With him staying late all the time, and arriving quite early in the morning, he hadn’t gotten the hours he should have. Today was no different, as it was already quite late—too late for the bullpen to still be lit the way it was. Jimin sat at his desk with his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair no longer perfectly in place. He had been staring at the same listing for several minutes without actually seeing it, the letters and pretty pictures blurring in front of his eyes.

The omega rubbed his eyes, trying to refocus them somehow, which resulted in his eyes landing back on the alpha across from him. 

Of course, Jungkook was still here as well.

He had been there for hours.

This had become a sort of game and they weren’t even pretending anymore.

At first, it had just been a coincidence. Late closings, overlapping clients, and the occasional shared elevator ride—the tension growing thicker and more palpable by the day. Then it became a pattern too obvious to ignore. Jimin would stay late, Jungkook would stay even later. Or the other way around. As if staying longer than the other had become a silent competition between the two of them.

They didn’t talk much.

They simply shared the same space, tension stretching thin between them like a live wire.

Jimin could feel the alpha’s presence without even checking to see if he was still there.

Which really was the worst part.

“Eventually, you’re going to burn a hole into that screen,” Jungkook commented, chuckling a little.

Jimin didn’t look up, trying to force his eyes to focus back on the screen. “Just because you’re still here doesn’t mean you get to patronize me.”

“Ha. You’re one to talk. Why are you even still here?”

“I have my reasons,” the omega bit his bottom lip—his heart was starting to accelerate and he really didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“Well,” Jungkook said, voice dropping slightly, “so do I.”

That finally made Jimin glance over.

Jungkook was leaning back in his chair, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up in a way that had become unbearably familiar. His gaze was steady and unreadable, fixed on Jimin the same way it had been for months now. Though it was now dropping from the omega’s eyes to his lips, making Jimin’s heart thump irregularly.

“What are your reasons?” Jimin asked before he could stop himself. The thrill was startling his body awake, and his cursed desire burned beneath his skin in anticipation.

Jungkook hesitated just long enough to be honest without saying too much.

“I didn’t feel like leaving.”

That sent another ripple through Jimin’s chest he didn’t like.

He closed his tablet with a soft click, cleared his throat, and stood more abruptly than necessary. “I’m getting some water.”

“Mmh,” Jungkook grinned. “I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

But it was already too late. The alpha was trailing behind him, closer than necessary.

They ended up in the office kitchen anyway, quiet and half-lit, the hum of the refrigerator sounding louder than usual now that everyone else had gone home. Jimin leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely, while Jungkook stood a little too close for comfort, reaching past him for a glass with deliberate carelessness.

His arm brushed Jimin’s sleeve, which felt like an electrical shock on his arm. A shiver ran up his spine, his skin prickling.

“Did you do that on purpose?” he hissed, keeping his voice low.

Jungkook paused, acting confused. “Did what?”

“Stand like that.”

Jungkook's grin spread even wider, his stance unmoving. “Like what?”

Jimin lifted his gaze to him then, lingering on his lips for a breath of a second. “Like you’re deciding whether to pull me close or eat me alive.”

Jungkook let out a quiet sound—not quite a laugh. More surprised than anything else.

“You think I don’t notice?” Jimin asked incredulously. His mind was racing.

Jungkook swallowed, his adam’s apple bopping. Jimin got the unnerving urge to lick it. To be fair, he wanted to do a lot of unhinged things to the alpha. If he could only claw this wall between the down …

“I think you notice everything.” Jungkook stepped even closer.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Jungkook said, voice quieter now. “It isn’t.”

The silence between them shifted, like an animal preparing for attack.

Jimin hated it. Hated how easily Jungkook could step over lines that had never been spoken aloud and act like they had always been negotiable.

“Don’t,” Jimin said, quietly but firmly, shifting his weight back.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t push it.”

Jungkook held still at that, eyes searching Jimin’s face. “I’m not trying to push anything, nor corner you.”

“Feels like it.”

Jungkook immediately stepped back, his arms raised, “That wasn’t my intention, I’m sorry.”

Just enough that Jimin could breathe again.

That was somehow worse, the absence making his omega wish that Jungkook would close the gap again. Rational thought was battling his omega and Jimin wasn’t sure who would come out victorious at the end of this.

“This is a very bad idea,” Jimin whispered.

“Probably,” Jungkook agreed without argument.

“You’re an alpha.”

“And you’re an omega,” Jungkook said, his cheeky smile returning. “I noticed.”

Jimin shot him a look, one brow raised. He hated how much he liked this smile of his, how it could sweeten his day instantly. How it could turn his whole world around in an instant. And how unsure he himself was, about what it all meant.

Jungkook’s big brown eyes seemed to twinkle, as he leaned a bit closer. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” Jungkook admitted. “But I am listening.”

Jimin looked away, staring at the blank stretch of counter as if it could offer him an exit. “This would complicate everything.”

“Only if we let it.”

“That is a very alpha thing to say.”

“It is a very Jimin thing to pretend you haven’t been eye-fucking me over your screen for months.”

Jimin’s gaze snapped back to him, a gasp escaping his lips.

Jungkook held eye contact confidently.

“Who stays late when I stay late,” Jungkook continued, voice lower now. “Who remembers my coffee order even though I never told him outright. Who looks at me like he is trying to decide whether he wants to kiss me or kill me.”

Jimin’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out fast enough.

Jungkook’s gaze dropped briefly to Jimin’s lips again, before returning to his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Jimin’s fingers curled against the edge of the counter, his whole body wanting to lean closer to the alpha.

“You’re arrogant.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

The proximity was too much and too little at the same time. Jungkook’s scent was carefully blocked, but not completely gone. Underneath the neutral layer of suppressant, there was still something citrus at first, then warmer, edged with wood and spice. It made Jimin’s body react before his pride could stop it. It smelled really good, making him want to nose the alpha’s scent glands.

He hated that most of all.

“This really is a mistake,” Jimin repeated, quieter this time. He could feel his resolve slipping.

“Then define the terms.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Define the terms,” Jungkook reiterated, his expression serious. “You always do better when you know where the boundaries are.”

Jimin studied him for a long second. “You want terms?”

“I want you to stop looking like you’re about to bolt and face this connection that we clearly have.”

“I am considering it.”

“I can see that.”

Jungkook said it gently. No teasing. No smugness.

Jimin exhaled slowly.

Fine.

If Jungkook wanted terms, Jimin could give him terms. Terms were safe. Terms could be reviewed, accepted, rejected, amended, as well as terminated.

The omega straightened, resolve locking back into place, his shoulders squaring as if he were closing a deal.

“First,” he said, voice steadier now. “This is not a relationship.”

A muscle in Jungkook’s eye twitched, though he nodded. “Okay.”

“It is not dating.”

“Okay.”

“It is not romantic.”

Jungkook’s face remained carefully neutral. “Understood.”

Jimin watched him for a reaction. There was none.

That made it easier to continue.

“And it is not exclusive,” Jimin said.

Jungkook’s jaw moved once, barely visible.

Ah. Jimin waited for another reaction. But Jungkook only nodded. “Understood.”

“If either of us wants to see someone else, we can.”

“Do you want to see someone else?”

“That is not the point.”

“It feels relevant.”

“It is not relevant right now.”

“Okay.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to be difficult about every clause?”

Jungkook’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m just reading the fine print.”

“There is no fine print.”

“With you? There is always fine print.”

Jimin ignored the warmth that threatened to rise in his chest.

“Second: You do not take anything from me that I don’t give explicitly.”

Jungkook’s expression changed at once, something hard and serious settling over his face. “Agreed.”

“No touching without permission when we are at work.”

“Agreed.”

“No marks,” Jimin said.

Jungkook went very still.

“No claiming bites. No mating bite. No accidental ‘I got carried away’ nonsense.” Jimin’s voice sharpened. “If you even get close to my neck without asking, we are done.”

Jungkook’s gaze rose to his again, dark and steady. “I would never take that from you. What do you think of me?”

Jimin shrugged. “One can never be too careful.”

“Valid. What else?”

Jimin swallowed. “If I say stop, you stop.”

“Immediately.”

“No questions.”

“No questions.”

“If I pull away, you let me.”

“Yes.”

“If I need space, you give it.”

“Yes.”

“If I decide this is over, it is over.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Okay.”

“No arguing?”

“No arguing.”

“No trying to convince me?”

Jungkook hesitated for a sliver of a second.

Jimin lifted a brow challenging him to argue back.

The alpha sighed. “No trying to convince you.”

“Good.”

Jimin reached for his glass of water, mostly to give his hands something to do.

“Professionally,” he continued, because that part mattered as well, “this does not affect our work. You do not interfere with my listings because of this. I do not interfere with your buyers because of this.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched. “You already interfere with my buyers.”

“Because your buyers are often wrong.”

“And your sellers are emotionally attached to bad pricing.”

“Do you want this agreement or not?”

Jungkook held up one hand. “Fine. Work stays work.”

“Exactly. No jealousy in the office. No public scenes. No using client access carelessly.”

Jimin pressed on. “If this ever happens outside the office, it happens somewhere private. Not in the bullpen. Not in conference rooms. Not anywhere Hoseok’s cameras, logs, or broker paranoia can find us.”

Jungkook huffed softly. “Broker paranoia.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I do.”

“And if we ever use a listing—”

“When,” Jungkook corrected, then immediately looked too pleased with himself.

Jimin stared at him.

Jungkook cleared his throat. “Sorry. If.”

“If we ever use a listing,” Jimin repeated, slower now, “then no clients are scheduled, no seller is expected, no open house, no broker preview, no undocumented access that can come back to bite us.”

“That is a lot of rules for something that has not happened yet.”

“It is called risk management.”

“It is called premeditation.”

“It is called not getting fired.”

Jungkook smiled despite himself. “Fair.”

“And scent blockers,” Jimin said. “Before and after.”

“Agreed.”

“We clean up.”

“Obviously.”

“We leave no trace and no sleeping over,” he said.

Jungkook’s expression did something strange, but it was gone—too quickly to name.

Jungkook leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folding loosely over his chest. “You have a very specific definition of sex without feelings.”

Jimin looked down at his glass. “Do not psychoanalyze me.”

“Noted.”

Silence settled between them again, but it was different now. Jungkook pushed away from the counter, slowly enough that Jimin would have time to tell him not to.

He stopped an arm’s length away.

Jungkook nodded. “Then I agree to your terms.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That makes this sound like escrow.”

“You said no real-estate metaphors yet.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You implied it.”

“You are already being annoying.”

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

Jimin set his glass down with deliberate care. He felt like this was it—the moment his body had been anticipating for so long. And he had never felt more ready for something.

He could feel the pull more strongly now that he was not pretending it wasn’t there—the way Jungkook filled the space without crowding it, the way his presence anchored and unsettled him all at once. Up close like this, it was impossible not to notice the details Jimin usually forced himself to ignore: the clean line of his jaw, the way his sleeves were rolled just high enough to expose strong forearms, veins faintly visible beneath warm skin, the way his black hair curled slightly around his face.

Annoyingly, infuriatingly attractive. 

Jungkook didn’t move first. He watched and waited, letting Jimin decide.

The omega stepped forward, slow and measured, closing the last inch between them.

He could feel Jungkook’s breath now, warm and steady, plus the faint scent beneath the blocker. Jimin didn’t give himself time to overthink or change his mind.

He reached up, fingers curling into the loosened knot of Jungkook’s tie, yanking just enough to draw him in.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, surprise flashing across his face before something darker settled in its place. His eyes darted over his face, taking in every detail, his lips parting. Jimin couldn’t hold back anymore.

Their mouths met—rushed and impatient.

Jungkook’s hand came up to Jimin’s waist, warm and solid through the fabric, but he stopped there. Jimin kissed him harder.

Jungkook tasted like coffee and something unmistakably him, and Jimin hated how easily his body responded, how his pulse jumped the moment Jungkook tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

Goddess, he was hot.

Not just in the obvious ways—though there were plenty of those—but in the way he paid attention. The way his hand stayed exactly where Jimin allowed it. The way he kissed like he was responding to all the little signals Jimin was sending. The omega let out a quiet moan before he could stop himself and felt Jungkook smile against his mouth.

“Tell me if I cross a line,” Jungkook murmured.

His hand shifted slightly over Jimin’s lower back, dangerously close to his ass, then stopped again. Waiting.

Jimin could have laughed at how absurdly polite it was.

Instead, he slid his other hand up Jungkook’s chest, fingers splaying over the warm fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady strength and rigid muscle beneath it.

The alpha’s breath stuttered, just barely.

“You can touch me,” Jimin said, voice rougher than he liked. “There.”

Jungkook’s fingers flexed once. “There?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make me say it twice.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Maybe.”

Then his hand slid lower, finally gripping him the way he had clearly wanted to for weeks, and Jimin’s breath broke against his mouth.

He kissed him again—harder and more demanding this time—letting himself feel it all: the heat, the pull, the undeniable fact that Jungkook was devastatingly close and still, somehow, careful.

When they finally broke apart, it was only by a fraction, foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling.

Jimin’s heart was racing its own little marathon, and for one ridiculous second he wondered whether a kiss could make him die of a heart attack.

Jungkook’s eyes were dark, steady, focused entirely on him.

“This,” Jimin said, voice a little rougher than he liked, “is as far as we go tonight.”

Jungkook nodded without hesitation. “Okay.”

Jimin searched his face for resistance.

There was none.

Not even disappointment, really. Want, yes. So much of it that Jimin could feel it like heat against his skin. But no resentment. No pressure.

He stepped back first, fingers loosening from Jungkook’s tie, reclaiming space with visible effort.

“You really are unfairly attractive,” Jimin muttered, more to himself than anything else.

Jungkook’s mouth curved. “Ah. You noticed?”

“Unfortunately.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the air between them still warm, still charged, but contained.

“So,” Jungkook said, voice low. “Terms accepted?”

Jimin looked at him over the rim of the glass.

“For now.”

Jungkook smiled, looking very pleased with himself.

“For now,” he repeated.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Jungkook sat at his desk with his eyes fixed on the screen, the cursor blinking patiently in the middle of an email he had not written a single word of.

It had been blinking for minutes.

The subject line was there. The greeting, too. A perfectly harmless message to a buyer who wanted to know whether the seller would consider including the built-in shelving in the offer, which was the kind of question Jungkook could usually answer in his sleep. Today, however, the words refused to arrange themselves into anything useful. His fingers rested on the keyboard without moving, his attention drifting—inevitably, embarrassingly—somewhere warmer than the bullpen.

To Jimin.

Not Jimin at his desk, polished and untouchable, lips glossed, posture immaculate, eyes sharp enough to cut through bad pricing strategy and worse excuses. Not Jimin with a tablet tucked under one arm, professionally dismantling a buyer’s attempt at leverage with a smile so polite it made grown men reconsider their life choices.

No.

This Jimin existed only in Jungkook’s head, which was exactly the problem.

Jimin in his kitchen. Not a staged one, not marble and brass and narrative lighting, but Jungkook’s actual kitchen, with the little scratch on the counter he kept meaning to fix and the mug he always forgot in the sink. Jimin barefoot on the warm floor, blonde hair dark and damp from a late shower, wearing one of Jungkook’s shirts like it had always belonged to him, the hem barely covering the curve of his ass as he complained about a seller who thought “market value” was a personal insult.

In the fantasy, Jimin did not retreat when Jungkook stepped close. He did not tense as if closeness were a negotiation he had forgotten to prepare for. He simply stayed. Leaned back when Jungkook pressed a kiss to his temple. Hummed when Jungkook wrapped an arm around his waist. Let himself be held without turning the moment into a clause, a condition, a boundary drawn in permanent ink before anyone could hurt him.

In the fantasy, Jungkook did not have to count minutes or measure distance. He did not have to pretend that wanting more was a manageable thing, something that could be kept neatly in the space between private showings and professional emails. He did not have to ask permission to imagine Jimin in his life beyond stolen hours and closed doors.

In the fantasy, Jimin wanted it too.

The thought tightened something in Jungkook’s chest so sharply that he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, as if the cheap office tiles might be capable of talking sense into him.

They were not.

Get it together.

This was exactly the kind of thinking that got him in trouble. The kind of softness that made people careless. The kind of longing that took a perfectly functional arrangement and started furnishing it with domestic fantasies, as if Jungkook had not agreed—explicitly, repeatedly, and with full awareness of the consequences—to keep things simple.

Jimin had been clear. Boundaries. Terms. No assumptions. No domestic nonsense.

And yet Jungkook’s mind, apparently, had decided to become a furnished apartment with Jimin’s name already on the lease.

“Uh—Jungkook?”

He blinked.

The office returned all at once: the hum of the bullpen, the ringing phone near reception, the distant sound of someone laughing too loudly by the printer. Jungkook lowered his gaze and found Yoongi standing at the edge of his desk with a tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.

“Yes?” Jungkook said automatically, then softened his voice when he noticed the strange tension in Yoongi’s shoulders. “Sorry. What’s up?”

Yoongi shifted his weight. He looked uncomfortable in a way Jungkook had rarely seen before. Min Yoongi did not usually look uncomfortable; he looked bored, vaguely inconvenienced, or spiritually divorced from whatever chaos happened around him. Seeing him hover at the edge of Jungkook’s desk as if asking for help might physically pain him was unusual enough that Jungkook straightened.

“Can I ask you something?” Yoongi said, then immediately made a face, as if he regretted the sentence halfway through. “Not work-related.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking me? That’s new.”

“I know,” Yoongi muttered, expression annoyed. “That’s why it’s already going badly.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of Jungkook before he could stop it. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit before you change your mind.”

Yoongi looked like he very much wanted to change his mind, but after a moment he sat down anyway, perching on the edge of the chair with his tablet still held against his chest. For a while, he said nothing. His jaw worked, his gaze fixed somewhere near Jungkook’s desk lamp, as if the words needed to be dragged out of him by force.

Finally, he exhaled.

“I have a problem.”

Jungkook leaned back. “Join the club.”

Yoongi shot him a look. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

That earned him a brief, unwilling twitch of Yoongi’s mouth, but it vanished almost immediately. He glanced over his shoulder once, toward the far side of the bullpen where Taehyung was leaning against someone’s desk, gesturing dramatically with one hand while the other held an iced coffee he had almost certainly forgotten to drink.

Then Yoongi looked back down at his tablet and said, so quickly the words nearly blurred together, “I might have a crush on Taehyung.”

Jungkook went still.

For a second, all he could do was stare at him.

“… You what?”

Yoongi winced, already shrinking back as if he could physically remove himself from the confession. “That is the reaction I was afraid of.”

“No,” Jungkook said quickly, lowering his voice. “No, I’m not judging. I’m just—” He blinked, then glanced toward Taehyung again, who was now laughing at something with his whole body, head tipped back, throat exposed, sunlight catching in his hair. “You and Taehyung?”

“Please don’t say it like that,” Yoongi groaned. “And you are being way too loud.”

“I’m whispering.”

“You should work on your whispering skills then.”

Jungkook huffed softly, but leaned forward, elbows settling on the desk. “Okay. Start over. What kind of crush are we talking about?”

Yoongi stared at his hands for a long moment. When he finally answered, his voice had lost its usual dry edge.

“The really inconvenient kind.”

Ah.

Jungkook felt the humor in him soften into something else.

“Sounds rough,” he said gently.

Yoongi’s eyes snapped up. “You’re not allowed to say that like you understand.”

Jungkook paused.

Then, slowly, because apparently honesty had become contagious in this office, he said, “I might.”

Yoongi looked at him properly then. Not the quick, unimpressed glance he usually spared people who annoyed him, but a real look, sharp and assessing. His expression shifted in tiny increments: surprise first, then suspicion, then the faintest spark of recognition.

“… Huh,” he said. “That explains a lot.”

Jungkook ignored that, mostly because it probably explained more than he wanted to admit. “Why Taehyung?”

Yoongi gave a quiet, helpless snort. “Have you met him?”

“Are you ignoring the multiple times we went out for a drink? The fact that we share the same office for eight to nine hours a day?”

“He’s loud,” Yoongi continued unperturbed, though there was no real criticism in it. His gaze moved again, almost against his will, toward Taehyung across the room. “And dramatic. And impossible. And somehow still the most talented person in the room, which is deeply annoying because he knows it, but also somehow doesn’t.”

Jungkook followed his gaze.

Taehyung had moved on to leaning over their co-worker’s monitor, one hand pressed to his chest in theatrical offense, probably because someone had disagreed with his assessment of a floor plan or lighting temperature or whatever spiritual crisis he had assigned to an apartment that morning.

Yoongi’s voice dropped.

“He notices things,” he said. “Even when he pretends not to. He notices when people are tired. When a client gets too sharp. When a room changes. When someone says something as a joke and means something else underneath.”

Jungkook felt the words land somewhere uncomfortable.

“And,” Yoongi added after a moment, quieter still, “he doesn’t make me feel boring.”

That, more than anything else, made Jungkook look back at him.

There was nothing theatrical about Yoongi now. No dry comment waiting behind his teeth. No carefully bored expression. Just a beta sitting across from him in the middle of a luxury real estate office, admitting with obvious reluctance that someone had made him feel seen in a way he did not know what to do with.

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s significant.”

Yoongi slumped back in his chair as if the confession had drained him. “Here’s the problem.”

“You mean besides him being Taehyung?”

Yoongi gave him a flat look.

“Sorry.”

“I’m a beta,” Yoongi said.

Jungkook did not interrupt.

“I don’t have pheromones. I don’t have that pull. Not the instinctive kind. I can’t walk into a room and make an omega turn their head because my scent decided to announce itself like a dramatic entrance.” His mouth twisted slightly. “And Taehyung is an omega. A very omega omega.”

Despite himself, Jungkook snorted. “That is certainly one way to put it.”

“You know what I mean,” Yoongi said, rubbing a hand over his face. “He thrives on attention. On being wanted. On scent and chemistry and all the stupid biological theatre the rest of you pretend is sophisticated.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.” Yoongi’s shoulders hunched a little. “He flirts with alphas like it’s a sport. He likes being admired. He likes the game. And I don’t even know if I register to him like that.”

Jungkook was quiet for a moment.

He thought of Jimin, because lately everything led back to Jimin. Jimin, who reacted to scenting like it was both invitation and threat. Jimin, who could become pliant under the right touch and unreachable under the wrong word. Jimin, who had taught Jungkook, without meaning to, that instinct was powerful, yes, but never simple. Never enough on its own. Sometimes scent made the wanting stronger. Sometimes it made the fear worse.

“You’re assuming a lot,” Jungkook said finally.

Yoongi frowned. “Like what?”

“That Taehyung wants to be overwhelmed. That pheromones are the deciding factor. That instinct beats choice.”

Yoongi’s expression tightened. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not always.” Jungkook leaned back, choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes instinct just makes things stronger. Messier. Harder to ignore. That doesn’t mean it makes them better.”

Yoongi watched him closely. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Jungkook did not answer that directly.

“Taehyung likes attention,” he said instead. “Sure. He likes being admired. He likes drama. He likes knowing he can walk into a room and make everyone look.” He glanced across the bullpen again. “But that doesn’t mean he wants to be reduced to it. He likes being seen. Not just wanted. Not competed over.”

Yoongi swallowed.

The words seemed to reach him slowly.

“And you think I could do that?” he asked.

Jungkook looked at him. “I think you already do.”

Yoongi blinked. “I do?”

“You listen,” Jungkook said. “You let him talk himself into three different conclusions before you say anything, and somehow he doesn’t feel ignored. You remember his bullshit stories and don’t call them bullshit to his face.”

“I do call them bullshit.”

“Not to his face.”

“Sometimes to his face.”

“Lovingly,” Jungkook corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Yoongi looked unconvinced, but not entirely.

“And when everyone else flirts with him,” Jungkook continued, “you treat him like a person. Like someone whose talent is real. Like someone whose drama isn’t the only thing worth noticing.”

Yoongi stared down at the tablet in his lap. His fingers moved over the edge of the case, slow and restless.

“That doesn’t sound very romantic,” he said.

Jungkook smiled faintly. “It is, actually. Just a quieter form of it.”

Yoongi sat with that for a while.

Across the room, Taehyung laughed again, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s gaze moved toward him before he could stop it. The look on his face was so soft and carefully hidden that Jungkook felt, for a second, like he was intruding on something private.

“… So what do I do?” Yoongi asked finally.

Jungkook thought about it.

Then, because the advice sounded simple only to people who had never had to follow it, he said, “You don’t compete with alphas. You don’t try to be louder than instinct. You don’t perform something that isn’t yours.” He paused. “You just ask him.”

Yoongi’s face twisted. “That sounds horrifying.”

“It is.”

“Terrible advice.”

“Probably.”

“And yet?”

“And yet,” Jungkook said, quieter now, “wanting someone is always terrifying. Doesn’t matter what you are.”

Yoongi studied him for a long second.

Then his expression shifted again, sharper now, but not unkind. “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

Jungkook exhaled slowly.

For a moment, he could have denied it. He knew how. He had built entire professional relationships on saying only what was useful and hiding the rest under charm, competence, and good timing.

But Yoongi had just put his own heart on Jungkook’s desk like an accidentally misplaced folder. The least Jungkook could do was not insult him with a lie.

“I might be,” he admitted.

Yoongi nodded, strangely reassured by that. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Yoongi repeated, standing with his tablet clutched a little less defensively now. “Then I’ll try.”

Jungkook smiled. “Good.”

Yoongi paused beside the chair, then pointed at him with the tablet. “If you tell Taehyung I said any of this, I will deny it and then ruin your life through administrative inconvenience.”

Jungkook snorted. “I value my life.”

“Good.”

Yoongi walked away, shoulders still tense but a little straighter than before.

Jungkook watched him cross the bullpen, watched the way Taehyung looked up the second Yoongi approached as if some invisible thread had tugged at him. Taehyung’s smile changed when he saw him. Not widened, exactly. Softened. Became something less performative, something Jungkook suspected Yoongi had never properly noticed because he was too busy assuming he didn’t register.

It really was too obvious.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair again, the abandoned email still blinking on his screen, patient and accusing.

His gaze drifted—against his better judgment—toward Jimin’s empty desk across from his.

The yearning returned immediately, familiar and unwelcome, settling beneath his ribs like it had always lived there.

Instinct didn’t decide everything.

He knew that. Believed it, even.

But goddess help him, it made the wanting louder.

And Jungkook had never been very good at wanting something halfway.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Hoseok’s office was quieter than the bullpen, the glass walls dimmed just enough to give the illusion of privacy.

Jimin stood across from his desk with his tablet tucked under one arm like armor, posture straight, chin lifted. The room smelled faintly of vanilla latte, paper, and the expensive citrus hand cream Hoseok kept beside his keyboard because, according to him, “dry hands were the first step toward spiritual collapse.”

Normally, that kind of thing would have made Jimin smile.

Today, it did not.

Hoseok sat behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his red tie loosened just enough to suggest that the day had already tried to kill him on multiple occasions. There was a pastry box open near the corner of his desk, mostly untouched. A bad sign. Hoseok only ignored pastries when something was very wrong.

He rubbed at his temple, then looked up.

“Before you panic,” he said, voice warm but tired, “you’re not in trouble.”

Jimin’s mouth tightened. “That is usually what people say right before explaining how much trouble someone is in.”

Hoseok huffed a small laugh. “Fair.”

Then the smile slipped.

Not completely. Hoseok rarely let it disappear all the way. But it dimmed, and the broker emerged beneath the warmth: sharp-eyed, exhausted, responsible for every deal, every disclosure, every agent, every client who walked through Vanguard’s glass doors.

“Mercer,” Hoseok said.

Jimin’s spine straightened further. “It’s performing exactly as projected.”

“Nineteen days on market,” Hoseok replied, tapping his tablet once. “No second showings. Showing traffic dropped after the second week. Buyer feedback is consistent.”

“Buyer feedback is not gospel.”

“No,” Hoseok agreed. “But when it repeats, I have to pay attention.”

Jimin did not blink. “We are filtering out buyers who want leverage instead of commitment.”

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, studying him. “That sounds like you.”

“It sounds like the strategy.”

“It sounds like both.”

Silence settled between them, sharp and unpleasant.

Jimin’s grip tightened around the edge of his tablet. “If this is about Jungkook-ssi’s buyers—”

“It’s not about Jungkook-ssi,” Hoseok said immediately, then paused. “Not only about him.”

Jimin’s expression cooled.

Hoseok caught it and sighed. “See? That face. That very exact face is why I sometimes wish I had brought wine instead of coffee.”

“This is a brokerage, not a therapy circle.”

“Unfortunately,” Hoseok muttered. “It would explain some of the paperwork.”

Despite himself, Jimin almost smiled.

Almost.

Hoseok’s gaze softened for a second, but when he spoke again, the strictness returned.

“I’ve reviewed the showing notes, the feedback reports, the seller update you sent last night, and the email chain with the interested buyers. You documented everything correctly. Your comps are solid. Your reasoning is clear. I’m not questioning your competence.”

Jimin waited.

Because there was always a but.

Hoseok exhaled slowly. “But I am questioning whether holding at nine-eight is still serving the seller.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. “The seller agreed with my recommendation.”

“The seller agreed because they trust you.”

“As they should.”

“Yes,” Hoseok said. “They should. But trust does not mean we never reassess.”

Jimin looked away for half a second, toward the blurred glass wall and the moving shapes of the bullpen beyond it. “You think I’m being stubborn.”

“I think you’re brilliant,” Hoseok said, almost too quickly. “And I think sometimes you decide that conceding even an inch means losing the whole room.”

Jimin’s chest tightened.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Maybe not.” Hoseok leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “But as your broker, I need to ask the question.”

There it was.

As your broker.

Not as your friend, but as the person whose license sat beneath every transaction in the office, whose signature carried the risk when agents turned instinct into strategy and strategy into war.

Jimin forced his voice to stay even. “Ask it, then.”

Hoseok’s expression shifted with visible reluctance.

“One of the buyer reps filed a formal complaint.”

Jimin laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “Of course they did.”

“Jimin.”

“What did they say?”

Hoseok hesitated just long enough to be honest. “They said you were dismissive during the showing.”

Jimin stared at him.

“Dismissive,” he repeated.

“That was their wording.”

“Interesting.” Jimin’s voice went very calm. “Did they also mention that their client tried to imply the seller should accept under ask because the apartment had been on the market for eighteen days? Or that they asked three different versions of the same question hoping I would contradict the seller’s stated position?”

“They did not include that part, no.”

“How surprising.”

“I read your notes,” Hoseok said. “I know what happened.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because knowing what happened does not change the fact that there is now a complaint attached to the file.”

Jimin’s mouth tightened. “So this is about optics.”

Hoseok looked at him for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Partially.”

The honesty was worse than denial.

Jimin’s fingers curled around the tablet until the edge pressed into his palm. “Let me guess. I came across as too direct.”

Hoseok said nothing.

“Too confident?”

Still nothing.

“Too much?”

Hoseok’s face shifted. “That is not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Jimin—”

“No, please.” Jimin’s smile was thin and precise. “Tell me how I am supposed to make a buyer feel in control while representing a seller who hired me specifically not to hand buyers leverage.”

Hoseok rubbed a hand over his face. When he looked up again, he looked less like a broker and more like a very tired man trying to hold too many things together at once.

“I am not asking you to hand them leverage.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m asking you to leave them fewer openings to call you difficult.”

Jimin went still as if struck by lightning.

Hoseok seemed to reflect on what he just said a second too late. His mouth tightened. “That came out wrong.”

“No,” Jimin said quietly. “I think it came out very clearly.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“It usually isn’t.”

Hoseok’s eyes softened with immediate regret. “Jimin.”

But Jimin could already feel the old machinery inside him beginning to move. The careful house of his childhood. His mother’s fingers around his wrist. His father’s silence. 

Smile softer. Speak lower. Do not make people uncomfortable. 

He swallowed hard.

“So what should I do?” he asked. “Smile more? Laugh when they insult my pricing strategy? Let them think they came up with the counteroffer themselves so they feel smart?”

“No.”

“Use a warmer tone?”

“That is not—”

“Make myself easier to digest?”

Hoseok flinched.

Good, Jimin thought distantly. At least one of them should.

The alpha stood then, not abruptly, but with enough purpose that Jimin’s body went tense anyway. He walked around the desk, then stopped halfway, seeming to think better of coming closer.

That hurt too, for reasons Jimin couldn’t reflect on at this moment.

“I am trying,” Hoseok tried carefully, “to keep you from having to fight the same battle in every room or showing.”

Jimin’s laugh came out brittle. “By telling me to fight more quietly?”

“No. By telling you that this industry is unfair and sometimes survival means adjusting your approach.”

“There it is.”

Hoseok’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Adjust.” Jimin looked at him then, really looked at him. “That word. People love that word when they mean comply.”

Hoseok exhaled sharply. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” Hoseok said, and for the first time his own frustration broke through. Not anger, really. Nor cruelty. Fear, maybe. Exhaustion. “It is not fair. Because I have watched you work yourself into the ground to prove what everyone in this office already knows. I have watched clients underestimate you, then rely on you, then praise you in private while still calling me when they want ‘another opinion’ because apparently your expertise becomes more official when it comes out of my mouth.”

Jimin’s throat tightened.

Hoseok’s voice softened, but the frustration stayed. “I hate that. I hate it more than you think. But I am also the broker. I am the one who gets the call when someone complains. I am the one who has to protect the firm, the license, the transaction, and you.”

“I did not ask you to protect me.”

“I know.” Hoseok’s mouth pressed into a tired line. “That doesn’t mean I stop being responsible.”

The room went quiet.

Beyond the dimmed glass, someone laughed in the bullpen. The sound felt very far away.

Jimin shifted his tablet under his arm. “So this is about your license.”

“It is about a lot of things,” Hoseok disagreed.

“It is about your license,” Jimin repeated. “Your risk. Your firm. Your trust issues.”

Hoseok’s jaw tightened.

And Jimin could see it.

The betrayal that had built Vanguard. The ex-co-owner. The team that left. The way Hoseok smiled too brightly when he talked about trust and then demanded documentation for everything down to a lockbox code and a five-minute showing delay.

“I know you care,” Jimin said, and his voice almost broke on the word, which made him hate himself a little. “I do. But sometimes you care like you’re trying to keep the whole building from collapsing by holding everyone still. By being too hard on yourself and being the one who works himself into the ground.”

Hoseok looked at him, his expression unreadable—though Jimin thought he could make out a sliver of something flashing in his eyes.

For once, the alpha had no immediate answer.

Jimin continued, quieter now. “I don’t think I can be held still anymore.”

Hoseok’s face softened.

“Jimin,” he said, almost gently. “No one is trying to hold you still.”

“It feels like it.”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Hoseok murmured, his eyes darting to the side.

Jimin blinked.

Hoseok looked down briefly, then back up. “I am. I should have led with that. I am sorry the complaint exists. I am sorry the industry makes you calculate things other agents never have to think about. I am sorry that my first instinct was to manage the risk instead of asking what it cost you.”

Jimin’s fingers tightened again around the tablet.

The apology did not make it better.

Somehow, it made the hurt worse, exactly because he knew that Hoseok meant well. That he just wanted to protect him and keep him safe. But the omega was tired of people wanting to keep him safe at work. He was well able to take care of himself. As he always had.

Jimin swallowed. “But you still want me to change how I handle Mercer.”

Hoseok did not answer quickly enough, Jimin already knew the answer.

He nodded once, sharp and final. “Right.”

“I want you to consider a new seller conversation,” Hoseok said carefully. “Not a price drop forced by buyer pressure. A reassessment. Showing traffic, days on market, feedback patterns, alternative strategy. Maybe a broker preview. Maybe new photography. Maybe a modest adjustment if the seller agrees. But I need you to consider it.”

“And if I don’t?”

Hoseok’s face tightened. “Then I need you to understand that I may have to step in.”

The words hit like a slap.

Jimin went very still.

“As the broker,” Hoseok added quickly, as if the clarification helped. “Not because I don’t trust you.”

But that was exactly what it sounded like.

Not because I don’t trust you.

Jimin heard the I don’t very clearly.

“I worked my ass off to be here,” Jimin said, voice quieter now, which was worse than shouting. “I did the pre-licensing education. I passed the exam. I built a client base with no family name behind me, no alpha taking calls on my behalf, no one making rooms easier for me to enter. I followed every rule. I documented every showing. I sent every seller update. I did everything right.”

“I know.”

Jimin nodded.

“Then I understand.”

He turned before the alpha could say anything else.

“Jimin,” Hoseok called after him, voice quieter now. “Please don’t walk out thinking I’m against you.”

Jimin stopped at the door, hand already hovering near the handle.

For a moment, he did not turn around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady enough to hurt.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I know you’re not.”

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the bullpen, the glass sliding shut behind him with a soft click that felt far too loud.

He made it three steps before his vision blurred.

Four before his breath hitched.

He didn’t look at anyone as he walked—head down, shoulders tight, tablet clutched uselessly to his chest. He did not stop when Taehyung’s laughter faded mid-sentence. He did not stop when Yoongi’s typing went quiet. He did not stop when he felt Jungkook’s gaze snap toward him from across the room like a physical touch.

He kept walking until he reached the stairwell, pushed the heavy door open, and let it shut behind him.

Only then did the composure crack.

Jimin slid down the wall, hands shaking, tears spilling over despite his best efforts to stop them. He pressed a fist to his mouth, biting down hard to keep from making a sound. Everything was falling apart around him—he could feel his body going into panic mode. His heart was uncomfortably accelerating in his chest, he could even feel his blood pump and rush in his ears. The skin on his arms felt itchy, making him want to dig his nails into them, to stop the uneasy feeling.

He had heard those words in different rooms, from different people, in voices that sounded concerned, loving, professional, kind. That was the worst part. It was rarely cruelty that broke him. Cruelty was easier to hate.

He pressed his hand harder against his mouth, but the sob came anyway, quiet and humiliating, almost getting stuck in his throat.

No matter how good he was, it was never quite enough.

And worst of all—

Some small, exhausted part of him wondered if they were right.

Maybe he did make things harder than they needed to be. Maybe wanting a career, authority, respect, and control over his own life was always going to cost this much. Maybe if he were easier, softer, quieter, claimed, settled, attached to someone else’s name, the world would stop treating him like a problem to be managed.

Or maybe it was just him.

Maybe he was the one who was too much.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Jimin was born into a family that did not know what to do with him.

From the moment he was born, the house felt too careful. Light moved across glass and marble and settled on carefully chosen art, everything arranged so precisely that nothing ever seemed out of place or touched twice. Voices stayed even, doors closed without sound, and people moved with a restraint that made Jimin hesitate before moving at all, as though the house itself might notice if he did something wrong or moved too loudly. 

His father’s voice filled rooms without effort. Park Seung-ho never raised it, never needed to. When he spoke people stopped talking, their attention snapping into place. When he fell silent, the quiet that followed felt deliberate, heavy enough that Jimin learned to watch his face closely for signs he had done something wrong.

His mother watched more than she spoke. Park Mira’s attention rested on Jimin on a daily basis, like a hand placed firmly between his shoulders, guiding him without ever appearing to push. When she smiled, it was brief and controlled, and when she touched him, her fingers lingered just long enough to remind him to stay still.

Minjae, Jimin’s older brother, moved through the house as if it belonged to him. He was louder, broader, already confident in a way that never seemed to draw for correction. Jimin watched and tried to follow his lead, but the copying never worked quite the same way.

The day the inevitable happened, the doctor’s office smelled sharp and clean. 

Jimin’s feet swung beneath the chair while the adults talked, their voices low and serious. He wasn’t really listening until the doctor’s smile changed, becoming careful in a way that made his stomach tighten.

“Recessive omega.”

During that time, the words were still unfamiliar to Jimin, but the room immediately reacted to it. His mother’s hand tightened around his father’s arm, just briefly, and Jimin noticed it in hindsight, because it looked the same way her hand would later look on his wrist. He would quietly name it the Grip of Greed. 

She already had a son who would inherit. Now the goddess had gifted her a son she could sell.

After that, things shifted without anyone explicitly saying that they had.

People began watching him more closely. When he cried at night, no one came right away. The crying went on longer than he expected, echoing in the dark until his throat hurt and his chest felt tight and wrong. By the time the door opened, his face was wet and hot, and his mother looked at him as if measuring something.

“He needs to calm himself,” she said, standing in the doorway. “We don’t want him getting used to the attention.”

Jimin recoiled because she was looking at him with those hungry eyes again. As if he wasn’t growing up fast enough.

When he laughed too loudly, his father cleared his throat. It was a small sound, but the room stilled immediately, conversation cutting off as if it had been interrupted. Jimin’s laughter died halfway out of his mouth, leaving his face burning. No one explained what he had done wrong, but it happened again the next time, and the next, until he began stopping himself before the sounds could escape. Minjae on the other hand could laugh as loudly as he wanted to—it was as if they expected him to take up that space for himself.

His mother still chose his clothes every morning—he was never allowed to buy anything for himself, nor chose an outfit. Soft fabrics slid over his skin, light colors that made people smile at him. When he reached for darker clothes, for heavier material, his mother gently took them from his hands and replaced them with something else.

“This is better,” she said, smoothing the fabric down his shoulders. “This looks perfect on you. You need to be perfect for me, my little Jiminie.”

At meals, someone would correct him constantly. A light tap against his wrist when his hands moved too fast. Fingers pressing at his knee beneath the table when it bounced. A glance from across the room that made him straighten his back and lower his voice mid-sentence. The corrections came so often that Jimin began to feel the tension in his body before he even moved, anticipating the reprimands and scoldings. Expecting to have done something wrong.

Minjae draped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close, laughing when Jimin stiffened.

“You’re being dramatic again,” he hissed when Jimin complained, when Jimin tried to pull away, when his voice tightened.

When Jimin said it hurt, Minjae laughed louder.

“Relax,” he said. “You may be a dainty little omega, but you don’t need to make such a big fuss out of everything.”

At gatherings, adults touched him freely and as much as they wanted to. No one in Jimin’s family said anything. If anything, they encouraged their greedy hands. Hands that smoothed his hair, fingers that adjusted his collar, palms that rested too long at his waist. People leaned too close and told him how pretty he was, how well-behaved. Jimin learned to hold still while it happened, even when his skin felt wrong and too tight afterward.

“Didn’t our Jiminie grow up so well?” his mother would coo, her hand resting on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin. Her friends and guests would nod and congratulate her, ask her about his other accomplishments—besides being so beautiful, of course.

She would tell them about his drawing skills, and his dancing, the way he could sing so beautifully. Never did she mention anything about him being the best of his class. Or winning the maths competition. 

Another gathering, someone reached for him and Jimin stepped back without thinking, flinching away from the touch instinctively. He had been close to his heat and just wanted to go home to nest. All the pheromones and scents mixed around him, turning into a big waft of unpleasant smells, that weighed down on him, making his nose itch. It was too much.

Immediately, his mother’s hand came down on his shoulder immediately, firm enough to make his breath catch.

“Don’t be rude,” she hissed under her breath, smiling at the other person. “They’re just admiring you.”

When his body began to feel strange—too hot, too restless—no one asked him how he truly felt. Doctors spoke around him, their voices low and efficient. Patches were pressed to his skin, scent blockers layered until his head ached and his stomach churned.

“This will help,” his mother said, already turning away.

The medicine made him dizzy. His hands shook. When he told her, she frowned.

“Could you please stop snapping at me all the time?” she demanded. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

When he reached maturity a decision had formed in his mind. He wanted to try to say what he wanted. Jimin practiced alone at first, whispering the words until they stopped catching in his throat.

At the kitchen table, his hands were folded so tightly they hurt, but he kept them still.

“I want to study,” he said, though his voice shook anyway. “I want to be good at something. I want—”

His mother exhaled slowly and reached across the table, her fingers closing around his wrist, the Grip of Greed holding him in place.

“Oh, Jimin,” she cooed in her usual sickly sweet tone. “You don’t have to be something. Why can’t you be content with what you already have? Aren’t we giving you enough already?”

When his voice lifted just a little, her smile disappeared.

“That tone,” she said. “Are you deluding yourself to be an alpha again? You should be softer, Jiminie. Harshness really doesn’t suit you! Stop trying to be your brother.”

Later, he stood in the hallway and listened while they talked about him without lowering their voices. 

“He’ll be taken care of,” his father said.

“He’ll be loved,” his mother agreed.

Jimin pressed his forehead against the wall and focused on breathing quietly, trying to calm his racing heart. They were trying to marry him off. Of course, Jimin had been expecting this for quite some time now, but it actually happening made everything way worse. Growing up, he had tried to accept him, for the sake of his family—but actually turning into living cattle for them to breed with the highest bidding family … It was too much. It made something in him switch off, and feelings he had suppressed for a long time, resurface.

That night, Jimin did not cry.

He stayed where he was, forehead pressed to the wall until the voices in the dining room faded and the house settled back into its careful quiet. 

Later in his room, he sat on the edge of his bed with his hands folded in his lap and stared at the far wall, tracing the faint shadow where the light from the hallway slipped in beneath the door.

Something had shifted inside of him. It did not feel like anger. It felt like pressure, steady and unbearable, as if something inside him had been held under water for too long.

He thought about the Grip of Greed around his wrist, about the way his mother’s fingers had tightened when he spoke, about how every want he voiced was treated like a transgression. He thought about how carefully the house watched him, shaped him, corrected him, and how there was no version of himself in it that was allowed to exist without permission.

He stood up.

The decision assembled itself quietly, piece by piece, in the same way he had learned to assemble himself. He would leave. 

From then on, he paid attention.

He began counting the money he had hidden away over the years, bills folded neatly in the back of a drawer beneath clothes he never wore. Gift money from relatives, allowances he had skimmed from, the small amounts he had managed to keep without drawing notice. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and something was more than he had ever been allowed to claim before.

He found a café a few streets away that needed help in the afternoons. The owner barely looked twice at him, only asked if he could carry trays and show up on time. Jimin said yes immediately, his voice steady even as his heart pounded in his chest. 

The work was exhausting in a way that made him feel alive. His feet ached, his hands smelled like coffee and sugar, and no one corrected the way he stood or spoke. When customers smiled at him, it was brief and unexamined. When they didn’t, no one blamed him for it. No one cared.

He learned the rhythm of the place quickly. The hiss of the espresso machine, the weight of ceramic cups stacked too high, the way light shifted across the counter in the late afternoon.

He liked watching people come in—how some lingered, how others rushed, how every person carried a different idea of what comfort looked like. It surprised him how much he noticed the space itself, the way the café felt warmer near the windows, quieter by the back wall, how a chair placed just slightly differently could change the way someone sat.

At night, he studied.

He spread pamphlets and printed pages across his bed, real estate licensing requirements circled and underlined. He read about zoning laws, contracts, inspections. He memorized terminology the way he had memorized rules as a child, except this time the rules felt like doors rather than barriers. 

Houses had histories. Rooms carried traces of the people who had lived in them. A space could be wrong or right in ways that were invisible but deeply felt, and Jimin understood that instinctively.

He had always loved houses. The idea of them. The way they could be shaped and claimed. The way a place could be empty and still feel full of possibility. He liked imagining who might live there, what they would need, how they would move through it. A home, he realized, was something you could choose.

The night Jimin left, he packed quietly.

He took only what he could carry: clothes folded with care, documents slid into a folder, the cash he had saved tucked deep into his bag. 

Jimin paused once, standing in the doorway of his old room, and looked at the space that had never quite been his. The bed was neatly made. The walls were bare. It looked exactly the way it always had, untouched.

No one stopped him.

The front door closed behind him without a sound.

And Jimin did not leave a note. There was nothing he could write that would not be taken as ingratitude, drama, or even betrayal. 

Silence, he had learned, was the only language this house respected. And he no longer wanted to be a part of that silence and the unspoken rules.

For a while, Jimin stayed in a small rented room with a lock that only he possessed. The walls were thin. The street outside was loud. The space smelled faintly of dust and detergent. 

Jimin lay awake the first night, staring at the ceiling, his body tight with the expectation of correction that never quite came.

No one knocked.

No one told him to lower his voice or smile more.

In the weeks that followed, messages came. Missed calls. Carefully worded emails. His mother’s screams on voicemail, sounded wounded, asking where he had gone, reminding him of everything he was leaving behind. 

Jimin listened once, then deleted them all. He blocked the numbers. Changed his email. The silence that followed was frightening, and then—slowly—relieving.

He worked mornings and afternoons at the café, studied at night, and learned how to stretch every last penny until his next paycheck. 

Most days he was so nervous his whole body shook. But the shaking passed eventually. 

Each exam he passed felt unreal, like something he had stolen rather than earned. When he finally held his license in his hands, the paper thin and official, his fingers trembled as he folded it carefully and put it away.

Jimin had done it. He had achieved something that was entirely his own.

He found his first listing through persistence rather than connections, through showing up early and staying late, through listening more than speaking. Clients didn’t see him the way his family had. They saw someone attentive, precise, someone who noticed things they hadn’t. 

They trusted him with keys. With their stories. With the quiet hope of finding a place that felt just right.

Jimin learned how to walk into unfamiliar spaces without shrinking.

He learned how to stand in rooms and imagine them filled with life that did not require permission.

And when he locked his own door at night, in a place he had chosen, he stood for a moment in the quiet and breathed as loudly as he wanted.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Jungkook knew something was wrong the second Jimin hadn’t returned after ten minutes. Meetings with their boss usually never took that long, and the alpha’s instincts were going haywire. He could feel it in the air—something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t consciously decided to watch the glass door of Hoseok’s office, but his eyes kept flicking there anyway. When the door finally opened and Jimin stepped out, Jungkook felt it in his gut before he had even registered it properly. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Jimin didn’t look at anyone.

That alone was enough to confirm his suspicions.

The omega moved too fast, head down, shoulders tight and trembling slightly, tablet pressed to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Jungkook pushed back from his desk instinctively, already halfway out of his chair—

—and then Jimin disappeared toward the stairwell.

Fuck.

Jungkook didn’t think. He didn’t grab his jacket. He just went.

The stairwell door slammed shut just ahead of him, the echo sharp and ugly in the concrete space. Jungkook took the steps two at a time, heart pounding, dread curling hot and heavy in his gut. He needed to know what was wrong. And once he knew, he needed to fix whatever was wrong.

“Jimin-ssi,” he called, already too late.

He found him halfway down the landing.

Jimin was on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, hands shaking so badly Jungkook could see it from across the space. Tears streaked down his face uncontrolled, breath hitching in broken, soundless sobs like he was trying not to be too loud even now.

Something inside Jungkook fractured, a pang of … something piercing through his heart.

“Hey,” he said, immediately softer, dropping to his knees in front of him. “Hey … sunshine. Look at me.”

Jimin flinched at the sound of his voice, eyes squeezing shut like he’d been caught doing something forbidden.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispered hoarsely, words tumbling out without direction. “I’m sorry … I shouldn’t … this is stupid—”

“Stop,” Jungkook said gently, firm without being too sharp. “No. None of that.”

He reached out slowly, giving Jimin time to pull away if he wanted to.

He didn’t, remaining right where he was.

The moment Jungkook’s hands brushed his arms, Jimin broke—his composure collapsing completely as he leaned forward with a soft, wrecked sound, forehead dropping against Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, pulling him close, one hand firm between Jimin’s shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over, grounding, steady, emitting his pheromones to drape over Jimin like a blanket. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The omega clutched at his shirt like he was drowning.

Jungkook let him. Even if it would ruin one of his best shirts, he didn’t care.

He didn’t rush him. Didn’t ask questions. Just stayed there on the cold stairwell floor, body solid and unmovable, breathing slow and deep until Jimin’s breaths started to follow his without realizing it—his pheromones taking effect.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

When Jimin’s shaking eased just a little, Jungkook shifted, pressing a kiss to his hair without thinking, palm warm and sure at his back.

“Whatever happened, no one gets to do that to you,” Jungkook tried, voice low with restrained fury. “No one gets to make you feel like this.”

Jimin let out a broken laugh against his shoulder, sniffing. “I don’t think it can be stopped. They always do.”

“Not today,” Jungkook replied. The omega pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and glossy, face blotched and unguarded in a way Jungkook had never seen before.

“I’m so tired,” Jimin whispered.

That did it—Jungkook’s inner alpha immediately knew that nothing else mattered now. His number one priority was getting his omega to safety. 

He slid one arm under Jimin’s knees and the other around his back and stood, lifting him up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jimin startled, throwing his arms around the alpha’s neck instinctively. “Jungkook—”

“I’m taking you out of here,” Jungkook said simply. “You don’t have to argue. You don’t have to decide anything. Just … let me do this for you.”

Jimin hesitated—old instincts warring in his eyes—then he finally gave in and sagged against him, forehead dropping to Jungkook’s shoulder again.

“Okay. I trust you,” he breathed.

Jungkook didn’t go back into the bullpen.

He took the many stairs straight down, shielded Jimin from curious eyes with his body, and guided him into his car without a word. The city blurred past the windows as Jungkook drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over Jimin’s where it was twisted in his sleeve.

Neither of them spoke.

Jungkook’s apartment was quiet when they came in.

The lights were low because he almost never used the overhead ones, only the lamps along the walls and the strip lighting under the kitchen cabinets. The place was clean in a functional way, shoes lined up by the door. A gym bag was pushed against the wall and a jacket tossed over the back of the dining chair where it had been forgotten that morning.

The space opened up immediately—concrete floors, dark wood furniture, big windows looking out over the city, just how Jungkook liked it. The view was impressive, but Jungkook barely registered it at that moment. 

What he noticed was how Jimin leaned into him a little more the moment they crossed the threshold, like his body had already decided this place was safer.

Jungkook kicked the door shut behind them and carried him straight over, easing him down onto the couch carefully. He kept a hand at Jimin’s back for a second longer than necessary, then crouched in front of him.

“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Jimin nodded, slow. His eyes flicked around the room—the low bookshelf along the wall with cookbooks and a few dog-eared paperbacks, the kitchen island with a cutting board still out, the faint smell of coffee and Jungkook’s scent filling the space.

The alpha went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. When he came back, he knelt again, holding it steady while Jimin drank. His hands were shaking just a little.

When Jungkook took the glass back, Jimin’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“Stay … please,” he whispered. The alpha stared, his heart flipping and his inner alpha pleased that the omega was wanting him near, that he was relying on him. 

“I am,” Jungkook replied immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jimin let go then, shoulders dropping like something inside him had finally given up the fight.

Jungkook sat down beside him this time, close enough that their legs touched. He leaned back into the couch, one arm resting along the back, open, trying not to invade into the omega’s space too much, while also offering some comfort.

For a while, Jimin said nothing.

He only stared at the floor, hands folded too tightly in his lap, shoulders held with the kind of control that made Jungkook’s chest ache.

Then he laughed once, empty and quiet.

“He wasn’t even wrong about everything.”

Jungkook turned his head, but stayed silent.

“Hoseok is the broker. His license is under every deal, every showing, every complaint. I know why he cares about risk.” Jimin swallowed. “But somehow, when the risk comes from me, it always becomes a conversation about tone.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened.

“A buyer rep complained that I was dismissive,” Jimin continued. “Because I said no too harshly. Because I didn’t make it sound soft enough.”

“You just did your job,” Jungkook said, low.

Jimin’s mouth twitched without humor. “Apparently I forgot to be pleasant enough for them.”

Jungkook could feel his jaw twitch from pressing too hard. His whole body was rigid, ready to attack whomever had dared to make Jimin feel this way.

The omega kept staring at the floor. “That’s the thing. Omegas are fine in this industry when we sell with warmth and pleasantness. When we talk about light and flow and charm.” His voice thinned. “But authority makes people uncomfortable. The second we say no, suddenly we’re difficult. Emotional. Or too aggressive.”

Jungkook’s hand flexed against the couch.

He wanted to be angry at Hoseok. At the buyer rep. At everyone.

Instead, he said, “I hate that you have to think about all of that.”

Jimin glanced at him then, tired and raw. “I’ve been thinking about it my whole life.”

“My parents used to call it concern,” Jimin said. “Safety. Stability. They said the world was hard for omegas, and they weren’t wrong. That was how they made it difficult to argue.” He breathed out shakily. “They used true things to build a pretty little cage around me.”

Jungkook’s heart was breaking for Jimin. His family also hadn’t been the best but at least they had never pulled shit like this. He didn’t want to imagine how Jimin must have felt—so young, constantly being suppressed by his own family. Not really having a home, but living in hell on earth.

He set his hand palm-up between them.

After a long second, Jimin slipped his fingers into it.

“They said ambition didn’t suit me,” Jimin continued, voice barely above a whisper. “That I would be happier if I stopped fighting. That no one wanted an omega who always had to prove a point.”

Jungkook closed his hand carefully around Jimin’s, his fingers drawing calming circles over his soft skin.

“I left at nineteen,” Jimin said. “They thought I’d come back when it got hard.”

His mouth trembled, the memories threatening to push their way to the forefront of his mind again. 

“And it did get hard. Sometimes I was only able to eat ramyeon for weeks, trying to get by and to save money. But I didn’t go back, no matter what. I never became theirs to sell off, I never became someone’s trophy omega, someone’s arm-candy. I belong solely to myself—and I fought for that.”

Jungkook’s chest restricted at the omega’s words. Some cruel, dark being inside of him was glad that Jimin persevered and suffered through it. That he didn’t go back to his family and married someone else. His inner alpha felt proud that his omega was that strong, and that he was able to meet him.

Jungkook smiled softly, “You are really strong.”

For a while, they only sat there, hand in hand, the city quiet beyond the windows.

Then Jimin whispered, “When Hoseok said he might step in, I knew what he meant. I know that’s how the business works. But all I heard was someone else standing over a life I built, telling me they could take the decision out of my hands.”

Jungkook looked at Jimin’s hand in his and thought of broker licenses, final authority, doors that only opened when someone else allowed them to.

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself smaller to keep what you earned,” Jungkook said.

Jimin’s face crumpled for half a second.

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “I’m so tired of being careful with everything that I am. I don’t want to do it anymore”

Jungkook moved slowly, giving him time to pull away, and brushed the tear from his cheek.

“You don’t have to be careful anymore,” he said. “Not here with me. You can be as loud as you want, you can scream my name, slap me, state your opinion. Even when we are outside. I will do everything in my power to protect you and your opinion.”

For a moment, Jimin looked like he didn’t believe him.

Then he leaned forward, forehead coming to rest against Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook wrapped an arm around him carefully, then more securely when Jimin didn’t pull away.

After a moment, Jungkook stood and grabbed the blanket from the chair, draping it over him carefully.

“You’re not making any decisions tonight,” he said. “And you’re not doing this alone anymore. I’m here.”

A decision had formed in his mind. Quite a daring one if he said so himself. But Jimin was worth the fight and struggle.

The omega exhaled shakily.

Jungkook pulled the blanket around his shoulders and held him until his breathing grew heavier, until exhaustion finally softened the line of his body.

“You can take the bed,” Jungkook murmured. “I’ll stay out here.”

After a moment, Jimin whispered, “Okay.”

Jungkook waited until the omega was half-asleep before gently carrying him to the bedroom. He helped him onto the bed without a comment, pulling the covers up when Jimin immediately curled in on himself, exhaustion finally winning out.

Jungkook lingered just long enough to make sure his breathing evened out, that the tension in his shoulders eased. He switched off the light, closed the door partway, and went back to the living room. The couch wasn’t uncomfortable—he’d slept there before—but tonight he stayed awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound from the bedroom. Jimin was safe. That was enough.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

When Jungkook woke, sunlight was already pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a bright spill of gold that forced him to squint. His muscles felt stiff and overused, his body heavy with the dull ache of aftermath, and the light was—decidedly—too much.

As his eyes adjusted, something else registered. Something warm pressed firmly against him. The covers had slipped away sometime during the night, yet heat lingered. Like a furnace.

Jungkook glanced down and found Jimin curled along his side, unmistakably real. The omega must have left the bedroom in the middle of the night, abandoning his bed to tuck himself against Jungkook’s body. There was no other explanation for the leg draped diagonally over Jungkook’s waist, for the way Jimin’s face was pressed into his shoulder, breath warm, mouth slack with sleep as he drooled faintly against Jungkook’s collarbone.

The sight stilled him.

Jimin looked at peace. His features were soft, unguarded, his expression free of sharp words or teasing glances or the deliberate cruelty of desire wielded like a blade. Jungkook had never seen him like this. Never been allowed to.

Carefully, Jungkook leaned back into the pillows and let the thought take root. Waking up like this every morning. Being the one Jimin chose without thinking. Being someone worthy of that kind of quiet trust, of that kind of peace.

The breath he released trembled on its way out. Jungkook went still again, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid that even the smallest movement might wake the omega and shatter the moment.

So he stayed. And held the warmth. He really wanted to be the one to be there for the omega. To pave the way, so that he never had to feel pain like this ever again. 

Jimin stirred without waking yet.

It began as a shift of weight, a quiet breath drawn in too sharply, his brow creasing as though something uneasy had followed him out of sleep. His leg slid back an inch, then another, the warmth between them breaking in small, tentative increments. Jungkook felt it immediately and froze, muscles locking as if stillness alone might keep the moment intact.

Jimin’s lashes fluttered. His breathing changed.

The second consciousness reached him, his body reacted before his mind did. He jerked back, sharp and sudden, his hand coming up between them as though to brace or fend off, his spine curling in on itself. His jasmine scent spiked—fear, bright and frantic—and he scrambled for space, nearly slipping off the edge of the couch in his haste to get away.

“Jimin-ah,” Jungkook said quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to chase him with it. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t move closer. He stayed where he was, hands open, grounding himself so the omega wouldn’t feel cornered. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jimin shook his head, breath coming too fast, his eyes darting as though he were trying to place himself, trying to remember how he had ended up here. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve, shoulders hunched, already pulling away.

“I— I didn’t—” The words tangled, broke off. He pushed himself upright, clearly intending to leave, to put distance between them before something else could go wrong.

Jungkook let his scent bleed into the air then, slow and deliberate, a calm warmth unfurling rather than surging. Familiar and steady. 

He stayed seated, angled away just enough to give Jimin room, even as his pheromones wrapped the space gently, wordless reassurance carried on instinct instead of sound.

“Last night,” Jungkook said softly, keeping his tone even, unhurried. “You fell asleep. You came out here on your own. Nothing else happened.”

Jimin hesitated. His breathing stuttered, then slowed by a fraction, his shoulders lowering just enough to show the edge had dulled. He swallowed, eyes flicking toward Jungkook and away again, torn between the pull of safety and the urge to run.

Jungkook shifted then, slowly, deliberately, moving first so Jimin wouldn’t feel followed. He stood and offered his hand—not too close, not insistent.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you up. We can sit in the kitchen.”

It took a moment, but Jimin nodded, the movement small. He let Jungkook guide him, the contact brief but grounding, the alpha’s scent wrapping around him like a comforting hug. 

At the kitchen counter, Jungkook settled him onto a stool, making sure there was space, that nothing hemmed him in.

The omega wrapped his arms around himself, gaze fixed on the countertop, still tense but no longer panicking.

Jungkook turned away to give him breathing room and set about making coffee, the familiar sounds filling the quiet—the kettle, the grinder, the steady rhythm of something ordinary. When he slid a mug toward Jimin, he did it gently, careful not to startle him.

“Drink,” he said. “It’ll help.”

Jimin curled his fingers around the cup, absorbing the heat, his shoulders easing another degree as the moment stretched.

After a while, Jungkook leaned against the counter opposite him, not crowding, not retreating either.

“When you’re ready,” he said, voice low, sincere, “can we talk about what happened yesterday?”

He waited and didn’t push for an answer right away.

Instead, he turned back toward the kitchen, rolling his shoulders once as if resetting himself, and reached for the loaf of brioche on the counter. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, the instinct to feed the omega and provide something solid to hold onto besides words.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” he said, not asking. “You can talk while I cook. Or not. Either’s fine.”

Jimin watched him for a moment, uncertain, then nodded once.

The sound of eggs cracking filled the space, followed by the soft whisk of metal against a bowl. Jungkook moved with an ease that was unmistakable, hands confident as he added milk, cinnamon, a pinch of salt, a splash of vanilla without measuring. Butter hissed gently in the pan as it melted, the scent blooming warm and rich, immediately changing the atmosphere of the room.

Jimin leaned back against the counter and watched him.

“You always cook like this?” he asked.

Jungkook shrugged. “Most mornings. It helps me wake up.”

“I usually just grab coffee and forget to eat,” Jimin admitted. “And then I wonder why I feel awful by noon.”

“That tracks,” Jungkook said dryly, flipping the bread. “You should eat something before you start conquering the real estate market.”

Jimin smiled faintly at that.

They talked like that for a while—about listings that were annoying, about clients who insisted on terrible wallpaper, about the kind of apartments that looked good online and felt wrong the second you stepped inside. Jungkook listened, occasionally chiming in with a question or an observation that made Jimin pause and reconsider something in a way that felt … interesting. Not defensive.

“I noticed that you notice spaces and the small details,” Jungkook said at one point, plating the first slice. “Like … really notice them.”

Jimin shrugged. “I like how people can make places theirs.”

“That makes sense,” Jungkook replied easily. “You’re really good at it. I think that is what makes you such an amazing agent.”

Jimin’s expression softened, a small smile playing around his lips, “Thank you for saying that.”

Breakfast was ready before either of them realized how much time had passed. Jungkook slid the plate toward him, and Jimin took a bite.

Then stopped.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

He took another bite, slower this time, eyes closing for half a second. “Okay. That’s … unfair.”

Jungkook grinned. “Good unfair?”

“Very,” Jimin said. “I think this might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week, if not in my life.”

“That’s alarming,” Jungkook replied with a chuckle. “We’ll have to fix that.”

Jimin laughed, until the sound caught strangely in his throat. Jungkook noticed it immediately—the way Jimin’s smile faltered, how his fingers tightened around the fork before going still. For one suspended second, he looked almost confused by himself, as if the warmth of the kitchen, the food, and the ordinary kindness of being cared for had reached somewhere he had not expected it to reach.

He blinked, confused, then pressed his lips together, breath catching as tears welled up anyway, spilling over before he could stop them.

“Oh,” Jimin said, embarrassed now, blinking too quickly. “I’m sorry, I don’t— I’m fine, I just—”

Jungkook was there immediately, arms coming around him, solid and steady.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

Jimin let himself lean into it this time. Just for a second at first. Then another. His body shook quietly against Jungkook.

The alpha held him through it, one hand spread between his shoulder blades the other careful at the back of his neck. He tried not to grip too hard, tried not to make the comfort feel like a cage, even though every instinct in him wanted to pull Jimin closer.

“I think I feel … much better than yesterday,” Jimin said into Jungkook’s shoulder, voice muffled. “And it surprised me.”

“That makes sense,” Jungkook’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice gentle. “Yesterday was a lot.”

They stayed like that until the feeling passed, until Jimin’s breathing evened out again. Jungkook could feel the movement passing through him slowly, tension leaving in small, uneven increments, like Jimin’s body was still deciding whether it was allowed to believe in the comfort offered to him.

When Jimin finally pulled back, Jungkook guided him gently back to the stool and nudged the plate closer.

“Eat,” he said softly.

Jimin looked at him for a second longer than necessary, eyes still damp, then huffed out something that almost became a laugh, as he picked up his fork again.

“Could you always cook like this?” he asked, halfway through another bite.

Jungkook shrugged, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah. I learned from my dad.”

Jimin blinked. “Your dad? I thought your family were all … office people.”

“They are,” Jungkook laughed. “But my dad was a Michelin-level chef who used to judge cooking shows on the side.”

Jimin stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” Jungkook said solemnly. “He taught me everything. Bread, pastries, plating, the whole thing.”

Jimin shook his head in disbelief, still smiling as he nudged the plate away slightly, full and looser than he had looked all morning. “So … you’re telling me you just casually do this?”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh and wiped his hands on a towel. “Hang on.”

He crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge, crouching slightly as he reached past containers and neatly stacked leftovers. When he straightened, he was holding a large glass jar with both hands, careful, deliberate. The starter inside was dense and lively despite the cold, bubbles clinging to the sides, a strip of tape wrapped around the glass with handwriting so neat it looked ceremonial.

Jungkook turned the jar so Jimin could read it.

Jimin blinked.

Then he leaned forward on the stool, squinting. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Is this … the sourdough thing?”

Jungkook nodded, entirely serious. “May I introduce to you: Doughbi-Wan Kenobi. My one and only, OG sourdough starter.”

Jimin choked on a laugh, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” Jungkook replied. “He’s five years old. Very sensitive and lives in the fridge because he likes stability.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Jimin said, laughter breaking free now, unguarded as he wiped at his eyes.

Jungkook felt absurdly victorious at the sound.

“I’m a connoisseur,” he corrected. “And a Star Wars purist.”

Jimin laughed again, shaking his head. “I cannot believe I cried in front of someone who owns a named sourdough starter.”

Jungkook slid the jar back onto its shelf with exaggerated care. “For the record,” he said, closing the fridge, “Doughbi has excellent boundaries.”

Jimin laughed harder then, easy and bright enough that Jungkook had to look awy for a second before his face gave too much away. There was something different about Jimin like this—less braced, less ready to vanish behind his composure. 

Jungkook wanted to remember it exactly.

They finished breakfast slowly.

Not because there was much left on the plates—Jimin made quick work of the French toast once he’d stopped marveling at it—but because neither of them seemed particularly eager to stand up and break the quiet that had settled between them. Jungkook leaned back against the counter with his mug, watching the way Jimin ate now: unguarded, shoulders loose, movements unhurried in a way that felt new on him.

“You’re staring,” Jimin said eventually, glancing up with a faint smile.

Jungkook didn’t bother denying it. “You look like you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

Jimin paused, fork hovering midair, then considered that. “I think I am,” he said, sounding surprised by the realization. “That’s … weird.”

“Not bad-weird,” Jungkook offered.

“Mmh,” Jimin agreed. “Just unfamiliar.”

They cleaned up together without really talking about it. Jungkook washed, Jimin dried, their movements syncing easily, shoulders brushing now and then without either of them flinching away. The domesticity of it felt almost surreal—unremarkable in the best possible way.

When the last plate was set aside, Jungkook gestured toward the living room. “You want to sit for a bit?”

Jimin hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yeah.”

The couch was still warm from earlier, the blanket folded haphazardly over one armrest where Jungkook had left it the night before. Jimin sank down first, tucking one leg under himself, posture relaxed but careful. Jungkook followed, leaving space between them, stretching his arm along the back of the couch instead of pulling Jimin closer.

As Jungkook breathed in, he could taste their combined scents and pheromones on his tongue, and he had to hold himself back from purring with content. All of this was more pleasing to him, than he ever wanted to admit. 

They sat like that for a while—peaceful and at ease, just existing side by side, without needing to talk.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

The city moved outside the windows, distant and muffled, but inside the apartment everything felt suspended, like time had decided to be kind for once. Jimin leaned back, head resting against the cushion, eyes half-lidded as he breathed in the faint mix of coffee, butter, and Jungkook’s scent lingering in the air.

Jimin’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, then relaxed again. Without quite looking at Jungkook, he shifted closer—just an inch at first, then another—until their shoulders brushed.

Jungkook stayed still, letting Jimin set the pace.

After a moment, Jimin leaned fully into his side, tentative but deliberate, his head resting against Jungkook’s shoulder. He stiffened for half a heartbeat, as if waiting for something to go wrong.

Nothing did.

Jungkook let his scent warm the space between them, slow and steady, and lifted his arm only when Jimin tilted closer, draping it loosely around his shoulders. The contact was light, easy to pull away from if needed.

Jimin exhaled.

His body softened against Jungkook’s without resistance, weight settling, trust offered without being demanded.

He could feel the omega’s warmth, the softness of his skin and the tiny strands of hair tickling his chin. He would bow his head a little lower, nuzzling the top of his head, and scenting him, without him noticing it too much.

“This is okay,” Jimin murmured, more to himself than to Jungkook.

The alpha nodded, resting his cheek lightly against Jimin’s hair. “Yeah. It is.”

They stayed like that, the city humming softly beyond the glass, the couch supporting them, Jungkook’s arm warm and solid around Jimin’s shoulders. Jimin’s breathing evened out, slow and deep, his hand coming to rest against Jungkook’s chest without thought.

For the first time in a long while, nothing in him was braced for impact.

He wasn’t waiting for the moment to end.

He was just … there.

And content.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

A week passed without either of them really keeping track of time. 

Hoseok had called it personal leave in the system, which sounded a bit more professional than emotional collapse and fallout from a conversation everyone involved was pretending had not cracked something open in the middle of the office. Jimin had not argued. For once, he had been too tired to turn the situation into a negotiation. 

Jungkook took the first two days off as well, with the kind of calm finality that suggested he would rather set his phone on fire than leave Jimin alone before he was ready. After that, work still reached him in bits and pieces—emails answered from the kitchen island and buyer updates handled via phone calls. Other than that, Vanguard mostly stayed outside the apartment.

Hoseok, fortunately, did not push. He sent one apology, one practical update, and then nothing except a message telling Jungkook to make sure Jimin ate something that was not coffee. How he knew that the both of them were together, neither Jimin nor Jungkook could get behind.

The days loosened inside Jungkook’s apartment. The mornings bled into afternoons without alarms, without shoes by the door or jackets shrugged on in a hurry, while the city still moved outside the windows—traffic, weather, the distant churn of everything they weren’t participating in—but inside, things slowed.

Jimin learned more about the alpha’s apartment more and more with each passing day.

He discovered which cabinet held the mugs Jungkook actually used and which ones were decorative gifts from people. He learned that Jungkook preferred the left side of the couch and that he always kicked his socks off somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, never quite making it to the bedroom. He learned that the lights were almost never turned all the way on—Jungkook relied on lamps and indirect glow, pockets of warmth instead of brightness.

And the more he learned about the alpha, the more his whole body and mind yearned to get even closer—if that was even possible. It was as if a switch in his brain had been flipped in that stairwell a week ago.

As if the simple act of Jungkook stepping in to protect him, to be there for him and to take him to a safe place—being his usual self—had broken down a barrier inside of him. Suddenly, there were a shit ton of emotions tumbling out of the dark depths of his chest. Feelings, he hadn’t felt for years, if ever. 

To be honest, it was uncomfortable to suddenly feel so much when you didn't for so long. Every time he didn’t watch out or brace himself, he suddenly teared up because of the most random stuff. 

A cute cat video: tears springing to his eyes.

Watching an emotional movie with Jungkook: he was done for.

If the alpha realized, he didn’t comment much on it. Just put his arms around him, pulling him closer and holding him in quiet comfort. Jimin had to admit that Jungkook was quite the good hugger. 

And quite the good scenter …

Though he didn’t call him out for always doing it. He could sense that the alpha was trying to do it as discreetly as possible—possibly as to not scare Jimin away. 

Jimin couldn’t help but find everything Jungkook did endearing. Living in his apartment offered a look into his head that Jimin had never had the opportunity to see before. All the little knick knacks he owned, the meticulous design of his apartment, everything placed exactly the way he liked it.

And then there was the corner.

Jimin noticed it on the third day, when he finally got the chance to explore a little more.

He’d been wandering—quietly, aimlessly—while Jungkook showered, fingers trailing over the spines of cookbooks and the scattered stacks of mail Jungkook pretended he’d sort eventually. That was when he reached the far end of the living room, past the bookshelf, and stopped short.

“… Jungkook?”

No answer. Water was still running.

Jimin stepped closer.

It wasn’t subtle, occupying a clean, intentional section of the apartment like it had every right to be. Shelving units filled with neatly arranged books—thick novels, slim comics sealed in plastic sleeves, art books with glossy spines. A row of Blu-rays beneath them, arranged chronologically. Figurines stood on the upper shelves, spaced carefully, not cluttered: ships, helmets, characters frozen mid-motion. A small model of the Millennium Falcon sat dead center, absolutely immaculate.

Jimin stared, mesmerized by what he saw.

He reached out, hesitated, then picked up one of the books, turning it over in his hands.

In the far distance, Jimin could hear the shower turn off.

Jungkook appeared in the doorway a minute later, hair damp, sleeves of his shirt pushed up as he toweled his neck. He stopped when he saw where Jimin was standing.

“… You found it,” he sighed, looking a little embarrassed.

Jimin looked over his shoulder slowly. “You said you liked Star Wars.”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah … I said I liked it. This is … a bit more.”

“This is a whole lifestyle,” Jimin replied, eyes flicking back to the shelves. “You have a curated archive.”

Jungkook crossed the room, stopping beside him. He leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in a way that suggested he was bracing for teasing.

“You’re not weirded out?”

Jimin blinked at him, a little confused. “Why would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook admitted. “Most people think it’s … too much.”

Jimin turned back to the shelves, scanning titles, fingertips hovering. “It’s meticulous,” he said. “And very you.”

That got Jungkook’s attention, his cheeks tinging a light shade of pink.

“How so?”

“You don’t half-commit to things,” Jimin said. “You don’t collect for the sake of collecting. You care … a lot.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched. “You’re saying that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is,” Jimin said immediately. Then, after a beat, softer, “It’s comforting.”

Jungkook watched him for a moment longer, then reached out and gently took the book from his hands, sliding it back into place.

“Some of these I’ve had since I was a teenager,” he said. “They moved apartments with me. Some didn’t survive, unfortunately.”

Jimin smiled faintly. “That sounds traumatic.”

“You have no idea,” Jungkook replied solemnly. “One box got lost in a move. I still think about it to this day.”

Jimin laughed, the sound easy, then caught himself. The laughter faded into something quieter, something more thoughtful.

He shifted his weight, fingers curling into the hem of Jungkook’s shirt without realizing it.

“… Is this really okay?” he asked.

Jungkook glanced down at the hand gripping his sleeve. “What is?”

“Me being here,” Jimin said. “Like this. Taking up space. Existing in your apartment like it’s … normal.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out and gently pulled Jimin closer, one arm wrapping around his back, the other settling warm and solid at his waist. He didn’t crowd him, he didn’t cage him in. He just held him there, chest to shoulder, steady and sure.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Jungkook said quietly. “I like waking up and knowing you’re around. I like that you’re eating. Sleeping. Laughing again. I like that I can take care of you and keep you safe.”

Jimin swallowed, forehead dropping lightly against Jungkook’s collarbone.

“And most importantly, I'm not trying to fix you,” Jungkook continued. “And I’m not keeping score. You’re not a guest I’m waiting for to leave. To be honest, I am really content with where we are right now.”

Jimin’s grip tightened, just a little, his chest constricting with an avalanche of emotions threatening to break loose and bury him underneath. 

“I was worried you’d get tired of it,” he admitted, his breath already hitching. “Of me.”

Jungkook’s hand slid up his back, slow and grounding. “I don’t feel tired. I feel … settled. And I know we made up a lot of rules … I know we promised to uphold all the boundaries, but …”

He paused, slightly leaned back, searching Jimin’s eyes. It was clear that he was asking for something. Though Jimin wasn’t sure yet, what exactly he was asking for. 

His whole body still felt like it had been taken hold of by a tornado. Everything had been ripped away underneath his feet and now he was in the eye of the storm, being pulled into multiple directions all at once, not sure what was most important first.

When he didn’t answer, Jungkook smiled, as if wanting to comfort Jimin—though the omega could see that there was a sad tinge of … something underneath it all. It made him want to finally break his silence, to lay his heart bare in front of the alpha. To make the sadness go away and finally be honest.

But as soon as he wanted to speak, his throat suddenly constricted and he felt like he was choking on the words. 

Jungkook shook his head, shushing whatever Jimin had tried to say. Heck, he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to express or tell.

“It’s okay.” Jungkook patted the back of Jimin’s head, caressing his hair and pulling him closer, so that he could rest his cheek against the alpha’s chest. Jimin remained there, his ear right above the alpha’s heart, listening to the strong, solid thumping. And he could feel his own heartbeat synchronizing with Jungkook’s, slowly calming into a steady rhythm, thrumming underneath his skin.

He felt a little lightheaded with the calmness wafting over his brain and dazing his senses with everything that was Jungkook.

For a moment, Jimin wished that he could stay here forever. Never to go outside again, never to leave this alpha’s side again. To be as vulnerable as he had learned to be with Jungkook. 

And maybe … just maybe, they had a chance. A chance that this—whatever it was—could work out.

They stood there for a moment longer, the city murmuring faintly beyond the glass, the shelves of stories and heroes watching quietly from the corner.

Jimin pulled back first, just enough to look up at the alpha, another truth tumbling out passed his lips.

“… Hoseok texted me,” he confessed.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened reflexively, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He apologized,” Jimin continued. “Said he was under a lot of pressure. That it wasn’t okay to talk to me like that. He wants to talk—properly.”

Jungkook searched his face. “How did that make you feel?”

Jimin exhaled slowly. “Conflicted.”

“That is completely natural, sunshine”

“I don’t think he meant to hurt me,” Jimin said. “But for some reason, I don’t think I can go back yet.”

“And that’s okay,” Jungkook said with a warm smile. “Your number one priority right now is to get better. To rebuild and return as strong, if not stronger than you were before. To be the cutthroat, smart and competent agent I know and—”

He cut himself off mid sentence, as if he was holding back words that had almost threatened to leave his lips. Jimin’s chest panged with disappointment. He had almost been able to taste the words, to finally hear them. 

Why had the alpha held back? 

Though Jimin knew that it was too early. That they probably weren’t ready yet.

“—the competent agent I met you as,” Jungkook finished his sentence.

Jimin nodded, letting that settle.

“… I think I want to talk to him,” he said after a moment. “Eventually. On my terms.”

Jungkook pressed a kiss to his hair, brief and gentle. “Whatever you decide, I’m on your side.”

Jimin closed his eyes, the calmness and comfort returning to him. Was this what real love—romantic, platonic, or familial—looked like?

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Alas, Monday returned with the same blunt certainty as always, sliding back into their lives without asking whether either of them was ready to put the quiet week behind them. Jimin hated how quickly his body remembered the old rhythm of urgency—clothes, keys, schedule, composure—like softness had been a temporary indulgence rather than something permanent.

He stood near Jungkook’s dresser with his arms folded, pretending to be preoccupied with his watch while he watched Jungkook adjust his suit in the mirror with practiced ease, the tie coming together in his hands as if there had never been a morning where he’d woken with Jimin’s weight pressed warm against his side, as if they hadn’t spent days learning each other’s habits in a way that made returning to “normal” feel faintly absurd.

Jungkook caught Jimin’s gaze in the mirror and lifted a brow. “What.”

Jimin looked away with the sort of precision he used on difficult clients. “Nothing.”

“That sounded like something,” Jungkook replied, and the gentle amusement in his voice was enough to pry at Jimin’s composure, because it carried the same quiet familiarity as the week they were now pretending hadn’t happened.

Jimin snapped his watch onto his wrist and exhaled through his nose. “I just hate that we’re going to walk back into Vanguard and act like nothing happened. I don’t want to go back yet.”

Jungkook’s expression softened for a fraction before he smoothed it back into neutrality, as if he’d trained himself to do that long before Jimin ever entered the picture. 

Jungkook finished with the tie and turned away from the mirror, crossing the room in a few unhurried steps that made Jimin’s attention snag despite himself. He stopped within reach, his voice lowered without becoming a whisper. 

“You never have to pretend with me.”

Jimin swallowed, eyes flicking down to his own coat as if it could anchor him. “I know. But at work we do.”

Jungkook nodded once, like he understood the distinction and would respect it even if he didn’t like it. “At work.”

The line sat between them—clean, necessary—until Jimin stepped back and reached for his coat with brisk efficiency, letting the movement do the work of resetting his face into something tidy and professional.

“Okay, ground rules,” he said, tone clipped on purpose. “Vanguard. Professionalism. No flirting. No eye contact. Nothing that’ll get us teased to death by Taehyung.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved, mild and infuriating. “You’ll last ten minutes.”

“I will last all day,” Jimin said, and he hated that he sounded like he was making a vow.

“You’re lying,” Jungkook answered, wholly without malice, as though it was simply a fact they both understood.

Jimin grabbed his bag, then paused. “Text me your schedule.”

Jungkook was already pulling out his phone. “Already did.”

Of course he had, because Jungkook never half-committed to anything, and Jimin refused to examine why that thought felt both aggravating and strangely reassuring at the same time.

They left the apartment in a way that looked ordinary to anyone watching—two people in coats, one slightly ahead, one holding the door. In the elevator, they stood with a polite distance that was almost theatrical, Jimin’s eyes fixed on the floor numbers as if they were the only safe thing to look at, Jungkook’s posture relaxed as if his body didn’t remember exactly what Jimin’s sounded like when he let go, and when their hands brushed by accident as the elevator shifted, neither of them acknowledged it aloud even though it changed the air.

The lobby greeted them with its usual calm; the doorman nodded, Jungkook returned it, Jimin offered a smile so composed it could have been part of a brand, and then the city swallowed them into noise and motion, the morning cold turning their breath visible for a second before it disappeared.

Vanguard was already busy and bustling when they arrived and Jimin slipped into his desk like he’d never left, tablet out, pen ready, posture set. Jungkook did the same across from him, settling into his role with the same practiced competence, and for the first stretch of the day their communication stayed where it belonged: schedules, numbers, short updates delivered in the calm voices of people who knew exactly how to look unbothered.

It was almost convincing, which was the problem.

Taehyung ruined it before lunch, as he always did, wheeling his chair into their orbit with that bright, predatory interest he wore like perfume.

“You two are terrifying today,” he announced pleasantly, eyes flicking between them like he was watching a match he’d placed bets on. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes,” Jimin said without looking up.

“No,” Jungkook said at the same time, equally flat.

Taehyung’s grin widened with immediate satisfaction. “Oh, that’s simply fascinating.”

Yoongi made a sound from his corner that might have been a sigh, or might have been a prayer.

“Anyway,” Taehyung continued, as if he hadn’t just filed that information away to weaponize later, “Hoseok wants coverage on Greene Street at four. Last-minute private showing. Rich couple. Picky. The kind who think they’re doing you a favor by existing and gracing you with their company.”

Jimin’s pen paused for the smallest possible moment before he forced it to keep moving, while Jungkook’s gaze lifted sharply and then dropped again, controlled enough that it didn’t count as reacting. 

Hoseok’s office door slid open on the other side of the bullpen and his voice carried out—brisk, efficient—calling for someone else, already rearranging the day with the authority of a man who treated time like inventory.

Jimin’s tablet chimed a second later.

PRIVATE SHOWING—CONFIRMED.
Greene Street. 4:00 p.m.
Two buyers. NDA requested.

He stared at the email long enough for annoyance to curdle into something else, because “private showing” had stopped being neutral language weeks ago, and now it came with the ghost of laughter in staged rooms, with the memory of locked doors and furniture too clean and orderly, and the heat of Jungkook’s voice saying sunshine like he belonged only to him.

He lifted his gaze across his table before he could talk himself out of it, and Jungkook was already looking back, expression carefully blank in a room full of people, eyes not blank at all. Heat was ablaze, tension prickling between them like live wire. Both of them knew what the other wanted, their newfound connection already threatening to draw them back to one another.

Jungkook’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, read, and set his jaw once like he was re-centering himself. When he looked up again, his voice was calm enough to pass for ordinary business.

“Greene,” he said. “You’re on it?”

Jimin’s throat tightened, but his tone stayed smooth. “Looks like I am.”

Jungkook nodded, already pushing back from his chair. “I’ll get the spare keys.”

The words landed heavier than it should have, because keys meant access and access meant private spaces, and private spaces had become … complicated, to say the least.

They moved through the bullpen like parallel lines—two agents in motion, no touching, no lingering—yet as Jungkook passed Jimin’s desk, he dipped his head just enough to keep the exchange invisible, and his voice reached Jimin’s ear in a low murmur that sounded like a joke and a warning at the same time.

“Another private showing. See you there?”

Jimin’s grip tightened around his pen until it threatened to snap, and when he answered he didn’t lift his eyes from the screen, because that was the only way to keep his face neutral.

“Yes,” he whispered, trying to keep his scent from spiking beneath the scent blockers. His heart was racing like he had just run a marathon, and his inner omega was whining to be closer, to lean his head against the alpha’s shoulder again, searching for his comfort.

“Try to behave, sunshine,” Jungkook’s quiet laugh was more breath than sound, and it threaded itself under Jimin’s skin anyway, heat starting to coil in his abdomen. They were playing a dangerous game.

“No promises,” Jimin rolled his eyes at his screen, trying to pretend that this was okay, that this was nothing—then forced himself to keep working until four o’clock arrived and swallowed him whole the way it always did.

Greene Street was absurdly beautiful in that curated, open-house way that tried to disguise expense as taste. The apartment was all wide-plank floors and sun that poured in as if it had been negotiated into the contract, walls white as snow, windows tall enough to make the city look like it existed solely for this specific view.

Jimin did what he always did: he greeted the couple, smiled, let them walk, let them talk, answered questions without giving ground, steered them away from the kind of leverage-hunting that made his skin crawl, and watched their eyes flicker in all the small tells that meant they want it. 

This time, Jimin’s instincts screamed with assuredness. They wanted this apartment, and he knew that they would confirm by the end of the day.

By the time the couple finally left—polite, a little too measured—Jimin’s jaw ached faintly from holding himself so carefully in place. No matter how hard he had tried, Hoseok’s words had haunted him throughout the whole day, keeping his more aggressive side at bay. He had tried so hard to revert back to his usual self—the cut throat agent Jungkook seemed to care so much about. But in the end, nothing worked.  

His old self had taken control of his body—the version of himself his mother had trimmed into the perfect little omega she had always wanted. Someone who could be used, rather than using others.

And the most devastating part was—Jimin thought—that it had worked. The couple had been easier to handle, when he was soft, sweet and charming, adhering to their wishes, and being exactly whom they expected and wanted him to be.

Something in him bristled at the thought. All of it felt so foreign, and the realization hit Jimin, that he hadn’t been used to showing the soft side of himself. Did he like or hate it? He wasn’t so sure.

Jimin closed the door behind them, leaned back against the solid surface for a second, and let the quiet settle around him.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. He would figure it out eventually, he thought. It was okay not to be sure of something immediately. 

He pulled out his phone to check if Jungkook had texted. Instead of the alpha’s number, another person’s message handle lit up his phone.

Aspen
Jiminie, I’m starting to wonder if you are still alive, or have been kidnapped.
Please offer some sign of life, so that I can be assured.

Jimin stared at the message, realizing he had been absent from class—a membership he was paying a shit ton of money for—for one week. 

Oh my goddess, he thought. Jimin usually wasn’t someone who got stingy, but when it came to his yoga and relaxation courses, he usually never slacked off. Mind over matter, or whatever everyone said.

Jimin
Sorry, something came up
Couldn’t make it.

Aspen
That’s okay, but I hope you get your pretty ass back here soon
Those quads and your divine gluteus maximus won’t train itself
Don’t you want to impress your new hot alpha

Jimin stared at Aspen’s messages in disbelief, briefly wondering how the beta knew. Then again, he shouldn’t really question Aspen. Spiritual enlightenment and all that.

Jimin
Fineee.

Aspen
Don’t fineee me.
Either you’ll be here for our next session, or I’ll show up at your door step 🙂

Jimin decided not to grace the beta with an answer to that message. Though he would adhere and go to the next session. Breathing exercises would probably do his alarmed and vulnerable system some good.

Maybe Jungkook could accompany him …

Goddess, what was he thinking?

A staged prospect sat on the coffee table like an offering, its glossy pages thick with promise and misleading softness, and Jimin crossed the living room to pick it up as if reading would keep him from checking his phone every ten seconds. He dropped onto the couch—too pristine, too expensive to feel like anyone had ever actually sat there—and flipped through the pages with the air of someone reviewing a deal, except his attention kept sliding away from the written text, drifting toward the door, toward the seconds passing.

He heard the lock before he heard the footsteps.

Jimin’s head snapped up so quickly it made the pages rustle.

Jungkook stepped inside and closed the door behind him with care, scanning the space in a single sweep the way he always did when he entered a property—automatic, professional, alert—before his gaze caught on Jimin and softened so fast it almost looked like relief.

“Did they leave?” Jungkook asked, voice low.

Jimin didn’t answer right away, because his face did it for him. The moment their eyes met, something bright and unguarded broke through his composure, joy erupting in his chest, and he was already standing, already moving, the prospect forgotten on the cushions.

“They left,” Jimin said, and his voice sounded lighter than it had any right to after a day like this. “I was waiting.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved, but the smile didn’t look teasing—it looked like he’d been carrying too much restraint for too many hours and had finally been allowed to set it down.

“This is such a bad idea,” Jungkook murmured, but he didn’t step back.

“Hasn’t it always been?” Jimin asked with a grin, his eyes literally lit up as he crossed the room, the excitement in him too obvious to hide. 

A week ago,  Jungkook would’ve told himself to keep it simple, keep it controlled, keep the agreement clean, just like Jimin wanted. But now the distance of a few hours had felt like something sharp lodged under his ribs, and seeing the omega standing there—alive, safe, warm—made the alpha in him surge with a satisfaction so instinctive it bordered on reverent.

Jimin didn’t slow down.

He launched himself into Jungkook’s arms with a soft, breathless sound, arms locking around his shoulders like he’d been holding himself back all day and didn’t want to anymore, and Jungkook caught him easily, one hand spanning his lower back, the other sliding up to steady him as Jimin pressed closer, cheek against Jungkook’s collar.

The omega inhaled, deep and shameless, and Jungkook’s eyes closed before he could stop them.

He dipped his head into the curve of Jimin’s neck and breathed him in, slow and greedy, relief moving through him so intensely that his grip tightened on instinct. Jimin’s scent was familiar now, sweet and warm beneath the remnants of blocker and city air, and something that had been clenched inside Jungkook for hours finally loosened.

He held him there, anchored against his chest, and for a moment he didn’t care that they were standing in a staged living room in a listing that wasn’t his, because Jimin was here and solid in his arms and that felt like the only real thing in the apartment.

Jimin shifted slightly, still clinging, and murmured into his shoulder, “I missed you.”

Jungkook’s breath caught, and he answered honestly, without trying to make it a joke. “It’s been too long.”

Jimin’s fingers flexed at the back of his neck as if he wanted to keep him there, and Jungkook let him. Let them have the extra seconds, the warmth, the quiet proof that the world and work hadn’t managed to pry them apart entirely. Then he nudged them carefully toward the couch with slow steps, guiding Jimin like he mattered more than the furniture, more than the staged perfection.

They sank down together, Jungkook first, then Jimin half in his lap and half beside him, folded in close as if the separation had been an insult their bodies were correcting now. Jungkook’s arm settled around Jimin’s shoulders in a way that wasn’t possessive so much as protective, his hand rubbing small, grounding circles at his upper arm.

Jungkook exhaled slowly and tilted his head, brushing his mouth against the edge of Jimin’s hair in a touch that hovered between restraint and want. 

“So,” he asked, tone light on purpose even though his eyes kept catching on Jimin’s mouth, “how was the private showing?”

Jimin pulled back just enough to look at him, grin already forming, that sharp, satisfied kind of smugness he wore like expensive cologne when he’d won something.

“Good,” he said simply.

Jungkook’s brow lifted. “Just good?”

Jimin’s smile widened. “They made an offer. A real one. No leverage games, no ‘we’ll think about it’ nonsense. The seller accepted, and I already have the confirmation in writing.”

Jungkook let out a low laugh that sounded like pride before he could mask it. “Look at you.”

Jimin’s eyes gleamed, pleased enough that Jungkook could see it in the curve of his mouth, in the lift of his chin, in the warmth still lingering beneath his scent.

He leaned in closer again, voice dropping into something more private despite the professional setting. “It’s going to be good money.”

“It should be,” Jungkook replied, thumb brushing absentmindedly over Jimin’s shoulder. “You earned it.”

The omega tilted his head, gaze sliding over Jungkook’s face with a warmth that made Jungkook’s chest tighten again, then he said, far too casually for the effect it had, “Still wasn’t half as good as the showings I have with you.”

Jungkook’s laugh came out sharper this time, genuine, startled, his eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “You’re insufferable.”

Jimin shrugged, unapologetic, lips curving like he enjoyed being exactly that. “Accurate assessment.”

Jungkook shook his head slowly, still smiling, but the smile didn’t stay light for long, because the quiet between them shifted. The joking fell away under something heavier and more honest, and Jungkook found himself looking at Jimin the way he’d been trying not to look at him all day—like the thought of home wasn’t just a listing in Jimin’s vocabulary anymore. As if everything was buzzing with possibility now. With something, that could actually work out.

Jimin’s grin softened, and he held Jungkook’s gaze without flinching.

The air between them tightened with that familiar pull that always made Jungkook feel like he was stepping toward a ledge and willingly ignoring the drop, even welcoming it.

Jungkook’s hand slid from Jimin’s shoulder to the back of his neck, thumb resting just below his ear, and he murmured, “You look happy.”

Jimin’s lashes flickered, and his voice came out softer than his posture suggested. “That’s because I am.”

Jungkook swallowed, his inner alpha pacing, trying to evaluate if it was because of him, or something else. What they could do, to keep their omega at this level of happiness, or if they could make him even happier.

Jimin leaned in first, closing the distance without rushing, giving Jungkook the choice even though they both knew what would happen, and the alpha met him halfway, their mouths finding each other with a relief that bordered on desperate. 

It started as a kiss meant to be controlled—meant to be careful, meant to stay within the bounds of whatever rules Jimin had written months ago—but it didn’t stay that way for long, because Jungkook’s hand tightened at the back of Jimin’s neck as if his body refused the idea of holding back, and Jimin’s fingers fisted in Jungkook’s jacket as if he’d been waiting for this all day.

Jungkook kissed him like he’d been missing something essential, and the omega answered like he didn’t want to be apart ever again, the staged living room disappearing around them until the only thing that felt real was the warmth of Jimin’s mouth, the familiar sweetness of his scent, and the steady, grounding weight of him pressed close—safe, alive, right here by Jungkook’s side.

And somewhere in the back of Jungkook’s mind, faint and ridiculous, the thought rose anyway: No promises, indeed. 

He knew that he was playing a game he had lost a long time ago.

And it still astonished him how easily Jimin had managed to turn his whole life around. 

He had never been lonely. Someone had always been there to keep him company, in some way or the other. First, his family. Then his friends. There had always been lovers or friends with benefits, satisfying his need for emotional and physical closeness.

But when he met Jimin, he realized that there had been an emptiness that he had never consciously perceived before. The omega had made him feel emotions and unearthed needs that had been hidden deep inside of him before. The need to possess, to earn someone's trust—having someone to care for. 

Taking care of his omega had become one of his favorite things throughout the day; making breakfast and lunch, eating together and seeing Jimin’s eyes light up with every bite. How he looked up at him and asked him how he had made the meal, inquiring about the recipe and calling his cooking skills magic. 

Showering together had also become one of the most enjoyable moments, lathering Jimin’s hair with his favorite scented shampoo, hearing the pleased moan leave his lips and then making him moan even more in the sheets. 

Waking up with him in the morning, watching his peaceful face—all the worries of the day, any creases in his face vanished—and running his fingers through the gold strands of hair, marvelling at how soft they felt in his fingers.

It was as if all of his daydreams had come true. 

He didn’t know if he could ever survive going back to the time that was before Jimin. It felt foreign—like a past life that hadn’t really been his.

The omega in his lap truly was more than everything he had hoped for. Sweeter and softer than anyone he had ever been with. As if he was born specifically for him. Pulling him out of the torpor that was his life before.

Jimin was still kissing him, though it was much tender than all the other times they had met up for their Private Showings. Something had changed. So much was clear. The weren’t impatient, pulling each others clothes off and fucking immediately on the next best surface that they could find. 

Right this moment, they were taking their time. Being careful, slow and careful with each other, marvelling at every inch of skin that they uncovered, kissing and licking, bathing in each other's scents and staking their claim. Alpha and omega, omega and alpha. 

They were much more careful with each other, as Jimin wrapped his legs around Jungkook, only interrupting their kisses to catch his breath. Jungkook picked him up easily, cupping the omega's cheeks, a promise of what was about to come. 

Careful not to bump into anything, Jungkook navigated them through the apartment in search of the bedroom. As this was a listing he wasn’t really familiar with, Jimin had to help him by murmuring directions against his lips.

When they finally entered the creamy white bedroom, the soft gleam of dusk streaming through the curtains, Jungkook was out of breath. Not because of the walking, but because the anticipation had become entirely too much. 

He gently set Jimin down on the bed, letting him sink into the soft mattress and covers, immediately following after him.

Instinctively, his hips slid between the omega’s thighs, grinding there, pressing against the soft curve of his clothed bottom. 

His breath stuttered when the omega softened against him, not resisting, only clutching at him more tightly as though he needed the closeness just as badly. 

Heat pooled between them, but for a moment he did nothing except press a trembling kiss below the omega’s ear and breathe him in. The scent of him flooded every corner of his mind, warm and dizzying, and he had to steady himself before moving again. Even then, he kept it unhurried, rocking against him with a care that felt almost devotional.

He lifted his head just enough to look at him, eyes dark and unsteady, as though he still could not quite believe this was real. Jimin’s cheeks were flushed, his hair mussed from their make-out, his lips parted on a breath that sounded almost like Jungkook’s name. The sight of him like that made something deep inside Jungkook ache with a tenderness so fierce it nearly undid him.

For a long moment, he simply stayed there, bracing himself above him without putting his full weight on him, one hand slipping up to smooth Jimin’s hair back from his forehead. His thumb traced slowly over the line of his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth, as if memorising him by touch might somehow be enough to survive this. 

It wouldn’t be, of course. Nothing about Jimin would ever be enough once Jungkook had been given even this much.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words roughened by emotion rather than urgency, and bent to press another kiss to his mouth before Jimin could look away from the intensity of it.

Jimin answered by drawing him closer again, legs tightening around his hips in quiet invitation, but there was no impatience in it. Only trust. Only warmth. Only that same trembling wonder Jungkook felt burning through his own chest. 

Their mouths met once more, each kiss deepening out of a kind of reverence, like they were standing at the edge of something sacred and neither of them wanted to break the spell by moving too quickly.

The room around them fell away piece by piece. The pale walls, the fading light behind the curtains, the distant hush of the city outside. All of it blurred until there was only this—Jimin beneath him, open and unguarded and reaching for him with hands that still shook a little when they touched. 

Jungkook kissed his jaw, his cheek, the delicate skin near his temple, each touch careful enough to say I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

When Jimin smiled—small, breathless, and impossibly fond—Jungkook felt it like a blow to the heart. He huffed out the faintest laugh, forehead dropping to Jimin’s for a moment as he closed his eyes.

“Still with me?” he whispered.

Jimin’s answer came not just in words, but in the way his fingers curled at the nape of Jungkook’s neck, holding him there as though he had no intention of letting go. And Jungkook, undone by that simple certainty, kissed him again like making a vow.

His question seemed to soften something in Jimin even further. The omega’s gaze fluttered over his face for a moment, shy and open all at once, before his hands found the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. His fingers trembled slightly as they curled into the fabric, and Jungkook’s breath caught at the fragile little gesture alone.

“Always.”

Slowly, carefully, the omega pushed the shirt up, inch by inch, as though he wanted to take his time with every bit of skin revealed to him. Jungkook helped only when he had to, sitting back just enough to let the fabric pass over his head before tossing it aside somewhere beyond the bed. 

When he looked down again, Jimin was already staring at him with an expression so tender and awed it made warmth rush straight to his chest, his head felt dizzy and disoriented—his only anchor Jimin.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Jungkook leaned down and kissed him, while his hands slipped to the buttons of Jimin’s shirt. He undid them one by one, with far more patience than he usually possessed, brushing his knuckles now and then over the newly uncovered skin as though he couldn’t help himself. Each glimpse of warm skin seemed to undo him a little more, not because of urgency, but because this felt impossibly precious. Like he was being trusted with something impossibly valuable.

Jimin shivered beneath his touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted himself just enough to help Jungkook slide the fabric from his shoulders. The shirt loosened, then fell away completely, and Jungkook could only look at him for a moment—quiet, almost overwhelmed, his hands settling at Jimin’s waist as though grounding himself there.

“So beautiful,” he said again, more to himself than anything.

A flush rose higher in Jimin’s cheeks, but he reached for Jungkook in return, palms warm against bare skin now, exploring him with a kind of hesitating wonder that felt almost as intimate as a confession. 

His fingertips traced over Jungkook’s shoulders, then down his arms, learning every dip and rise of him in silence. 

The alpha closed his eyes for a second at the feeling, leaning into it before returning the favor, letting his hands drift carefully along Jimin’s sides, soothing and unhurried.

Every piece of clothing was removed with the same reverence. Between each small movement came another kiss, another pause to breathe, another soft touch meant only to reassure. By the time the last layers had been shed, they were both a little breathless, not from haste, but from the sheer closeness and tension of what this moment was. What it felt like. 

Jungkook drew the blankets back around them almost instinctively, cocooning them in warmth as he returned to Jimin, pressing close once more. For a while, he only held him there, skin to skin now, forehead resting against his as the fading evening light wrapped around them both. 

“Can I?” he inquired, feeling extremely self-conscious all of a sudden. Even though they had fucked so many times and seen each other naked countless times more, this felt so much more … intimate. For the life of him, he couldn’t explain or grasp this feeling. 

It felt like a turning point. 

A point of no return.

Jimin nodded, his scent spiking slightly as the alpha lined himself against his entrance and slowly pushed in, the movement fluid with how much slick had pooled between the omega’s thighs.

He gasped and dug his nails into Jungkook’s back, his eyes wide, almost rolling back.

“W … what?” Jimin gasped, his eyes focusing on Jungkook again. 

Jungkook himself was taken aback. How could this feel … so much more intense than before? The slow movements ignited a kind of pleasure in him that he had never felt before in his life.

Every inch felt unbearably pleasurable, a jolt of electricity shooting from his dick up his whole body, setting off fireworks in his brain, his synapses ablaze with pleasure.

Jungkook knew without a doubt that this moment was rewiring him irrevocably. He could never go back—not that he wanted to anyway.

Each trust started to add to the coil of pleasure in his abdomen—Jimin’s scent enveloping him like a warm hug and guiding him closer to the edge of the cliff. 

He was ready and eager to jump off and lose his old self forever.

This was the start of something new. A new him, a new life.

He wasn’t scared. If Jimin was with him, he could do it all.

The omega was whining and writhing under him, asking for more—faster, slower, harder, softer. Jungkook was fulfilling all of his wishes, pushing both of them closer to the edge. It was as if they were moving in complete unison for the first time since they had started sleeping with each other. 

The alpha’s thrust hit deeper, right into the pleasure point Jungkook knew would make Jimin go crazy. The omega’s nails were dug into the skin right at his shoulder blades, but somehow the pain only added to the pleasure. 

Jimin was meeting his thrust now, his wet and warm walls clenching around his length, as if they were trying to wring his orgasm out of him.

As both of them jumped over the edge together, Jungkook was even more sure about what he needed to do. 

For Jimin, he could do it. If it made his omega happy, he would go to the end of the world. No matter what.

Pearls of Jimin’s cum were dripping down their skin between them, like dewdrops on blades of grass in the morning hours. 

Jungkook was still coming, his whole body shuddering from the intensity of it. He was about to collapse, his muscles were shaking and he had trouble keeping himself upright. This was the longest and most profound orgasm he had ever had in his whole damn life. 

Jimin, still twitching from his release, stared up at Jungkook with wonder.

“Wow … This was–,” he was searching for the right words. “It never felt this good before.”

Jungkook nodded in agreement, still catching his breath. 

“I know,” he said quietly, the words almost disbelieving, as though he still had not fully come back down from it himself.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

They simply stayed there, tangled together in the aftermath, breathing in the same air and their tangled scents, the room around them dim and honeyed in the last traces of evening. 

Jungkook lowered himself carefully, as though reluctant to put even an inch of distance between them, and pressed a lingering kiss to Jimin’s temple. The omega shivered beneath it—as if his body was trying to understand what had just happened to it.

Jimin’s fingers, which had been gripping him so tightly only moments ago, loosened at last and slid into Jungkook’s hair. He combed through it absentmindedly, still looking dazed, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from their kisses. There was something so open in his expression that it made Jungkook’s chest ache.

“You okay?” Jungkook murmured after a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over Jimin’s cheek.

Jimin gave a small, breathless laugh. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I’m just … still floating a little.”

That pulled the faintest smile from Jungkook. He leaned down and kissed him again, this time with no urgency at all—just warmth, just affection, just a quiet attempt to say everything he didn’t yet know how to put into words.

When he finally drew back, Jimin was still watching him in that same soft, almost stunned way.

“What?” Jungkook asked, voice rough.

Jimin shook his head against the pillow. “Nothing,” he said, though the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. 

“I just …” He hesitated, eyes flickering over Jungkook’s face. “I really like this version of you.”

Jungkook stilled, his thoughts a tangled mess.

Not because the words frightened him, but because they landed somewhere deep, somewhere already split open for Jimin and only Jimin. He looked at him for a long second, then exhaled and rested his forehead briefly against Jimin’s.

“This version of me only exists because of you,” he said, honest in a way that felt almost dangerous.

Jimin’s eyes softened immediately. Jungkook wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but he swore he could make out tears gathering in the omega’s eyes. Though he didn’t comment on it, scared to break the precious moment between them.

The silence that followed wrapped around them gently, full of things still unfolding, full of feelings neither of them had the strength to untangle just yet. Outside, the world kept going as if nothing had changed. But here, in the hush of the cream-white bedroom, everything had.

It was Jimin who broke the spell first, though only barely.

“We should probably …” he started, then trailed off, glancing vaguely around the room with the expression of someone who had only just remembered the existence of reality.

Jungkook let out a quiet laugh, tired and fond. “Yeah.”

Neither of them made any move to get up.

For another minute, maybe two, they remained exactly as they were, stealing one last pocket of stillness before the practicalities of the evening returned. Then Jungkook kissed his forehead once more and carefully pulled back, already missing the warmth of him.

The room looked far too innocent around them. The bed, though, did not.

Jimin groaned the second he noticed too, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh my goddess.”

That made Jungkook laugh properly this time, soft and helpless and full of affection. “We really are incredible at our jobs.”

Jimin peeked at him through his fingers, half scandalized, half fighting back a smile. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Jungkook echoed, reaching for his clothes from the floor. “You were the one giving directions like this was some kind of guided tour.”

Despite himself, Jimin laughed—a small, wrecked sound, but real. It loosened something in the room, made everything feel lighter. More manageable.

They dressed slowly, still dazed enough that every now and then their hands bumped while reaching for the same discarded thing, drawing out shy smiles and stolen kisses that threatened to derail them all over again. Jungkook straightened the sheets while Jimin disappeared for a moment and returned with the things they needed to make the room look untouched, or at least untouched enough for plausible deniability.

Together, they moved through the bedroom in a strange, almost domestic rhythm—fixing the bed, gathering clothes, checking surfaces, opening the window for a while to let the air shift. The intimacy of it felt absurd in its own way. Not the fevered kind from before, but something steadier. Softer. The kind that made Jungkook’s chest tighten when Jimin wordlessly handed him a cushion and he took it as though they had done this together a hundred times.

By the time they were finished, dusk had deepened into evening.

Jimin stood in the middle of the room, arms folded loosely around himself, looking at the space as if to make sure it no longer gave them away. “Do you think it’s obvious?”

Jungkook glanced around, then at him—his flushed cheeks, mussed hair, the unmistakable glow he was trying and failing to hide.

“The room?” he asked. “No.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes.

“You,” Jungkook added, stepping closer, unable not to smile, “a little.”

Jimin made a face like he wanted to be offended, but Jungkook was already there, smoothing back his hair and pressing one final, sweet kiss to his mouth.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Before we ruin the listing all over again.”

And with that, he took Jimin’s hand and led him out of the bedroom, leaving it pristine behind them—except for the fact that both of them knew, with aching certainty, that neither of them would ever be able to look at it quite the same way again.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Two weeks after Greene Street, their arrangement had stopped behaving like just a simple arrangement.

Jungkook had said the word dating once—tentatively, like he was testing whether it would make Jimin bolt—and then had watched Jimin with that careful attention he usually reserved for negotiations, waiting for the flinch that never quite came. 

Jimin had pretended to be unimpressed, naturally, because that was his favorite kind of armor, and had replied that he didn’t “do labels,” which was a lie in the same way most of his lies were: technically plausible, emotionally dishonest.

And yet they were doing it anyway.

Dinner dates that Jungkook insisted were “not dates” because he refused to sound vulnerable on principle, even while he chose restaurants that were quiet enough for Jimin to breathe and sat on the side of the table that let Jimin see the room. 

Cinema nights where Jimin smuggled in snacks like a criminal and then complained about the film’s pacing with the seriousness of a man delivering a closing argument.

One theatre evening, courtesy of Taehyung’s spare tickets, that turned into a public endurance test for everyone involved—Taehyung whispering commentary with the shameless delight of someone who enjoyed ruining art for sport, Yoongi looking like he was being held hostage by the enforced culture itself, and Jungkook sitting perfectly still only because Jimin’s hand had been resting against his thigh beneath the program like a quiet threat: behave.

Yoongi, apparently possessed by something dramatic and wildly uncharacteristic for him, finally confessed his feelings at the bar afterward with the intensity of a man offering his heart on a platter, only for Taehyung to sigh like a long-suffering romantic lead and mutter a deeply exasperated finally, as though Yoongi had kept him waiting for far too long.

Jungkook had nearly choked on his drink.

Jimin had laughed so hard he’d put his head down on the sticky table and stayed there, shoulders shaking, until Jungkook’s hand found the back of his neck under the excuse of steadying him. 

Taehyung, radiant with victory, had declared it a “historic moment for workplace romance,” and Yoongi had glared at him with the resigned expression of a man who had accepted his fate.

After that, things moved in that odd, quiet way they always did when you stopped naming them too loudly and simply let them exist.

Jimin began spending more time at Jungkook’s apartment than his own, at first as a convenience—sleeping over after late closings, showing up with his laptop and a “I’m just using your Wi-Fi,” staying because the city outside felt too bright and loud, and his own place felt too empty—and then, gradually, because the apartment had started to feel like a place that he could call … home.

His toothbrush appeared beside Jungkook’s, his blazer ended up hung over the same chair Jungkook always used. A pair of Jimin’s shoes began living by the door like they’d always belonged there. 

Jimin started reaching for mugs without asking which ones were decorative and which ones were for use, and Jungkook stopped watching him do it like he was afraid the spell would break.

Mornings became a shared routine instead of an awkward fussing around each other.

They woke up together with the same soft inevitability—Jimin half tangled in Jungkook’s sheets, Jungkook’s arm heavy and warm around his waist, the city already moving outside the windows while, inside, time moved slower as if in stop motion.

The alpha made breakfast more often than not, not because Jimin couldn’t, but because Jungkook liked feeding people he cared about—often saying that food was his love language. 

Jimin learned how Jungkook liked his eggs, how he always stood with one hip against the counter when he cooked, posture loose and domestic in a way that still felt faintly illegal for someone like him.

And then there was Doughbi-Wan Kenobi.

The starter lived in its jar like a ridiculous, sacred responsibility, and Jungkook treated it with the kind of solemn respect that made Jimin laugh every time, even when the week had tried to drag him down. 

Jungkook taught him patiently—what the dough should feel like, when to fold, how to discover what it needed by touch alone instead of overthinking it, how to wait patiently—and Jimin, who usually hated not being immediately good at things, found himself enjoying the slow ritual of it.

The first loaf they made together came out imperfect: beautiful crust, slightly uneven crumb, a little too dark on one side.

Jimin had stared at it like it was a miracle.

Meanwhile, Jungkook had looked at him like he was the miracle.

They had even gone to Aspen’s classes together, the beta teasing them without holding back. He had even made them do couple’s yoga, twisting and turning their bodies into positions Jimin hadn’t known possible. 

At the end of their session, Aspen had ceremoniously handed Jungkook a copy of the Kamasutra, making the alpha promise to take good care of his Jiminie.

For the first time in his life, Jimin felt … settled.

It was quiet in a way that didn’t feel like punishment. It was warmth that didn’t come with a price tag. It was someone touching him without taking anything he hadn’t offered, someone staying without demanding proof he deserved it. It was laughing in the kitchen at two in the morning because Jungkook had started arguing with the sourdough like it was a sentient being, and Jimin had realized—half horrified, half delighted—that he was happy.

Which, unfortunately, was exactly why the fear slipped in again.

It came at inconvenient moments, the way old instincts always did: when Jungkook’s hand brushed his lower back as they passed each other in the hallway, when Jungkook asked if he wanted to stay another night as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, when Jimin found his own sweater folded neatly in Jungkook’s drawer and felt something in his chest tighten with startled tenderness.

The peace was so real that it made his body brace for the impact of losing it.

Jimin had always been good at anticipating the moment something turned wrong. His childhood had trained him that way, his career had sharpened it, and he could feel the shape of endings before they arrived—could sense the slightest shift in someone’s interest, someone’s patience, someone’s willingness to keep choosing him, and a part of him remained convinced that nothing good lasted unless it was purchased with pain.

He tried not to let those thoughts take over. He tried, sincerely, because Jungkook was right there—often literally right there, close enough to lean into, warm enough to believe in—and worrying felt like disrespecting the softness and trust he’d been offered.

Still, his mind did what it always did when it finally had room to breathe: it searched for the exit.

What if this ends? it whispered, late at night when Jungkook was asleep and the apartment was quiet. What if he gets tired of you? What if he decides your ambition is inconvenient? What if one day he looks at you and sees “too much” the way everyone else always has?

Jimin hated that voice with the kind of exhaustion that made his eyes sting.

Most days, he managed. He kept the fear folded away like he kept everything else folded away—neat, controlled, out of sight, buried deep inside his mind—until Jungkook did something small and ordinary that made it harder to hold onto the panic.

Like reaching for Jimin’s hand without thinking while they waited for the elevator, thumb rubbing once over his knuckles like a quiet reassurance. Like looking up from his phone to ask if Jimin had eaten yet and then, when Jimin said no, standing up immediately as if feeding him was non-negotiable. Like pressing a kiss to Jimin’s temple in the kitchen while the kettle boiled, casual and warm.

Those moments pulled Jimin out of his spirals without argument.

They didn’t erase the fear entirely, because fear didn’t work like that, but they reminded him—over and over—that Jungkook was here, and that he was choosing him in a way that wasn’t performative or loud. It was simply consistent.

So Jimin kept trying, even when his instincts screamed at him to guard the door.

He kept letting the mornings happen. He kept letting Jungkook teach him the bread. He kept letting himself laugh, even when his laughter sounded too bright, like it might tempt fate. He kept letting the apartment feel like home, even though that word made his chest ache.

And when the fear rose too high, when it threatened to undo him, he did what he always did when he didn’t know how to ask for reassurance without sounding like he needed it.

He reached for Jungkook in small ways and let Jungkook pull him back down to earth.

Because the alpha always did.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

“We’re having dinner at Namjoon’s.”

Jimin’s brain immediately tried to sprint for every worst-case scenario available.

“Your brother Namjoon,” he clarified, panic threatening to take hold of him.

“Yes,” Jungkook replied, already checking the time, already moving through his apartment with that competent ease that suggested he’d decided this was happening and didn’t feel the need to dramatize it.

“And Seokjin,” Jungkook added, glancing at him. “His mate. He’s … very pregnant.”

Jimin swallowed. “I gathered.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched, like he could see the spiral starting at the edge of Jimin’s eyes. He stepped closer, not rushing, and reached for Jimin’s hand as if it was normal now—because it was—threading their fingers together in a steady, grounding hold.

“You don’t have to perform with them,” Jungkook said, voice low. “They already know you exist. Just be yourself.”

“That’s not comforting,” Jimin muttered automatically, even though the warmth of Jungkook’s hand did something immediate and annoying to his pulse.

Jungkook squeezed once. “It is, actually. It means the pressure to be perfect is already pointless.”

Jimin exhaled slowly, trying to make his shoulders drop. “I want them to like me.”

“They will,” Jungkook replied, like it was a fact and not a hope. Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing a fraction with that dry amusement he used when he was trying to pull Jimin out of his head. “And if they don’t, I’ll disown them.”

Jimin stared at him. “That’s your brother.”

“Exactly,” Jungkook said. “It’ll be very dramatic.”

Jimin huffed out a laugh despite himself, which was, unfortunately, Jungkook’s entire strategy: make him laugh, make him breathe, make the fear lose its teeth.

On the way out, Jungkook handed him a small paper bag.

Jimin looked down. “What is this.”

“A dessert,” Jungkook said. “From a place Seokjin likes.”

Jimin blinked. “You bought Seokjin dessert.”

“I bought Seokjin dessert,” Jungkook confirmed solemnly. “Pregnant omegas are powerful. I respect them.”

“And the wine?” Jimin asked, because he could already see the bottle in Jungkook’s other hand.

Jungkook lifted it slightly. “This is for Namjoon. If he’s going to interrogate you, he should at least do it with a good glass of wine in his hand.”

“Interrogate,” Jimin echoed.

Jungkook smiled as if he’d simply used a synonym for chatting. “It’ll be fine.”

Jimin didn’t believe him, but he let Jungkook guide him to the car anyway.

Namjoon’s place felt different from Jungkook’s apartment the moment they stepped into the hallway. Warm, domestic, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel staged. Even through the door, Jimin could smell it faintly: food, citrus, something expensive burning in a candle somewhere, and the unmistakable softness of a home that was lived in daily.

Jungkook rang the bell and, as if sensing Jimin’s nerves like a barometer, leaned slightly closer.

“You’re doing that thing,” Jungkook murmured.

“What thing.”

“Where you’re about to almost pass out because you’re scared.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. “I’m not scared.”

Jungkook’s eyes held his for a moment, steady and warm. “Okay,” he said, clearly not buying it. “Be nervous then. Just don’t faint on me.”

The door opened before Jimin could huff or reply.

Namjoon stood there in a simple shirt with the sleeves pushed up, apron still tied around his waist, hair slightly tousled like he’d been moving too fast between kitchen and living room. He looked at Jungkook first, expression shifting into an easy smile—fond, mildly exasperated, unmistakably older-brother.

“Finally,” Namjoon said. “We were about to eat without you.”

Jungkook stepped forward automatically, shoulder bumping Namjoon’s in a greeting that was half affection and half habit. “Lies. Seokjin would riot.”

As if summoned by his name, Seokjin appeared behind Namjoon, one hand resting firmly on his stomach, the other braced on Namjoon’s back. His belly was unmistakably round beneath soft rose colored knitwear, and his face held that particular glow of someone who was both delighted and deeply over the physical experience of being pregnant.

His eyes landed on Jimin immediately.

“Oh,” Seokjin said, voice bright with instant interest. “You are Jimin.”

Jimin’s throat went dry in a way he hated. He stepped forward and bowed slightly out of instinct, then caught himself and offered a polite smile instead. “Hello. Thank you so much for having me.”

Seokjin’s expression softened into something warm and openly approving before Jimin had even finished the sentence, which was disorienting.

Jimin glanced down at Seokjin’s stomach, then back up, unsure how to behave without seeming intrusive. “And— you’re … you’re close, right?” he asked carefully. “Your due date is soon?”

Seokjin’s eyes widened with delighted drama. “He noticed!”

Namjoon snorted. “It’s hard not to notice, Jin.”

Jimin’s cheeks warmed. “I meant—I just— if you need help with anything, please tell me. Carrying something, setting the table, cleaning up—”

Seokjin didn’t let him finish. He reached forward and took Jimin’s hands like it was the most natural thing in the world, his fingers warm and certain, and his whole face lit up with the kind of satisfaction that made Jungkook groan under his breath.

“Oh,” Seokjin said, thrilled. “You’re perfect.”

Jimin blinked, genuinely thrown. “I— what.”

“You offered help immediately,” Seokjin said, as if that explained everything. “You’re polite, and considerate. You’re simply adorable.”

Jungkook made a low sound that might have been a cough if it hadn’t been so obviously a protest. “He’s not adorable.”

Seokjin turned his head slightly, eyes glittering with mischief. “Whatever you say.”

Jimin’s face went hotter.

Namjoon stepped aside, gesturing them in before the hallway swallowed them. “Come in. Shoes off—unless you’re Jungkook, because apparently the rules don’t apply to him.”

“They don’t,” Jungkook replied automatically, and Namjoon rolled his eyes.

Inside, Jimin’s nervousness sharpened into focus: the apartment was calm, carefully lit, lived-in without being messy, and the kitchen smelled like something rich and comforting. A candle flickered on a sideboard. A throw blanket was draped over the couch like someone had actually used it. There were little signs of nesting everywhere—a domestic gravity Jimin wasn’t used to stepping into … yet.

Seokjin guided them toward the dining table with the air of a host who had been waiting for this moment all week.

“Sit,” Seokjin said, pointing.

Jimin moved quickly, because being told what to do in a home was easier than guessing the rules.

Jungkook set the wine down with care and handed the dessert bag to Seokjin like he was presenting a tribute.

Seokjin peeked inside, gasped, and looked at Jungkook as if he’d just given him a diamond. “You brought me something.”

“We did,” Jungkook corrected. “The wine is for Namjoon.”

Namjoon arched a brow. “So I’m second.”

Seokjin patted Namjoon’s arm soothingly. “You’re not second. You’re an alpha, who can wait for his precious omega to open his present first.”

Jimin choked on a laugh he tried to hide with his hand, and Seokjin’s eyes snapped to him, pleased.

“Oh, he laughs,” Seokjin announced like it was a discovery. “Good.”

Namjoon moved toward the kitchen with an easy confidence. “I’m plating. Jungkook—open the wine.”

Jungkook reached for the bottle like he’d been told to do something sacred, and Jimin watched him for a second too long, oddly charmed by how he obeyed his brother without protest.

Seokjin dropped into his chair with a careful exhale, one hand returning to his stomach, and he immediately leaned toward Jimin as if the space between them was purely decorative.

“So,” Seokjin said brightly. “Tell me everything.”

Jimin blinked again. “Everything?”

Namjoon called from the kitchen, voice calm but amused. “Start with the basics. How did you meet, and why is Jungkook suddenly tolerable?”

Jungkook popped the cork with a quiet, irritated precision. “I’m always tolerable.”

Seokjin hummed, unconvinced. “You’re tolerable now because you’re being fed emotionally.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched. He glanced at Jungkook, expecting him to bristle, but Jungkook’s eyes were on him, warm and faintly smug, as if he liked that Jimin was here and being watched and still hadn’t run.

“We work together,” Jimin began, choosing a neutral entry point because he could feel the interview energy in the air. “At Vanguard.”

“And,” Seokjin prompted, delighted, “when did it stop being … work?”

Jimin’s instincts screamed deflect, but something about Seokjin’s expression made honesty feel safer than it should have.

“Gradually,” Jimin admitted, then glanced down at the table briefly. “And then very suddenly.”

Namjoon returned with plates in his hands, setting them down one by one—food arranged with care. The aroma made Jimin’s stomach twist with both hunger and awe.

“This smells amazing,” Jimin said automatically.

Namjoon’s smile flickered, pleased. “Thanks. Dad would disown me if it didn’t.”

Jimin’s gaze sharpened. “Your dad is really—” he stopped himself before saying famous, because it sounded too much like gossip and too little like respect.

“Annoyingly legendary,” Jungkook supplied, pouring the wine. “Yes.”

Seokjin lifted his glass with a satisfied little grin. “To feeding people properly. A love language we support.”

They clinked glasses—Jimin careful, nervous fingers steadied by the simple ritual—and the first few bites softened the air around them. Conversation followed naturally, spiraling out the way dinner conversations did when people were excited and curious and not particularly interested in subtlety.

Namjoon asked about Jimin’s career with the tone of someone who genuinely wanted the answer: how he got into real estate, what he liked about it, what his strengths were, what kind of clients drove him insane. 

Seokjin asked the personal questions with a boldness that should’ve been terrifying but somehow wasn’t: what Jimin did when he wasn’t working, whether he liked cooking, whether he slept well, whether Jungkook had been taking proper care of him.

Jimin answered carefully at first, then more freely when he realized neither of them were looking for ways to judge him; they were looking for ways to know him.

And, in return, Jimin asked questions too.

He asked about Namjoon’s work—how he balanced being a CEO with being present at home, what kind of company he ran, how he handled pressure without letting it escalate into cruelty. 

He asked Seokjin about pregnancy in the way only someone genuinely curious would: how he felt, what he craved, whether he was nervous, whether the baby kicked a lot. 

Seokjin lit up at the attention like a sunflower turning toward warmth, happily complaining and bragging in equal measure, describing cravings with theatrical intensity and making Namjoon laugh when he tried to pretend he wasn’t spoiling him.

At one point, Seokjin’s hand rested over his belly and his expression went briefly soft.

“We finally picked a name,” Seokjin said, eyes sparkling again. “Though, we are not finding out the gender, still.”

Jimin smiled. “You’re braver than I am.”

“It’s not bravery,” Seokjin replied. “It’s chaos. I enjoy it.”

Namjoon added, “He enjoys watching everyone else suffer with curiosity.”

Seokjin beamed. “Exactly.”

Jimin leaned forward slightly, unable to help it. “What name did you choose?”

Seokjin’s smile turned proud. “Jun.”

Jimin repeated it quietly, tasting the sound. “Jun.”

“It’s gender-neutral in a way,” Seokjin explained, one hand still on his stomach. “Soft, but strong. It feels … hopeful. Like a new beginning.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened when he looked at Seokjin, like the word meant more than just a name.

Jimin felt something warm and unexpected tighten in his chest, and for a second his fear tried to climb back up his throat—because a home like this was exactly the kind of thing that made him ache with both longing and dread—but Jungkook’s hand found his knee under the table, steady and quiet.

Seokjin watched Jimin’s face like he could read him.

“You’re good,” Seokjin said suddenly, voice gentler than before. “You know that?”

Jimin blinked, startled. “I—”

“I mean it,” Seokjin continued, as if he’d decided this was now a fact that had to be delivered. “You’re not trying too hard. You’re not trying to charm us. You’re just here. Jungkook really needed a presence like that in his life.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but his ears went faintly red.

Namjoon hummed in agreement. 

“We were curious,” he admitted, looking at Jimin steadily. “Not because we expected something bad but because Jungkook has never brought people home.”

Jimin’s breath caught a little, because the phrasing mattered: home.

Jungkook’s hand pressed once against Jimin’s knee, grounding. The omega glanced at him, found the quiet reassurance in his eyes, and managed to nod without panicking.

“I’m… glad,” Jimin said carefully. “That you let me come.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved slightly. “Me too.”

Seokjin clapped his hands softly, delighted again, as if he’d just gotten confirmation of a personal theory. “Okay,” he announced. “I like him.”

Namjoon smirked. “That was obvious within thirty seconds.”

Jungkook exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than he’d admit. “Good. Because if you didn’t, I’d have to disown you.”

Seokjin gasped dramatically. “He’s repeating your joke!”

Jimin laughed—real, unguarded—and the sound filled the space in a way that felt like it belonged there.

For a moment, the fear in his chest didn’t have anything to latch onto. There was food, wine, warmth, and people who looked at him with honest curiosity instead of expectation.

And Jungkook’s hand under the table stayed right where it was, as if reminding him that he wasn’t alone anymore. That he would never be alone ever again.

The moment Namjoon cleared the plates, Seokjin was already reaching for the little paper bag Jungkook had brought, making a sound that was half gasp and half victory cry, while Namjoon—who had clearly accepted that his home now ran on Seokjin’s cravings and whims—went to grab four forks without even asking what the plan was.

“We’re sharing,” Seokjin announced, and then he looked at Jimin as if this was a sacred invitation rather than a casual statement. “Unless you’re squeamish.”

“I’m not squeamish,” Jimin replied, which earned him a pleased little hum from Seokjin.

Namjoon set the dessert in the middle of the table, Jungkook poured a little more wine for everyone who could safely have it, and Jimin watched Seokjin take the first bite like he was witnessing an important cultural ritual.

Seokjin’s eyes widened, then he leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh that made Namjoon smile helplessly.

“Oh,” Seokjin said reverently. “Okay. This is—this is illegal.”

Jungkook lifted his glass. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment to you,” Seokjin said immediately, pointing his fork at him. “That was a compliment to the pastry chef.”

Jungkook’s face stayed neutral, but Jimin could tell he was amused because his eyes softened, and because he didn’t make the usual comment about how Seokjin should be grateful he’d done anything at all.

Jimin tried the dessert and, annoyingly, Seokjin was right: it was good enough to make you angry about it.

He swallowed, then nodded once, careful. “Okay, this is really unfair.”

Seokjin snapped his fingers, delighted. “See? He speaks my language.”

Namjoon leaned back, studying Jimin with a thoughtful calm that was different from Seokjin’s enthusiastic interrogation.

“So you’re telling me,” Seokjin said, gesturing with his fork as if he was lecturing, “that people will spend ten million dollars on a view and still complain about the paint color.”

“Yes,” Jimin replied, deadpan.

Seokjin slapped the table softly. “I knew it. Humans are the real horror genre.”

Jungkook snorted into his wine.

When the evening started winding down, it did so gradually. Namjoon began moving around the kitchen with the slow efficiency of someone used to cleaning as he went, Seokjin shifted carefully in his chair with a small wince he tried to hide and failed, and Jimin—without thinking—stood up immediately.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, moving toward Seokjin. “A pillow? Water? Should you lie down?”

Seokjin looked up at him with a soft smile that felt almost affectionate.

“You’re sweet,” Seokjin said, very simply.

Jimin’s throat tightened again. “I’m just— I don’t want you to overdo it. As we are already imposing.”

Namjoon stepped in with a quiet steadiness. “He’s okay. Just tired.”

Seokjin waved a hand dramatically. “I’m fine. I’m merely carrying the next generation on my spine.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but the fondness was obvious.

As they gathered their things, Seokjin followed them toward the door with Namjoon’s arm braced supportively behind him, and right before Jimin stepped out, Seokjin reached for his hand again.

“Listen,” Seokjin said, lowering his voice just enough that it became private without becoming secretive. “If you ever think you’re ‘too much,’ you come over here and I’ll remind you that you’re not.”

Jimin’s breath caught, his eyes briefly stinging with something he wasn’t ready to name.

“I—thank you,” he managed, because anything else would have cracked him open in a hallway.

Seokjin squeezed his hand once, his soft scent enveloping Jimin like a hug. Then he smiled brightly again, returning to his usual register..

“And if Jungkook ever does something stupid, tell me,” Seokjin added, cheerfully. “I’ll handle him.”

Jungkook groaned loudly from two steps away. “Why are you recruiting him against me?”

“Because,” Seokjin said sweetly, “I think we are going to be the bestest of friends.”

Namjoon opened the door and, as Jimin and Jungkook stepped out, he gave Jungkook a look that was mostly brotherly annoyance but carried something steadier underneath—approval, maybe, or relief.

“Drive safe,” Namjoon said.

“We will,” Jungkook replied.

Jimin glanced back once more, offering a small, careful bow. “Good night. And—thank you again.”

Seokjin waved like he was seeing them off to war. “Text me when you get home!”

Jungkook didn’t even argue. “Yes, hyung.”

The hallway felt cooler after the warmth of the apartment, quieter in a way that made Jimin’s thoughts start circling again the moment the door closed behind them.

Jungkook waited until they were in the elevator before speaking, and when he did, his voice came out incredibly gentle.

“You did good,” Jungkook said.

Jimin stared at the reflective elevator doors, then exhaled slowly. “I was trying not to be weird.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved slightly. “You weren’t weird.”

“That’s not what my nervous system thinks,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook reached over and laced their fingers together again, casual and steady. “Your nervous system is dramatic.”

Jimin glanced at him. “Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s eyes held his, warm and calm. “You were polite, you were kind, you didn’t try to impress them, and Seokjin practically adopted you at the table.”

Jimin let out a breath that sounded half laugh, half relief. “He’s terrifying.”

“He is,” Jungkook agreed with reverence. “But he likes you.”

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

The car ride back was quieter, full in a different way, the city sliding past the windows in soft streaks of light while Jimin sat with his hands folded carefully in his lap, trying to keep the warmth of the evening from turning into fear.

Jimin didn’t realize he’d gone quiet until Jungkook spoke again, this time not as casually.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jungkook asked, eyes on the road.

Jimin hesitated, because answering honestly felt like stepping onto thin ice.

“I’m …” He swallowed. “I’m fine.”

Jungkook didn’t press immediately, but he didn’t accept it either. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched despite himself, then the amusement faded and left something more vulnerable in its place.

“I’m scared,” Jimin admitted quietly.

Jungkook’s grip tightened a fraction on the steering wheel, his nerves pulled taught with attention.

“Of what?”

Jimin stared out the window at the moving lights. “Of getting used to this.”

Jungkook’s voice stayed steady. “To what.”

“To being … included,” Jimin said, and the word felt too big in his mouth. “To being wanted in someone’s life in a way that isn’t conditional.”

“And,” Jimin added, because once it was open it wanted to spill out, “I keep thinking that if you wake up one day and decide I’m too much, it’ll … it’ll hurt worse than if we had never done this at all.”

Jungkook didn’t answer until they were parked, until the car was off and the city noise had softened around them, because he seemed to want to meet the moment with his full attention rather than half of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unmistakably sincere.

“I’m not going to tell you you’ll never get hurt,” Jungkook said. “Because that would be a lie, and you’d hear it as one too.”

Jimin’s throat tightened again.

“But I can tell you this,” the alpha continued, turning in his seat to look at him properly. “I’m not doing this halfway. I’m not taking up space in your life just to leave the moment it gets inconvenient. If something changes, I’ll talk to you. If I’m struggling, I’ll tell you. If you’re scared, you don’t have to pretend you’re not.”

Jimin stared at him, the steadiness in Jungkook’s eyes making it difficult to keep hiding behind sarcasm.

“And for the record,” Jungkook added, softer, “I don’t want you smaller. I don’t want you easier. I don’t want you to be quiet so I can handle you better. I want you exactly like you are. Loud, with a temper, and smart.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, and he hated that his eyes immediately went hot.

Jungkook reached up, brushing his thumb gently over Jimin’s knuckles where his hands were still clenched together, like his body had been holding itself in place all evening.

“You’re safe with me,” Jungkook said. “Not because I own you. Not because you’re marked. Because you’re you, and I’m here, and I’m choosing this.”

Jimin looked down, then let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” he whispered, like he was accepting a contract he didn’t fully understand yet but wanted anyway.

Jungkook’s mouth curved, just barely. “Okay.”

Up in the apartment, the quiet hit them in a different way than it had before dinner: not lonely, not empty, but familiar.

Jimin shrugged off his coat, then stopped as Jungkook came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him close with a slow, unhurried gentleness that made Jimin’s shoulders drop immediately.

Jimin leaned back into him, eyes closing, fully breathing out for what felt like the first time all evening.

“I’m sure Seokjin is going to text you, asking if we got home safe,” Jimin murmured.

Jungkook exhaled a laugh against his hair. “He’s going to text you too.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched. “He told me he’d ‘handle you’ if you did something stupid.”

Jungkook groaned softly. “He’s unionizing you.”

“He already did,” Jimin said, and the warmth in his voice surprised him.

Jungkook turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss near Jimin’s temple.

“You want tea?” Jungkook asked, voice quiet.

Jimin nodded, then hesitated, and when he spoke his voice came out softer than usual. “Can we just … sit first.”

Jungkook’s arms tightened briefly around him in agreement. “Yeah.”

They ended up on the couch without thinking too hard about it, Jimin curled in close, Jungkook’s arm settled around him with the easy familiarity they’d built over these two weeks, and for a while neither of them said anything because the apartment didn’t demand conversation to feel full.

Jimin stared at the city lights outside the window, then let his head rest against Jungkook’s shoulder, finally allowing comfort in.

“Welcome to the family, sunshine,” Jungkook murmured.

Jimin’s chest tightened, though warmth settled, warm and terrifying and good, and he let himself stay with it instead of running.

For tonight, that was enough.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

A week later, reality finally caught up to him in the form of the quiet obligation to see if everything in his apartment was still in order, and of sleeping in his own bed at least once.

He had told himself this exact same thing for three days now, until Jungkook convinced him today that it was time.

“You can just tell me if you want some alone time,” Jimin grinned, the temptation to  tease the alpha a little too strong.

Jungkook chuckled, ruffling his hair and giving him a quick peck on the lips, “Never! If I could, I would keep you here with me forever.”

Jimin stood in Jungkook’s hallway with his coat already on, one hand wrapped around his keyring. Jungkook had told him all day that it was practical. That it was responsible. That he had bills to check, and plants to water.  None of that mattered now that he was actually standing by the door.

Jungkook had started to lean against the wall across from him, arms folded loosely, trying to look casual and failing in a way that made Jimin’s chest tighten. The alpha’s hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered, and he wore one of those soft shirts Jimin loved to steal and wear himself.

Jimin swallowed, trying to keep the urge to touch the alpha at bay, then forced his voice into something lighter. “See you tomorrow at work.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched like he could hear the effort behind it. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, playing along. “Tomorrow.”

“I mean it,” Jimin added, because he always did this—turning reassurance into a clause. Something he could hold onto.

“I know,” Jungkook replied, and the softness in his tone made it worse.

Jimin glanced down at his keys, then back up. “It’s just … one night.”

Jungkook pushed off the wall and closed the small distance between them again. He didn’t crowd him; he just came close enough that the cold air of the hallway stopped touching Jimin’s face.

“I’m not worried you’re going to vanish,” Jungkook said quietly. “I’m worried you’re going to feel alone without me. Or worse—freeze because I wasn’t there to warm you during the night.”

Jimin let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh in another universe. “I won’t.”

“Text me when you get home,” Jungkook continued, pushing one of Jimin’s unruly blonde strands behind his ear. A gesture the omega still found endearing.

He nodded. “I will.”

For a second it looked like Jungkook might stop there—might let Jimin keep his distance the way he sometimes needed to—but then he reached out anyway, slow and careful, and pulled him into a hug.

Jimin went still for half a heartbeat, purely out of instinct, and then his body betrayed him like it always did with Jungkook: his shoulders eased, his forehead dipped, his hands came up to grip the fabric at Jungkook’s sides. Warmth seeped into him, immediate and grounding.

Jungkook held him, his arms strong and protective around him, like they could keep the outside world at bay for as long as Jimin needed, if he just asked.

Jimin breathed him in, eyes closing—the citrusy scent of the alpha entering his system like melatonin. He took another breath, trying to save that scent in the catalogue of his brain, so that he would never forget it.

That he could just recall it, whenever he wanted.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice muffled against Jungkook’s shoulder. “I’m going.”

Jungkook exhaled against his hair. “I hate that you sound like you’re convincing yourself.”

Jimin pulled back, trying to regain his composure, his mask, his professionalism. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

Jungkook’s eyes warmed with amusement. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but the motion lacked any real bite. He adjusted his coat, tightened his grip on his keys, then hesitated like an idiot, standing there for a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight,” he said finally.

Jungkook’s gaze held his. “Goodnight, sunshine.”

Jimin should’ve left on that.

He didn’t.

He leaned in and kissed him—aiming for quick and controlled—except Jungkook caught the back of his neck gently and kissed him back like he’d been waiting for permission all day. The kiss deepened for a second, then another, and Jimin had to step back before his body decided to stay and his mouth decided to make promises his brain wasn’t ready for. 

He cleared his throat, cheeks warm. “See you tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s smile was small and unmistakably fond. “See you tomorrow.”

Jimin turned and left before he wouldn’t leave at all.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Outside, the city was loud in its usual, indifferent way—traffic cutting through wet streets, headlights streaking across the pavement, people moving like they all desperately had somewhere to be. Jimin walked to his car and sat behind the wheel for a moment without starting the engine, blankly staring at the steering wheel.

It was ridiculous how empty he felt, as soon as he was out of the alpha’s proximity. Had he become so codependent that he couldn’t even stay one night away from him?

His eyes moved to the dashboard, then caught on his own reflection faintly visible in the glass.

Get it together.

He started the car and drove.

He didn’t put music on. He couldn’t. Every song he’d listened to lately had begun to belong to Jungkook’s apartment—background to late breakfasts, to stupid jokes, to Jungkook teaching him how to fold dough properly and declaring, dead serious, that Doughbi-Wan Kenobi required “emotional stability and proper hydration” to survive.

Music would have dragged those moments into the car with him, would have made the alpha’s absence sharper.

So he drove in silence, letting the hum of the tires and distant sirens fill the space instead.

The farther he got from Jungkook’s building, the more his body seemed to notice the empty space beside him. Like the city itself was tugging him back by the collar, asking if he was really sure about this.

By the time he pulled into the garage beneath his apartment building, the air felt too heavy.

He parked, cut the engine, and sat there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the concrete wall ahead like it might change its mind and become Jungkook’s elevator lobby instead.

It didn’t.

He got out.

The elevator ride up was too quiet. No familiar smell, no hint of warm food lingering in the air. Just the sterile scent of the building and the dull reflection of himself in the mirrored panel.

When he reached his door, his keys sounded too loud. Everything sounded too loud.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Cold greeted him first—not just temperature, but atmosphere. The kind of stillness that made his skin prickle, because it felt like the apartment was holding its breath.

Everything looked exactly the way he’d left it. Clean. Orderly. Controlled.

And wrong.

Jimin set his bag down and moved through the rooms anyway, forcing himself into routine the way he always did when his feelings got too big. Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. A glance at the windows. A check of the locks. Watering his plants, who had been abandoned way too long. 

He really was a bad plant-dad.

Once he was done, he opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again without taking anything. The shelves looked too empty, like the space itself was embarrassed to be perceived. Jimin hadn’t really been much of a cook, opting to order takeout instead, or getting meal-preps delivered.

And even then, his eating habits had been a disgrace, if he was honest with himself. Before Jungkook had shown him how life could look like—happy and bright—work had been all he had really cared for. 

Existing to work. And putting work first.

But now that he knew how it could be—warm, freshly cooked food, shared baths, laughter and music—his former life felt alien to him.

He drifted into the bedroom and stood there for a moment, looking at the bed.

It was made too neatly. The sheets lay flat and untouched. No indentation. No warmth. No second pillow used at all.

Jimin swallowed hard, then turned away before the thought could settle too deeply: I don’t like this anymore.

He showered fast, the water hot enough to sting. He changed into sleep clothes and got into bed, pulling the blanket up immediately.

The sheets were cold enough to make him flinch.

He lay on his back for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sounds that weren’t coming: footsteps, a kettle, Jungkook moving in the next room. The air in here didn’t carry the earthy scent of coffee. It didn’t carry warmth. It didn’t carry another person’s presence, steady and familiar. 

It carried nothing.

He grabbed his phone.

Home. Everything’s okay. Goodnight.

He stared at it before sending it, as if even the message itself felt like admitting something. Then he hit send.

He waited.

The screen stayed still.

No typing bubble. No reply. Nothing.

Jimin tried to be reasonable. Jungkook could be in the shower. Jungkook could’ve fallen asleep. Jungkook could’ve put his phone down and forgotten it existed because for once he wasn’t running on caffeine and spite. He could already be sleeping.

It didn’t stop the ache.

He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter, curling in on himself like his body was trying to create the warmth that wasn’t there. His eyes burned. He blinked and told himself not to do this, not to be dramatic, not to make one night into an omen.

The tears came anyway—quiet, humiliating, hot against his lashes. Goddess help him, he had really become quite the emotional mess in the span of just a few weeks.

The omega pressed his face into the pillow so no one could hear, as if someone might. As if his childhood house might still be listening for evidence that he was too loud, too needy, too much.

He checked his phone one more time.

Still nothing.

His throat tightened until it hurt. He swallowed, wiped at his face, and stared at the dark screen like he could will it to light up.

Eventually exhaustion dragged him under.

Jimin fell asleep clutching his phone, his unanswered message sitting there like a small, sharp thing, while the apartment stayed cold around him and the silence pressed in where Jungkook should have been.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

The next morning Jimin stepped out of the elevator and immediately knew something was wrong.

The bullpen wasn’t loud in its usual way. It was loud in the wrong way—clustered whispers, people half-standing at their desks, phones held a little too close to faces, eyes darting up and away when he walked past. 

That subtle, predatory office awareness that meant news had landed and everyone was now gossiping to hear if anyone knew more than the other.

Jimin tightened his grip on his coffee and scanned the room on instinct.

Jungkook’s desk was empty.

Not “he’s in a meeting” empty. Not “he stepped out” empty.

Clean. Reset. Like it had been cleared on purpose.

His stomach dropped so fast it made him lightheaded. He felt sick to his stomach, a premonition coiling in his gut he didn’t want to be true.

Across the aisle, Taehyung and Yoongi sat unusually still, shoulders angled toward each other like they’d been hit by the same shockwave and didn’t know where to put it. 

Taehyung’s eyes were wide, Yoongi’s expression had the tight, flat look he got when something was so absurd he couldn’t even spare energy for annoyance.

Jimin walked over, forcing his face into neutrality, forcing his voice not to shake.

“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Taehyung’s gaze flicked over his face, and something in it softened—just a fraction—like he realized Jimin hadn’t heard.

Yoongi didn’t drag it out.

“Jungkook quit,” he said quietly.

Jimin blinked once. Then again. “What?”

Something sharp and painful was twisting in his stomach, while his heart was already accelerating, skipping a beat, and accelerating again. His mind was in a frenzy, trying to make sense of what the other omega had just said. It couldn’t be true … He must have misheard.

Taehyung nodded, swallowing. “As of today. It’s official-official. Hoseok sent the internal email.”

Yoongi turned his monitor slightly, looking at Jimin with a careful, assessing stare, as if evaluating if crisis management was needed.

There it was: an internal announcement. Polished, professional, final. Jeon Jungkook’s departure. Client coverage. Transition plans. The kind of email that pretended a person could be turned into a logistical inconvenience.

Jimin stared until the words stopped looking like language and started looking like cruelty.

His hand tightened around the cup lid until it flexed. The coffee sloshed. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the office noise.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts, they came at hit like an onslaught of knife stabs, piercing his heart.

He left.

He didn’t tell you.

He decided you weren’t worth the mess.

He got what he wanted and now he’s done.

Of course it ends like this.

You shouldn’t have left yesterday.

He realized that he is better off without you. Of course he is.

His chest constricted, sharp and humiliating. The urge to swallow it down—to stand there and be composed and unbothered—rose automatically.

But his body didn’t care about his pride.

His hands began to shake.

He set the coffee down on Taehyung’s desk before he dropped it.

Taehyung leaned forward, voice careful. “Jimin—”

Jimin didn’t let him finish, because if anyone said “are you okay” he was going to break apart right there between the desks.

“Did he say anything?” Jimin asked, and the calm in his tone felt like a lie he was committing out loud.

Yoongi hesitated, then shook his head once. “Not to me.”

Taehyung looked like he wanted to soften it and couldn’t. “Nobody’s saying much. People are just—” he waved a hand vaguely, meaning gossiping, meaning feeding on it.

Jimin’s phone was heavy in his pocket. He could feel it like a pulse.

He’d texted last night.

No reply.

He’d texted this morning.

No reply.

He had told himself not to spiral, because Jungkook had been steady, and warm, and there. Jungkook didn’t disappear. Jungkook didn’t leave things vague. Jungkook didn’t—

Except apparently he did.

Jimin’s vision blurred at the edges. He forced it back. Blinked hard. Inhaled through his nose until his lungs hurt.

He could not do this here.

Not in front of the glass walls, the coworkers, the whispers.

He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over Jungkook’s contact.

One ring and Jungkook would answer, he told himself.

One ring and he’d laugh and call him dramatic and tell him it was fine, that everything was just a misunderstanding. That everyone was wrong.

He pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then went to voicemail.

Jimin’s breath caught like a physical blow.

He ended the call before the beep, because he couldn’t bear to leave a message that sounded too needy. Was this over?

His throat burned. His hands were cold. His skin felt too tight. Was he having a panic attack?

Taehyung’s voice came again, lower. “Do you want me to—”

“No,” Jimin cut in, too quickly. 

He shoved the phone back into his pocket like it had betrayed him. “No. I’m fine.”

It was the most obvious lie in the world.

Yoongi watched him for a long second, gaze sharp and quiet. “Jimin.”

The omega looked at him.

Yoongi’s voice stayed even. “Go.”

That single word did more for him than comfort would have. It was permission to leave. To clear this mess up. To see if he was wrong.

Goddess, he hoped he was wrong.

Jimin nodded once—stiff, controlled—then turned away before his face could crack.

He walked fast, not running, because running would draw too much attention. 

As he passed the glass of Hoseok’s office, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. 

He didn’t want polite.

He wanted Jungkook.

He wanted the truth from Jungkook’s mouth, not from an email and a room full of whispers.

Jimin hit the elevator button. Waited. Felt every second like a splinter, digging under his skin.

When the doors opened, he stepped inside and jabbed the lobby button hard enough to make the panel beep.

Only when the doors slid shut did his composure finally shake loose.

His breath came out uneven. His eyes stung. His chest hurt like something had been scooped out, leaving a blank space where his heart had been.

By the time he reached the parking garage, his hands were trembling so badly he fumbled his keys twice.

He got into his car and just sat there for a second, staring at the steering wheel, forcing air into his lungs. Bad case of déja-vu, he couldn’t help but think.

Then he started the engine.

The city outside the garage looked the same as it always did—busy, indifferent, moving on without him. Jimin gripped the wheel until his knuckles ached and pulled out into traffic.

He drove in silence, heart pounding, mind racing in circles he couldn’t control. His subconscious was reminding him that it wasn’t really advised to drive with such high emotion turmoil, but in this very moment he couldn’t give two fucks if he wanted to.

Quit?

Why?

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why won’t you answer?

Was any of it real?

The closer he got to Jungkook’s building, the more the fear sharpened into something rawer.

What if the apartment was empty too?

What if he walked up and found nothing but clean counters and air that didn’t carry Jungkook’s scent anymore?

Jimin swallowed hard and turned into the driveway, pulling up to the curb with a jerk that made the car rock.

He killed the engine.

Then he got out, slammed the door, and walked into the familiar building like someone who still belonged there—like his heart wasn’t splintering, like he wasn’t about to demand answers from the only person who had ever made him feel safe enough to open his heart.

Jimin barely remembered the elevator ride, everything slowly turning into a blur of colors behind his teary eyes.

He remembered the lobby because the doorman nodded at him the way he always did, polite and unremarkable, and Jimin hated that the world still had manners while his chest felt like it was collapsing inward. 

He remembered the lift doors closing, the mirrored panel catching his face—wet, flushed, uncomposed—and the humiliation of seeing himself like that, unraveling in public.

He remembered stepping out onto Jungkook’s floor and moving too fast down the hallway, keys useless in his pocket, hands shaking, breath coming in short, uneven pulls that didn’t seem to fill his lungs no matter how hard he tried.

The door was there. The familiar one. The place that was supposed to be warm.

Except it was locked.

Jimin stared at the keypad for half a second too long, his brain refusing to do something as simple as recall four stupid digits, because everything in him had narrowed to one single, unbearable need: open, open, open.

He punched a number. Wrong. The keypad blinked red like it was scolding him. Frustration and fear bubbled up inside of him—he didn’t know what to do. His head was spinning, more tears threatening to break loose. 

His throat made a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a laugh, and then his hands moved again, frantic now, fingers slipping as he tried another combination, then another, then another. The red blink returned each time, calm and indifferent, like the door was politely informing him that he had no right to be here.

“No,” Jimin whispered, voice breaking. “No—please—”

He pressed the bell.

Once, twice, then too many times, because patience was not something he had left.

He knocked next, hard enough that the sound echoed down the hallway, the impact stinging through his knuckles, and when nothing happened immediately, when there was no answering click, no footsteps, no annoyed voice calling him dramatic, something inside him snapped all the way open.

“Jungkook!” he cried, loud enough that it scraped his throat raw. “Jungkook—please!”

His chest seized around the word please like it had teeth in it.

He hit the keypad again, then slapped his palm against the door in sheer frustration, tears spilling in hot, uncontrolled streams as his breathing turned ragged and uneven, too fast to be useful, too shallow to settle him. 

His omega surged up in him, panicked and frantic and aching, sensing danger where Jimin’s mind couldn’t yet name it, flooding his body with a harsh, nauseating awareness of absence.

No scent or pheromones in the air.

No warmth or movement behind the door.

Only a locked barrier and silence.

The hallway lights felt too bright. Jimin pressed his forehead against the door, shaking. “Open,” he choked out, as if the door could understand him. “Please open—please, Jungkook—”

He fumbled for his phone with fingers that didn’t want to work, dragged it out of his pocket, tried to unlock it, failed once because his hand was trembling too badly, then tried again.

Call.

It rang.

It went to voicemail.

The sound of it—bright and automated and final—hit him like a slap.

Jimin made a broken sound and ended the call before the beep could force him to speak into the empty air.

His body didn’t know what to do with that. His mind didn’t know what to do with that.

The fear, the betrayal, the cold night in his own bed, the unanswered messages, the office email, the empty desk—all of it converged in one ugly, spiraling thought: I’m alone again.

His knees buckled before he consciously decided to move, the strength draining out of him so suddenly it felt like someone had pulled a plug. He slid down the door until he hit the floor, back against the wood, legs drawn up instinctively as if he could make himself smaller and safer by folding in on himself.

His breath wouldn’t slow.

His hands were numb and too hot at the same time, fingertips tingling in a way that made him aware of his own skin as if it didn’t belong to him. The air felt thin. The light felt loud. His omega was overstimulated, flooding him with distress, with the desperate urge for a familiar scent, a familiar touch, a familiar presence that could anchor him back into his body.

“Jungkook,” he sobbed again, softer now, smaller, the name falling out of him like it was the only word he had left. “Jungkook, please—please, I’m here, I’m—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

His voice broke apart, and for a moment all he could do was breathe in short, jagged pulls that didn’t go deep enough to calm him. His chest hurt. His throat burned. His stomach lurched with that awful, helpless nausea that came when panic outran logic.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth like he could physically hold the sounds inside, but it didn’t help; grief and fear still seeped out around his fingers, shaking his whole frame.

Somewhere down the hallway, an elevator chimed.

Jimin didn’t turn his head.

He couldn’t.

His vision tunneled, edges blurred, his body going heavy in that frightening way that came when the mind had screamed itself hoarse and started shutting doors instead. He felt distant from his own limbs, distant from the carpet beneath him, distant from the door at his back. His hearing narrowed to the pounding of his own pulse, to the ragged sound of his breathing, to his own quiet sobs that now sounded far away even to him.

His omega recoiled inward, exhausted, like an animal that had fought until it had nothing left.

Jimin’s forehead tipped forward until it rested against his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs as if he could keep himself from coming apart by holding on tightly enough.

“I can’t,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this again.”

Jimin’s body went slack against the door, his head lolling slightly as if even holding himself upright had become too much. 

His hands slipped from their grip around his legs and fell into his lap, fingers curling weakly. He stared at the carpet without really seeing it, his breath shallow and uneven, tears still sliding down his face as if his body didn’t know how to stop.

For a few long seconds, he existed in that awful in-between state where his mind was too loud and too blank at the same time, where his instincts were still screaming but his muscles wouldn’t obey, where everything felt too far away and too close, where the only thought he could hold onto was the simplest one:

He’s not here.

And it was that thought—the sharp, final shape of it—that made the sob finally tear out of him again, helpless and wrecked, echoing softly off the closed door of the apartment he had started to think of as home.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Jimin registered movement—the air changing, the faintest shift of pressure—as if the hallway itself had tilted, and then the unmistakable sensation of strong arms sliding under him, one beneath his knees, one behind his back, lifting him with careful, practiced steadiness.

His body reacted on instinct before his mind could catch up. His fingers twitched, trying to cling to something, and then he felt warmth—real warmth—pulling him away from the cold floor and the hard, indifferent door. The world swam, light smearing at the edges, sound muffled as if he’d been dipped underwater.

He heard a voice—low, urgent, too close.

“Jimin—hey. Hey, sunshine. I’ve got you.”

The name landed somewhere distant. His omega stirred weakly, confused and desperate, and then his nose caught a scent that cut through the haze like a rope thrown to a drowning man: warmth, clean skin, something familiar and grounding underneath it all.

Alpha.

Jimin’s body sagged into it, his body recognizing safety the way it had begun to in the last weeks, with humiliating immediacy. His forehead fell against his shoulder. He felt motion again—carried, moved with care, the door clicking shut behind them, a new scent of home replacing hallway sterility.

Somewhere in the distance, shoes were kicked off. A lock slid. A bag hit a surface. He could slightly make out keys hitting a wooden surface.

And then Jimin was lowered onto something soft, the couch cushions giving beneath his weight, and a blanket was pulled over him as if his body had been shaking for much longer than he’d realized.

He blinked, slow and heavy.

The apartment was dimmer than the hallway. The light was gentler. The air was warmer.

His thoughts and memories came back piece by piece.

And then—

Jungkook.

Jimin’s eyes finally focused, and the sight of him hit like a second impact.

Jungkook sat beside him, his knees angled toward him, one hand resting carefully in Jimin’s hair as if he was afraid Jimin might disappear if he stopped touching him. His face looked wrong—too pale, too tense, brows drawn together in a way Jimin rarely saw outside of emergencies. There was worry there that wasn’t disguised as sarcasm, concern that didn’t know how to be cool about itself.

“Hey,” Jungkook said again, quieter now, as if he’d already said it a dozen times and was still trying to find the version of it that would reach Jimin. “You with me?”

Jimin stared at him without blinking.

Jungkook’s fingers combed gently through his hair, slow and repetitive, like he was trying to anchor him back into his body. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice tight. “Did you hit your head? Are you dizzy? Can you breathe?”

Jimin’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

Jungkook grabbed a glass from the coffee table—water, already poured, like he’d prepared it in a panic—and held it near Jimin’s mouth with careful patience. “Drink a little,” he urged. “Just a sip.”

Jimin managed to lift a shaky hand, and Jungkook steadied the glass until Jimin could take a mouthful. The water was cold enough to sting. It helped anyway.

His eyes didn’t leave Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook kept watching him like he was trying to read the exact moment Jimin would bolt.

“Okay,” Jungkook said softly, forcing himself to breathe slower. “Okay. You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Jimin’s lower lip trembled before he could stop it.

Jungkook’s hand slid from his hair to the back of his neck, thumb pressing lightly against skin, grounding. “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Please. What happened?”

Jimin’s chest tightened hard enough that it stole the little calm the water had given him.

He tried to speak. He couldn’t.

His eyes flooded again, hot and humiliating, and when the first sob broke out of him it sounded like it hurt.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and pulled Jimin against him, one arm firm around his shoulders, the other supporting the back of his head, holding him in a way that said stay, stay, stay without making it a command.

Jimin clutched at his shirt like he’d been drowning for an hour and had only just found air.

“Where were you?” Jimin got out finally, voice wrecked, cracked by crying. “Where—why didn’t you—” His breath hitched so hard it turned into another sob. “I thought you left. I thought you quit and left and—”

Jungkook froze.

Not in a way that looked like surprise at the words themselves, but in the way someone freezes when they realize what their actions must have looked like from the outside. His hold tightened for a second, as if he was trying to physically pull the misunderstanding back out of the air.

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispered, and it wasn’t anger—it was sickened realization. “Jimin …”

Jimin pulled back just enough to look at him, tears spilling. “Your desk was empty. Hoseok sent the email. Everyone was talking. You didn’t answer my texts. You didn’t answer my calls. And then the door—” his voice snapped, panic spiking again, “the door wouldn’t open and I couldn’t remember the code and I—”

His body shook so violently Jungkook’s jaw flexed, the muscles in his face tightening like he was holding back something sharp.

Jungkook cupped Jimin’s face with both hands, careful, steady, thumbs brushing tears away as if he could erase the last twelve hours by touch alone.

“I’m here,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I’m right here. You’re safe. I’m not leaving you.”

Jimin swallowed, eyes wide and soaked. “Then why did it look like you did?”

Jungkook’s expression broke in a way Jimin hadn’t seen yet—guilt, fear, and something like self-reproach colliding all at once.

He exhaled slowly, as if he needed to choose each word to keep it from becoming the wrong kind of explanation.

“Okay,” Jungkook said, voice rough. “Okay. Listen to me. I didn’t leave you. I didn’t disappear on purpose. And I’m so sorry—goddess, I’m so sorry it felt like that.”

Jimin stared at him, shaking.

Jungkook kept one hand in Jimin’s hair and the other around his wrist, grounding him with contact as he spoke.

“After what happened—after Hoseok and you had that talk in his office,” Jungkook began, and his voice darkened at the memory, “I started talking to him privately. Not one talk. We talked for weeks. Planning talks.”

Jimin blinked, confused through tears.

Jungkook swallowed. “I asked him about leaving Vanguard.”

Jimin flinched, breath catching.

Jungkook tightened his grip, immediately steadying him. “Not to completely leave … the industry or you,” he said quickly, firmly. “Not to get away from you. The opposite.”

Jimin’s brows drew together, the fear fighting with the need to understand.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed over Jimin’s knuckles, slow. “I couldn’t stand watching you get punished for being competent. I couldn’t stand you having to smile through clients who treat you like you’re decoration and then call you aggressive when you don’t act like it. I couldn’t stand the idea that your career would always be at the mercy of whatever insecure buyer walked through the door.”

Jimin’s breath stuttered.

“So I started building an exit,” Jungkook said, and the honesty in his voice made it shake. “A safe one. I got my own broker’s license today. And I’m planning to start my own firm. Our own firm. I’ve been doing the legal groundwork, the financing conversations, the licensing steps.”

Jimin stared, mouth parted.

Jungkook’s eyes held his, intense and earnest. “Hoseok knows. He’s known. He didn’t fight me on it.”

Jimin’s voice came out raw. “He … didn’t?”

Jungkook shook his head. “He was supportive. More than I expected. He said—” Jungkook’s mouth tightened, as if the words still made him angry, “he said he wanted you to be in a better situation too. He knows you’re valuable. He knows you’ve been carrying things you shouldn’t have to carry. And he knows the industry is worse to you because you’re an omega.”

Jimin blinked hard, tears still falling but slower now, confusion diluting the panic.

Jungkook leaned in slightly, careful not to overwhelm him. “My plan was to leave Vanguard properly, get my license today, set things up, and then ask you—when it was all set, when everything was solid—if you’d co-own it with me.”

Jimin went very still, realization finally dawning on him.

Jungkook’s voice softened. “So you’d have authority. So you’d never have to hear that ‘desirable’ bullshit again. So no one could tell you to make yourself smaller to sell a property. So you could make decisions without someone upstairs deciding what you deserve.”

Jimin’s throat tightened around the words he couldn’t quite form. “You … got your broker’s license? Co-own … with you?”

Jungkook nodded once. “Yes.”

A beat.

“And I wanted to tell you today,” Jungkook admitted, and pain flickered over his face. “After the email went out. I had a meeting. My phone was off. Hoseok wanted it kept tight until the paperwork for my departure and the client transfers were confirmed. It wasn’t supposed to look like I’d vanished. I didn’t think—” he exhaled, eyes squeezing shut for a second, “I didn’t think what my silence would do to you though.”

Jimin’s breath hitched again, the earlier panic flaring as memory replayed.

Jungkook opened his eyes, gaze glossy with worry. “And then I came home and saw your missed call, and I was already moving—already rushing down the hallway—because something in me knew. I found you outside the door.”

Jimin’s eyes filled again, but this time with something different mixed in: exhaustion, relief, and the sick realization of how close he’d been to breaking completely alone on a hallway floor. Something could have happened to him …

The alpha’s hands slid back to hold Jimin’s face, gentle and steady. “I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking on the edge of it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you, but it never felt perfect … I really wanted it to be perfect … I should have—”

Jimin shook his head weakly, overwhelmed.

Jungkook stopped himself from spiraling, focusing again on Jimin’s breathing, his shaking shoulders, the way his eyes kept searching Jungkook’s face as if to confirm he was still real.

“Hey,” Jungkook said softly. “You don’t have to take care of my guilt right now. Just … stay with me.”

Jimin swallowed, voice barely there. “I thought you got tired of me.”

Jungkook’s expression sharpened with immediate, almost fierce rejection of the idea. “Never,” he said, too fast to be rehearsed. “I’m scared of a lot of things, sunshine, but getting tired of you isn’t one of them.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, Jungkook’s hand stroking through Jimin’s hair in slow, repetitive motions, Jimin’s breathing gradually easing as his body recalibrated to warmth and scent and presence.

When Jimin finally pulled back enough to look at him again, his eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but there was clarity returning.

“You were really going to ask me,” Jimin said, voice hoarse. “To co-own a firm.”

Jungkook nodded. “If you want it. If it’s what you want. Not because you owe me anything. Not because I’m trying to save you. Because I want to build something where you’re safe and respected and powerful, and because I want to do it with you.”

Jimin stared at him for a long, stunned second.

Then his face crumpled again—not with panic this time, but with the sheer impact of it, with relief so intense it made him tremble.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Jungkook’s shoulder, and Jungkook wrapped him up immediately, holding him tighter.

“Okay,” Jimin whispered, like he needed the word to exist. “Okay.”

Jungkook exhaled shakily into his hair. “Okay.”

“Congrats on getting your broker’s license,” Jimin murmured, as if only now remembering.

The alpha grinned ear to ear, a happy chuckle erupting, “Now it’s time to get yours.”

“I love you,” the words had left Jimin’s lips before he knew what was happening.

The alpha’s eyes widened and he stared at the omega, completely taken aback, “Huh—?”

Jimin’s mind was reeling, he could feel his cheeks reddening and his temperature spiking. Had he really just said it? Just like that? 

Of course he had known about his feelings for a while now, but saying them aloud … 

It had just happened.

“Please say it again,” the alpha in front of him was pleading, his hand taking his, threading their fingers together. 

Jimin wasn’t sure if he was just imagining it, but he swore he could feel them tremble slightly.

Well, here went nothing. He knew he needed to say it, before his brain spiraled and he regretted saying anything at all.

“I love you, Jungkook,” he said, quieter than he had wanted to.

It wasn’t often that Jimin had the privilege to see Jungkook rendered speechless, but here they were—Jungkook sat here, open-mouthed, his lips and hands and whole being trembling from the words Jimin had said.

“Well?” the omega asked, tired of the anxiety that was strung tight inside of him. He needed an answer.

The alpha was clearly searching for the right words, his eyes darting left and right, searching Jimin’s expression.

“Jungkook, I really love you, but I need an answer now. Before I die of a heart attack.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, shaking his stupor off and focusing on the matter at hand. He grabbed both of Jimin’s hands, his thumb brushing over the soft skin in the hollow between the omega’s thumb and index finger.

Jimin shuddered, the small touch setting his nervous system alight. 

The alpha took a deep breath, then met Jimin’s eyes, suddenly all serious, “I love you too, Jimin-ah. And I want you to know that I’m not saying that lightly. To be perfectly honest, I have loved you for quite some time, but I wanted to give you the space to see if you felt the same way. And knowing what you went through in the past—with your family and everything—even more so.”

For what felt like the hundredth time today, Jimin could feel his eyes well up with tears. He really didn’t want to cry anymore, but ever since he had gotten so close to the alpha, the floodgates to his emotions had been ripped wide open. The tears came without asking for permission, rolling down his cheeks.

“Hey … hey. Don’t cry please,” Jimin could see the alpha’s eyes tear up as well, while he wiped one tear away, “I love you, you don’t have to cry.”

“I love you too, you idiot. You should have said something sooner.”

“I should have said something while we were continuously fighting over listings, buyers and market comps?”

 The alpha was grinning now—an expression so endearing, Jimin couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

“Point taken. And I mean, I also could have said something. Maybe it was always supposed to be this moment. Maybe everything that happened, happened for a reason. It could very well be that the two of us couldn’t have gotten together if everything hadn’t happened exactly the way it did.”

“We’ll never know,” Jimin agreed, resting his forehead against the alphas. He felt tired, even though he had technically rested in the hallways outside of Jungkook’s apartment. If you could even call it that.

He continued, “I’m glad we live in this reality, where we made it. That we could overcome our work feud and everything.”

They both chuckled, until the alpha pressed a small kiss against Jimin’s lips.

“I am too. I wouldn’t choose anything or anyone else. It will always be you.”

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

One year later

The first time Jimin saw the name on the door, he did not say anything.

He simply stood in the hallway outside the new office with his coat still on, keys still in his hand, and stared at the clean brass letters mounted beside the entrance as if they might rearrange themselves if he looked away too quickly.

RIVINGTON PARTNERS

The hallway smelled faintly of fresh paint, polished wood, and the kind of possibility that made Jimin’s stomach twist with something dangerously close to fear. Behind the glass door, the office waited in soft morning light, still too new to have gathered habits. No coffee rings on desks yet. No files stacked in corners. No scent of stress baked into the walls. 

Just space.

A terrifying amount of it.

Jungkook stood beside him, trying very hard to pretend he was not watching Jimin’s face. He had one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other holding two paper cups of coffee, because apparently becoming a licensed broker and co-founding a firm had not cured him of showing up with offerings like an emotionally repressed man trying to domesticate a wild animal.

“It’s just a sign,” Jungkook said, too casually.

Jimin turned his head slowly.

Jungkook blinked at him, innocent in a way that never worked.

Jimin slapped his arm. “It is not just a sign.”

A smile tugged at Jungkook’s mouth, but his voice came out quieter when he asked, “No?”

Jimin looked back at the letters.

For months, the name had existed in documents, email drafts, bank appointments, legal consultations, and late-night conversations at Jungkook’s kitchen table. 

But now it was here.

Real.

Mounted in brass.

Waiting for him to claim it.

“It’s …” Jimin started, then stopped.

Yours, some old part of him almost said.

Because Jungkook had started it. Jungkook had taken the first risk. Jungkook had left Vanguard first. Jungkook had spent a year giving Jimin the one thing no one else had ever offered him without trying to own him in return.

Time.

Time to breathe, to study, and to get his own broker license. He had given him the space to decide whether he wanted the future Jungkook had placed in front of him carefully, without pushing it into his hands.

Jimin swallowed.

Then he corrected himself before the old fear could finish the sentence for him.

“It’s ours,” he said.

Jungkook’s expression changed.

Relief first, quick and unguarded. Then warmth, steady and bright enough that Jimin had to look away before it got under his skin too deeply.

For once, Jungkook did not make a joke.

He only shifted the coffees into one hand, opened the door, and stepped aside.

“After you, partner.”

Jimin hated that his throat tightened.

He hated more that he liked the word.

Still, he lifted his chin, took the coffee Jungkook offered him, and walked in first.

The office was quiet in a way Vanguard had never been. The reception area was small but warm, with low chairs, plants near the windows, and lighting soft enough not to make everyone look like they were about to be interrogated. The conference room had a door that actually closed instead of pretending glass counted as privacy. The desks were not arranged in a bullpen but in separate offices, each with enough room to breathe.

Jimin stopped in front of the door with his name on it.

PARK JIMIN, BROKER

For a moment, the words did not seem real.

He had passed the exam three weeks ago. He had held the license in his hands. He had cried in Jungkook’s car afterward with the kind of furious embarrassment that made Jungkook pull over, kiss his knuckles, and say absolutely nothing about it until Jimin had stopped threatening to dissolve into the leather seats.

Still, seeing it here was different.

His name on the door.

His license. His authority. His decisions carrying weight that did not need to travel through someone else’s permission before becoming real.

Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, watching him with the careful softness he still used when something mattered too much.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said.

“I’m calculating.”

“You’re panicking.”

Jimin shot him a look. “Do not psychoanalyze me before nine.”

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“Then do not psychoanalyze me before lunch.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved. “Fair.”

Jimin stepped into his office and set his bag down on the desk. He ran his fingers over the edge of it once, then looked toward the window. The city stretched beyond it, bright and indifferent, the same city that had swallowed him at nineteen and somehow, somehow, given him enough room to become the person he had needed to become.

“I thought I’d feel more victorious,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

Jungkook’s expression softened. “What do you feel?”

Jimin breathed in.

“Terrified.”

“That makes sense.”

“And excited.”

“That also makes sense.”

“And like I might throw up on the very expensive floor.”

“That would be less ideal.”

Jimin laughed, a little helplessly, and the sound loosened something in his chest.

A knock came from the open office door before Jungkook could say anything else.

They both turned.

Hoseok stood in the entrance with a bright yellow scarf looped around his neck, two pastry boxes balanced in his arms, and an expression that was trying very hard to be cheerful without becoming too emotional about it.

Behind him, Taehyung was carrying a ridiculous bouquet of flowers that looked like it had been arranged by someone with either excellent taste or no restraint. Yoongi stood beside him holding a bottle of champagne and looking as if he had been forced to participate in optimism against his will.

“Surprise,” Hoseok said, then frowned at the pastry boxes. “Well. Not surprise. You gave me the address. And the opening date.”

Jimin stared at him.

Then smiled.

“Hobi-hyung.”

Hoseok’s face softened at the name.

It had taken months to get there again.

They had talked eventually, Hoseok had apologized, while Jimin had explained without making himself smaller.

It had not fixed everything at once, because real apologies did not work like magic spells, no matter how much Taehyung claimed Mercury retrograde could be blamed for corporate miscommunication. But it had opened something. Enough for friendship to grow back stronger than it had before.

Hoseok stepped inside now, gaze moving over the office with visible pride.

“Look at this place,” he said, voice warm. “Very classy. Very expensive. Very ‘we will not tolerate nonsense, but we do have excellent coffee.’”

“That was the design brief,” Jungkook said.

“It really was,” Jimin chuckled.

Taehyung swept in behind Hoseok and thrust the bouquet toward Jimin like he was presenting him with a royal tribute. “For the office. And for your aura. Both needed a spritz of drama.”

Yoongi looked at the flowers. “The florist asked if someone had died.”

“Something did die,” Taehyung said solemnly. “Their employment under someone else’s broker license.”

Hoseok made a wounded sound. “I came here with pastries and emotional support, and this is how I’m treated?”

“You love being dramatic,” Yoongi said.

“I love being appreciated.”

“We appreciate the pastries,” Jungkook said, taking one of the boxes from him.

Hoseok gasped. “See? Betrayal. Again.”

Jimin laughed, and this time it did not hurt.

As Jungkook gave the others a tour of the office space, Hoseok and Jimin stayed back, taking sips of their coffee and eating the pastries.

Then Hoseok looked at Jimin, softer now.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

Jimin’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup.

Hoseok did not rush to fill the silence. That, too, was new. Or maybe not new. Maybe he had learned.

“I mean it,” Hoseok continued. “Not in a broker way. Not in a ‘my former agent is making my firm look good by association’ way.”

“That was very specific.”

“I am a man in recovery,” Hoseok said solemnly. “Let me over-explain.”

Jimin’s mouth twitched.

Hoseok’s smile faded into something more sincere. “I’m proud of you because you did exactly what I should have made more room for you to do. You built something with your name on it.”

Jimin looked down.

For once, the words did not feel like pressure.

Everything felt like closure.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, feeling a little shy.

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the simplicity of it.

Then his eyes flicked toward Jungkook, who was currently trying to take champagne away from Taehyung before he could shake it “for ceremony.”

“And for the record,” Hoseok added, “if he ever becomes unbearable as a business partner, Vanguard has excellent desks and always a space for you to return to.”

Jimin snorted. “You are trying to poach me at my own opening.”

“I believe in maintaining relationships.”

Across the room, Jungkook looked over at them, his expression softening the way it always did when he caught Jimin happy before Jimin remembered to hide it.

Jimin did not hide it this time.

That afternoon, their first difficult client tried his luck.

He arrived with too much cologne, and even more confidence. He was interested in a townhouse downtown, one of their first major listings, and he spent the first ten minutes acting as if Rivington Partners should be grateful he had walked through the door at all.

Jimin had dealt with worse.

He listened, asked questions, explained the seller’s position, and corrected him twice when he referred to the list price as “aspirational” with the lazy amusement of someone who expected Jimin to laugh along.

Jungkook sat beside him at the conference table, silent.

Not because he had nothing to say but because this was Jimin’s meeting.

His client call and his listing strategy. The buyer leaned back eventually, gaze dragging over Jimin in a way that made Jungkook’s hand go very still on his pen.

“You’re awfully intense for an omega,” the man said, smiling as if he had offered a compliment. “Bet you’re quite the feisty one in bed, am I right?”

Silence dropped like a knife.

Jungkook felt every instinct in him surge forward at once. His fingers tightened around the pen until he felt the plastic strain, but he stayed exactly where he was, because Jimin did not need him to rescue him. Jimin owned his authority here and he could defend himself, even needed to do so.

And the omega did not flinch.

He simply closed the folder in front of him with a quiet click.

“I don’t work with clients who speak to me like that,” he said, calm enough to be lethal. “You can take your offer to another firm.”

The man blinked, thrown so visibly that it would have been funny under different circumstances. “I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Jimin replied. “It matters what you said.”

Then he stood, walked to the door, and opened it.

The buyer looked between them, clearly waiting for Jungkook to soften the blow. To smooth things over, and do what alphas like him always expected another alpha to do when an omega refused to be pleasant.

Jungkook only leaned back in his chair and smiled without warmth.

“You heard my partner.”

The message and wording was clear.

Partner.

The man’s face tightened, pride scraping against humiliation, but he left.

When the door closed behind him, the silence remained for half a second longer.

Then Jimin exhaled.

His hands were trembling.

Only slightly.

Enough that Jungkook saw.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to turn the moment into something fragile unless Jimin wanted it to be. “You okay?”

Jimin stared at the closed door.

Then he looked down at his own hands and flexed them once, as if reminding his body that the danger had passed.

“I think so.”

Jungkook stopped in front of him. Close, but not crowding.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, voice low with unmistakable pride, “This is exactly why we did this.”

Jimin swallowed. His eyes were still a little too bright, but his chin lifted.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

That evening, they went home to Jungkook’s apartment, although it had much more become their shared living space over the past year.

Jimin’s old apartment still existed for a while, mostly as storage, then as an emotional safety net, then finally as an unnecessary expense he pretended not to be sentimental about giving up. By the time his books had migrated onto Jungkook’s shelves and his skincare had taken over half the bathroom, even Jimin had stopped pretending he was “just staying over.”

Now, Jungkook’s place held both of them.

His shirts in the closet, Jimin’s shoes by the door. 

Plus a throw blanket Jimin had bought because Jungkook’s couch “looked like it had commitment issues.” 

And a ridiculous sourdough starter in the fridge with a strip of tape labeled in Jungkook’s neat handwriting: DOUGHBI-WAN KENOBI

Underneath it, Jimin had added a second label: FEED DAILY. NO EXCUSES.

And, after one particularly dramatic discard incident: HE WILL BECOME VINDICTIVE.

Jungkook had found that one at six in the morning and laughed so hard he had to sit down on the kitchen floor.

That night, after the first official day of Rivington Partners, the apartment smelled like garlic, rosemary, and bread. Jungkook cooked because that was what he did whenever he could. Jimin stood at the kitchen counter with flour still dusting his sleeves from the loaf they had started, watching the city glow beyond the windows.

Some nights, the fear still came.

But Jungkook did not punish him for it.

He did not demand that Jimin be normal. He did not take every fear personally. He did not make Jimin perform trust before he was ready.

He stayed.

Again and again, he stayed.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” Jimin murmured.

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No,” Jungkook agreed. “But I know I’d choose you again and again.”

Jimin closed his eyes.

Today was enough.

Later, when the bread was in the oven and the apartment smelled like dough and domesticity, Jungkook put on music—something slow, something almost too tender—and held out his hand.

Jimin looked at it.

Jungkook laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen, warm and bright and real.

“Come here,” he said.

Jimin went.

He let Jungkook pull him close, let himself be held with flour still on his hands and the city glowing beyond the glass. They swayed slowly between the kitchen island and the oven, not quite dancing and not quite standing still, Jungkook’s hand firm at his back, Jimin’s cheek resting against his shoulder.

Jungkook hummed softly under his breath, one hand moving over Jimin’s back in a rhythm that had become familiar over the past year. The bread baked. The city moved. Somewhere in the fridge, Doughbi-Wan Kenobi continued his dramatic little life.

And Jimin realized, with a strange, quiet shock, that he was not bracing for impact anymore.

He was just living in the moment.

The peace did not feel borrowed.

It did not feel temporary.

For the first time in his life, it felt like something he had chosen, built, earned, and kept.

Something with his name on the door.

───── ⋆⋅🔑⋅⋆ ─────

Jungkook’s apartment had never been meant to occupy this many people.

It was spacious, technically. But tonight, the place had given up trying to be composed. There were shoes crowded by the door, coats draped over chair backs, wine glasses abandoned on the kitchen island, and too much laughter filling the room for it to feel like Jungkook’s apartment anymore.

Jimin liked it better this way.

He moved through the kitchen with a dish towel slung over one shoulder, stepping around Jungkook without thinking. Their hips bumped when the space between the counter and stove grew too narrow, and Jungkook steadied him with one hand at his waist before letting him go again, easy and thoughtless now. 

In the living room, Seokjin sat on the couch like he had personally financed the building, Jun tucked against his chest in a soft bundle of blankets and tiny, serious baby sounds. Namjoon hovered close by with the gentle vigilance of a new father who had learned that peace was fragile, bottles rolled under couches, and Seokjin’s comfort was now a family-wide emergency.

Taehyung had settled himself on the rug near Jun’s feet, close enough to coo. Yoongi sat beside him with one leg stretched out, expression calm and long-suffering, as if he had already accepted that Taehyung would spend the rest of their lives dramatically campaigning for the child’s affection.

The table was crowded in the best way: steaming bowls, too many plates, wine catching the lamplight, bread still warm under a towel. The air smelled of butter and the kind of food Jungkook made when he pretended he was not trying to love everyone in the room through their stomachs.

Seokjin took one bite, closed his eyes, and sighed with shameless pleasure.

“Oh,” he said. “This is good … as always.”

Jungkook, refilling Namjoon’s glass, did not even look up. “Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment to you. That was a thank you to the universe.”

“It can be both,” Jungkook said.

Jimin shot him a look over his shoulder. “Your brand is not humility, I see.”

“My brand is excellence concerning everything food related.”

“Your brand is complaining while being excellent.”

Namjoon lifted his glass with solemn approval. “Domestic, I see.”

Jungkook pointed the serving spoon at him. “Do not encourage him.”

Taehyung’s head snapped up from where he had been making increasingly ridiculous faces at Jun. “Wait. Did we just say domestic? Are we saying this officially now?”

Jimin felt the familiar urge to deflect rise in him out of habit.

This time, he let it pass.

“Yes,” he said, setting another plate down. “I live here now.”

Seokjin made a delighted noise and pressed one hand over Jun’s ear, as if shielding the baby from overwhelming joy. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“You heard him,” Taehyung said, hand to his chest. “He lives here. Jungkook has been domesticated before our very eyes.”

“I have not been domesticated.”

Yoongi glanced toward the open cabinet, where rows of matching containers sat with horrifying precision. “You were domesticated by Jimin. Just admit it.”

Namjoon nodded. “That is medically accurate.”

“That is not a medical category,” Jungkook said.

“It is in this family,” Seokjin replied.

Jungkook opened his mouth, looked at the baby in Seokjin’s arms, and seemed to reconsider several possible insults. “All of you are banned from my home.”

Seokjin lifted Jun slightly. “Even him?”

Jungkook’s face softened before he could stop it. “No. He can stay.”

They ate with no real order to the conversation. Namjoon talked about the first weeks after Jun’s birth with the quiet awe of a man still astonished by how little sleep a human body could survive. 

Seokjin described labor with enough theatrical detail to make Taehyung clutch his stomach in horror, only to melt completely the second Jun made one small, indignant sound. 

Taehyung declared himself the baby’s favorite uncle, and Yoongi, without looking up from his plate, informed him that Jun had not yet developed the motor skills necessary for favoritism.

Jimin laughed more than he spoke at first.

He loved spending time with everyone. Liked watching the rhythm of them. How easily Namjoon reached for Seokjin’s water before Seokjin asked. How Taehyung leaned into Yoongi’s space without thinking. How Yoongi pretended not to notice while shifting just enough to make room. 

How Jungkook kept putting food on Jimin’s plate without interrupting the conversation, as if feeding him had become as natural as breathing.

Under the table, Jungkook’s fingers found his.

Jimin intertwined their fingers, enjoying the content and peace he felt this very moment. How every day felt like homecoming, in its own right.

Later, after dinner had turned into dishes, dishes had turned into bickering, and bickering had turned into everyone pretending they were helping, Jimin stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room with damp hands and a full heart he did not know how to make smaller.

Seokjin was by the bookshelf, rocking Jun gently while Namjoon hovered behind him with an expression so openly fond it looked almost private. Taehyung had wandered into Jungkook’s Star Wars corner and was calling it “deeply alarming but culturally important,” while Yoongi stood beside him, arms folded, pretending not to be interested and failing badly.

Jimin watched all of it. The noise and warmth, the ridiculousness of it.

Jungkook came up behind him and slipped an arm around his waist, chin brushing his shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Jimin leaned back into him without thinking.

“Yeah,” he said.

Jungkook’s hand tightened lightly at his waist. “Good.”

Jimin turned his head slightly, catching Jungkook’s gaze from the corner of his eye. “Your apartment seems too small for our little family.”

Jungkook huffed a laugh. “You want a bigger place?”

“Not right now, maybe in the future though.”

Jungkook looked out at the room. Then his expression softened, all the teasing fading into something quiet and happy. He leaned closer, mouth near Jimin’s ear, voice warm with amusement.

“Funny,” he murmured. “All those private showings, and this is the one that actually sold me.”

Jimin’s breath caught. Then he laughed, helpless and quiet, tilting his head toward him. “Shut up, Jeon.”

Jungkook’s hand found his at his side, fingers lacing like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “No promises,” he grinned.