Chapter Text
Jimin checked the flowers.
Then the ribbon.
Then the labels.
Then the little roll of kraft paper he’d tucked into the corner of his tote bag.
“Jimin,” Namjoon said, leaning on the counter with his coffee. “That’s the fourth time you’ve inventoried your stuff. Are you opening a pop-up shop in Yoongi’s kitchen or moving in?”
Jimin glared at him. “I’m just making sure I don't forget anything. It’s better to do the bundling at his place. His oven’s right there, and I can carry the flowers. It’s practical.”
“Hmm-mm,” Namjoon hummed, entirely unconvinced. “Very practical. And definitely not at all because you turn into a human sunflower every time his name comes up.”
Jimin rolled his eyes, adjusting the bouquet in his carrier for the fifth time. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?” Namjoon arched his brow. “You’ve been staring at that bundle like it’s about to tell you if he likes you back.”
Jimin groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “This is work, Joon. Work. It’s for the bundle. It’s for the shop and for the kids.”
Namjoon smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, he sipped his coffee, watching Jimin double-check the tape dispenser like his life depended on it.
“You know,” Namjoon said casually, “you do all this and forget one thing… he’s a dad. With kids and a life that’s already full.”
Jimin paused for a second, probably because of two things: his place, and the news about the ‘mom’ who is nowhere to be found.
Namjoon sighed, softer now, like he regretted saying it out loud. “I’m not saying don’t go. I’m just saying don’t get lost in it, okay?”
Jimin blinked at him, but his smile came back, gentle but a little stubborn. “I know my place, Joon… like what you’ve reminded me of.”
Namjoon didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. “Fine. Go bundle pastries and flowers with your baker.”
Jimin grabbed his bag. “Thank you. I will.”
As Jimin headed for the door, Namjoon called after him, “Hey—”
“What?”
Namjoon grinned. “If he feeds you, that counts as a date.”
“Joon?!”
“What? I’m just—”
“I know my place, okay?”
“Fine, fine.”
Jimin’s ears burned all the way out of the door, and Namjoon was left laughing.
**********
Jimin stood outside his shop for a full thirty seconds, clutching his tote bag like it might run away if he loosened his grip.
It was fine. He was fine. He’d told Yoongi it was more practical to do the bundling at his house because Jimin could carry flowers, and Yoongi’s oven was right there. It was logical and efficient.
So why did it feel like his heart had staged a coup in his chest?
“Stop it,” Jimin muttered to himself. “It’s just bundling. It’s not a date. You are not panicking because of a man and his tragically good arms—”
His phone buzzed.
[Yoongi]
Kids are excited. Hyerin made a “Welcome” sign. Not my idea.
Jimin laughed out loud, the sound startling even himself. He texted back:
[Jimin]
Tell them I’ll bring extra stickers.
[Yoongi]
You just made their day.
And maybe his own, too.
By the time he arrived outside Yoongi’s house, his stomach was a mess of caffeine and nerves. He stared at the neat little gate for a second, clutching the flowers harder than earlier.
“Just bundling,” he whispered to himself again. He wasn’t sure if he believed it.
Inside the house, Yoongi was speed-cleaning like his life depended on it.
“Hyerin, pick up the markers. Jinwoo, no toys on the floor, people walk there.”
“Is Mimin coming?” Jinwoo asked, holding two mismatched socks in his hands.
“Yes,” Yoongi replied, stuffing a dish towel back where it belonged. “So maybe let’s try to look like civilized humans for one day.”
“Is he bringing flowers again?” Hyerin chirped, running around with a handful of crayons.
“Probably,” Yoongi muttered, wiping down the already-clean counter.
Jinwoo grinned. “I like Mimin. He smells like happy plants.”
Yoongi paused. “What does that even mean?”
Before Jinwoo could answer, Hyerin gasped dramatically. “Can I draw him another picture?”
“Only if you sit down and finish it before he gets here,” Yoongi said, exhaling as he took one last look around the room. It wasn’t perfect, but it was presentable. That would do.
He crouched down in front of the kids, his voice low but serious. “Okay. Jimin’s coming over, so you two, behave. No climbing on the furniture. No arguing over who gets to sit next to him. No—”
“Can we ask him to stay for dinner?” Jinwoo interrupted.
Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll… see.”
The kids squealed anyway, which was not reassuring.
**********
Jimin took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
He wasn’t sure why his palms felt clammy or why he’d triple-checked the flower bundles before walking up the steps, but here he was, standing in front of Yoongi’s house, nerves buzzing like he was about to sit for an exam.
He knocked thrice, and only for a few seconds the door opened.
“Hi,” Yoongi said, casual as ever, but Jimin noticed the faint curve at the corner of his mouth, the way his hair looked just slightly mussed, and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
Unfair. Completely unfair.
“Hey,” Jimin replied, holding up the flowers like a shield. “I come bearing gifts, and tape.”
Before Yoongi could answer, two small tornadoes burst past him.
“Mister Jimin!”
“Mimin!”
Hyerin launched herself at him while Jinwoo tugged at his sleeve.
“You’re here! I drew you something!” Hyerin announced, waving a crayon masterpiece dangerously close to his face.
“And I saved you a sticker!” Jinwoo added proudly, already trying to slap it onto Jimin’s chest.
Jimin laughed, crouching down to hug them both, his nerves melting away at the sheer force of their enthusiasm. “Wow! You two are better than any welcome sign.”
“They made one of those too,” Yoongi said dryly, stepping aside so Jimin could come in.
And sure enough, taped a little crookedly on the wall was a big piece of paper scrawled in marker: WELCOME, MIMIN!
Jimin’s heart did a stupid little thing.
He turned to Yoongi, grinning, “This is… ridiculously cute.”
“Don’t look at me,” Yoongi muttered, ears suspiciously pink. “It was their idea.”
“Dada helped cut the tape!” Jinwoo ratted him out immediately.
Yoongi gave his son a flat look. “Traitor.
Jimin chuckled, stepping inside, his flowers tucked under one arm. The house smelled faintly of something warm and he realized with a quiet start that it already felt… comfortable here.
“C’mon,” Yoongi replied, following him in, completely unaware of the way Yoongi glanced back at him, just for a moment, before turning away.
And from the living room, Hyerin and Jinwoo exchanged a look that only siblings could share.
“Mister Jimin should live here,” Jinwoo whispered loudly.
Yoongi nearly dropped the baking tray.
He set the baking tray down with a thud he didn’t mean to make. Behind him, Jinwoo’s voice rang out again from the hallway:
“Mimin can sleep in my bed if he wants!”
Silence.
Yoongi blinked.
Jimin blinked.
Neither of them looked at each other.
“Jinwoo,” Yoongi called, voice dangerously calm. “What did we say about ambushing guests?”
“I’m not ambushing, Dada! I’m offering!”
Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath as he turned toward the kitchen. “God give me strength…”
Jimin followed slowly, unsure whether to laugh or apologize or pretend he hadn’t heard anything. He did none of the above.
Instead, he stepped into the kitchen, and promptly forgot how to think.
It was the first time he’d seen Yoongi in his own space. The kitchen wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. A tea towel printed with little dinosaurs hung from the oven door. The fridge was cluttered with magnets, class schedules, and a crooked heart-shaped drawing labeled “From Jinwoo (and Hyerin a little).”
And Yoongi?
Loose tee, sweatpants, hair slightly tousled from running after his kids. He moved around the space easily, retrieving trays and clearing a counter for Jimin’s flowers like he’d been preparing for this moment all morning.
God, Jimin thought, he’s so… daddy coded.
Not in the hot, flirty way Taehyung would say it.
It was the quiet kind. The kind that looked like grocery runs and bedtime snacks, like low voices reading bedtime stories and knowing where the crayons were kept.
It was the kind of man who always looked like he had a hundred things to do but still carved out space for you in the middle of it.
Yoongi caught his eye. “You can set up here. I cleared the table earlier.”
Jimin nodded quickly. “Thanks.”
He unpacked the flower bundles, laying them out more carefully than necessary—brown paper, twine, scissors, and ribbon all neatly arranged like he was prepping for a final exam.
“So,” Jimin said, his voice a little too casual, “this is home, huh?”
Yoongi looked around briefly, then gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. Sorry it’s kind of messy.”
“It’s not,” Jimin said. “It’s… really nice. Warm.”
Yoongi didn’t respond, but his mouth twitched like he might’ve said thank you if he trusted himself to speak.
The silence that settled between them wasn’t the same as the one they shared at the bakery. It wasn’t even the same as the one earlier with the kids. This one was quieter… closer.
Jimin caught himself staring when Yoongi rolled up his sleeves and opened a container of dough.
God help me, he thought, eyes lingered a second too long.
The veins on Yoongi’s forearms, the light dusting of flour that clung to his knuckles, the way he leaned into the counter with quiet focus—it all felt unnecessarily attractive for a man just kneading dough.
Jimin tried to turn back to his flowers. He really did.
But there it was again, the steady rhythm of Yoongi’s hand folding and pressing, the soft flex of muscle under skin, the crease of his brows in concentration.
Why is this hot?
Why is kneading hot?
He’s literally just baking.
Oh god, this is a domestic crisis.
Jimin nearly tied a bow around his own wrist trying to focus, but his gaze drifted again back to the soft strength in Yoongi’s hands, the way his sleeves had bunched at the elbows, revealing a patch of skin dusted with flour and freckles.
God, get it together, Park. He’s kneading dough, not doing a striptease.
But Yoongi looked up, just a second too soon, or maybe a second too late, and caught him.
Jimin froze, ribbon in one hand, scissors in the other, mid-fluff of a tiny bouquet.
Their eyes locked.
Yoongi didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. He just titled his head, curious, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he saw.
“You good over there?” Yoongi asked, a little amused.
Jimin cleared his throat. “Yup. Great. Just uhh… fighting with floral vine.”
Yoongi hummed like he didn’t believe him, but didn’t press.
And as he turned back to the dough, arms flexing again, Jimin cursed softly into a daisy.
This was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
The oven beeped. Yoongi moved to check the temperature.
Jimin reached for the eucalyptus bundle.
And on the couch, Jinwoo called out one more time.
“Can Mimin come every weekend?”
Yoongi didn’t even look up. “You’re on thin ice, kid.”
Jimin’s laugh came out small, too small for how loud his heart was beating.
**********
The kitchen warmed quietly not just from the oven, but from the steady thrum of quiet laughter and side-by-side movement. It was the kind of domestic rhythm that didn’t need choreography. Just comfort, and maybe something else they hadn’t named yet.
Jimin stood at the side table, sorting through his flowers. Eucalyptus and blush spray roses, wrapped in twine and soft paper. Every now and then, Yoongi passed behind him, reaching for trays or handing him tags they were labeling together.
“How are we naming this set again?” Yoongi asked, brushing past with a tray balanced on one arm.
“I was thinking of A Hug in Bloom,” Jimin replied, twisting the ribbon between his fingers. “It sounds like something warm.”
Yoongi hummed. “You are warm.”
Jimin’s hand paused. “What?”
“I mean, your titles. They’re warm,” Yoongi said quickly, turning to check the oven like it owed him an apology.
Jimin bit back a smile. “Right. My titles.”
There was a gentle beat of silence.
Then…
“Dada, can I put stickers on the cookies?” Jinwoo yelled from the living room.
“No buddy!” Yoongi called out. “Stickers are for flowers, not food.”
Jimin chuckled as he bent down to gather a few more blooms. One of the rose stems pricked his finger, sharp and sudden.
“Ahh–shit,” he hissed, jerking his hand back.
Yoongi turned instantly. “What happened?”
“Just a thorn.” Jimin raised his hand, a tiny dot of red blooming on the pad of his finger.
Yoongi crossed the kitchen before Jimin could even protest, gently taking his wrist to inspect it. His fingers were warm, rough from kneading dough but careful as they held Jimin’s hand.
“It’s shallow,” he murmured, eyes focused, not letting go. “Still… wait.”
He turned, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small band-aid from the same place he probably kept the kids’ vitamins.
Jimin tried not to look at how serious Yoongi’s face was. Or how gently he wrapped the bandage around his finger like it meant something.
“There,” Yoongi said. “Don’t bleed on my muffins.”
Jimin’s laugh came out soft. “Was that concern I just witnessed?”
Yoongi arched his brow. “Was that sarcasm from someone holding a cartoon band-aid?”
Jimin looked down. It had tiny tangerines on it.
“I feel very protected.”
Yoongi’s smirk returned, but didn’t quite hide the way his thumb lingered against the inside of Jimin’s wrist a second too long before he let go.
They both turned away at the same time. Neither said anything.
Moments later, as Yoongi pulled out the next tray from the oven, he accidentally grazed the side of his hand against the metal. It wasn’t a full burn, but enough to make him hiss under his breath.
“Yoongi?” Jimin asked, immediately abandoning his bouquet and stepping close.
“I’m okay,” Yoongi said, but Jimin was already guiding him to the sink, running cold water over his hand.
“You really don’t listen, do you?” Jimin muttered, half-worried, half-scolding.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every time someone cares.”
Yoongi glanced sideways at him, quiet for a bit. “You care?”
Jimin paused, then looked down at their hands, his holding Yoongi’s under the water like he wasn’t even aware of it.
“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he said simply.
Neither of them moved. The sound of water running filled the silence. It felt louder than it was.
From the living room, Jinwoo called again. “Mimin? Can you help me spell ‘cinnamon’? It’s for you and Dada’s treats!”
Jimin gently let go of Yoongi’s hand. “Back to work,” he said with a small smile.
Yoongi nodded, still watching him.
And when Jimin turned to walk away, Yoongi didn’t stop looking.
Not even once.
**********
Jimin went back to the table, cheeks still warm as he reached for a ribbon that suddenly wouldn’t behave. He focused on wrapping the next bundle, but his fingers trembled slightly, whether from the prick or from something else entirely, he couldn’t tell.
Behind him, Yoongi moved slower now, careful as he plated the pastries. Every time their shoulders nearly brushed, neither of them moved away.
They just… lingered.
“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Jimin said absently, remembering earlier.
Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “You too. Florists don’t live on aesthetics alone.”
“I live on the thrill of arranging items in emotionally confusing ways.”
Yoongi let out a quiet laugh. The kind that warmed more than the kitchen.
A comfortable silence returned, broken only by Jinwoo's occasional humming from the living room and soft clatter of kitchen tools. The tray of bundled pastries and flowers sat on the side table, almost too pretty to touch.
“Do you always prep this much?” Yoongi asked after a while.
Jimin looked up. “Only when I care about how it turns out.”
He hadn’t meant for the words to sound like that but Yoongi heard it. And when their eyes met across the small kitchen, something stirred again, quiet but undeniable.
“Dada!” Jinwoo called out before either could say anything else. “Can I give Mimin one of my cookies?”
Yoongi didn’t look away from Jimin when he answered. “Sure, baby. He deserves at least one for dealing with us.”
“Two,” Jimin corrected softly. “One for the thorn, one for the burn.”
Yoongi’s smile was slow this time. “You drive a hard bargain.”
He moved to grab a warm cookie from the batch and placed it on a small plate, then without warning, he reached forward to brush a strand of hair away from Jimin’s forehead. His fingers barely grazed skin.
“Flour,” he said, voice low.
Jimin barely remembered how to breathe. “Ah. Tragic.”
Yoongi didn’t move right away. He looked at Jimin for a second longer than necessary, then gently pulled his hand back and offered the plate.
“Thanks for staying.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” Jimin replied, taking the cookie. “This place is nice. Warm.”
“It’s warmer now,” Yoongi said under his breath.
Jimin blinked. “What?”
Yoongi shook his head. “Nothing.”
But his ears were turning red.
**********
By late afternoon, the bundles were done.
Fifteen full sets, stacked neatly by the kitchen window, wrapped in soft paper and tied with twine. The pastries still held their warmth. The flowers carried Jimin’s scent.
Yoongi admired one, brushing a petal gently as he said, “These turned out really nice.”
Jimin smiled beside him. “Not bad for a chaotic collaboration.”
Yoongi chuckled. “Chaotic?” He glanced sideways. “You mean charming.”
Jimin rolled his eyes but said nothing, cheeks warm.
Before they could bask in their success for too long, the thudding of feet came from the hallway—Jinwoo barreled in, trailing Hyerin with a paper crown and a ribbon wand.
“We finished our coloring!” he announced. “Can we make flour snow?”
“No,” Yoongi said immediately, hands rising like a warning sign. “Absolutely not.”
“Too late!” Hyerin laughed, shaking the ribbon like a sparkler.
Jimin moved to intercept them before the living room turned into a bakery battlefield. “Truce! Let’s trade your weapons for juice boxes.”
“But Mimin,” Jinwo protested, tugging at his hand, “can’t we have just a little fun?”
“This is already fun,” Jimin said, guiding them toward their corner like a gentle shepherd. “It’s just… less floury.”
Yoongi exhaled like a man both grateful and doomed. “I owe you.”
“Big time,” Jimin grinned, dusting off imaginary power from his shirt.
Once the kids had settled back down with their coloring books, Jimin lingered by the kitchen sink, rinsing out a small vase, his fingers cool under the stream.
Yoongi came to stand beside him, their arms brushing lightly.
“I was thinking…” Yoongi said, drying his hands on the kitchen towel, “since it’s already late and the kids are clearly not ready to leave you alone, maybe you can stay for dinner.”
Jimin looked up, blinking. “You’re cooking?”
“Well, I do that everyday,” Yoongi replied. “You helped all day. The least I could do is feed you something that isn’t sugar-coated.”
Jimin chuckled. “Sounds like a fair deal.”
But the warmth in his chest wavered slightly. His gaze dropped.
Just this morning, Namjoon’s voice echoed in his head like a warning bell.
Don’t forget your place… He already has a home, a life… you’re soft, Jimin.
For a second, the thought weighed heavier than it should’ve.
But then Yoongi spoke again. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?”
Jimin looked at him and saw nothing in Yoongi’s face but softness.
So he swallowed the doubt, pushed down the ache of guilt he wasn’t even sure belonged, and smiled.
“Nope,” he said, steady and sure. “Nowhere but here.”
Yoongi held his gaze a second longer, then nodded, slow and content. “Good.”
And beside the bundle boxes, beneath the soft kitchen light, something unspoken curled its way deeper into the space between them.
No confession, but definitely something more than nothing.
**********
The kitchen smelled like garlic and sesame oil.
Yoongi moved around the stove with subtle confidence, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tied back in a looser bun. He stirred something gently in the pan, turning the heat down, then tasted it with a chopstick like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Jimin stood a few feet away, pretending to organize the plates but really, he just watched.
It was the first time he saw Yoongi like this… unfiltered, home-worn, domestic.
There was flour still dusting the edge of his sleeve, and a tiny grease stain on his shirt. And yet, to Jimin, he looked… safe and solid. Like a quiet place to land.
“Dinner’s almost done,” Yoongi said, not looking back. “Hope you’re okay with something simple.”
”If it tastes half as good as it smells, I might fall in love with it,” Jimin answered before he could stop himself.
Yoongi glanced at him over his shoulder, just briefly. “Dangerous words, Mr. Florist.”
“I live on the edge,” Jimin grinned.
From the living room, Hyerin yelled, “Dada! Jinwoo stole my crown!”
“I made the crown!” Jinwoo shouted back.
“Give it back, or I’ll cry!”
“No, you won’t!”
Yoongi sighed. “Parenting. The extreme sport.”
Jimin laughed and went to refute the chaos. “Okay, okay. Who wants to set the table?”
“Me!” they both shouted.
By the time everything was laid out–rice, stir-fried vegetables, a pot of warm soup, and leftover pastries for dessert—the table looked like it belonged to a family. Something full and alive.
They ate together.
Jimin sat across from Yoongi, between Hyerin and Jinwoo, who were too busy fighting over who got more mushrooms to notice the tension humming softly between the two adults.
Yoongi watched them eat with a small smile, occasionally reminding Jinwoo to chew and Hyerin to slow down. At one point, he leaned over to wipe a speck of rice from Jinwoo’s cheek with his thumb, then gently refilled his bowl without being asked.
Jimin noticed everything.
The softness… The care… The way Yoongi moved like he was used to giving, without asking for anything in return.
And somehow, Jimin’s chest ached in the sweetest way.
“This is really good,” he said softly, pointing at the soup.
Yoongi shrugged. “Old recipe.”
“Well, old recipes deserve gold stars,” Jimin said, tapping his spoon on the bowl. “You’re kind of amazing.”
Yoongi glanced at him, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t say things like that when I’m holding a ladle.”
Jimin leaned in slightly. “Why?”
“I’ll overfill your bowl out of panic.”
“Same thing.”
They both laughed.
The kids didn’t understand the joke, but they laughed too.
After dinner, while the kids were stacking their coloring books again, Jimin helped with the dishes. Their hands bumped at the sink, and neither of them moved away.
“Thanks again for staying,” Yoongi said. “I mean it.”
Jimin turned to him, drying a glass. “And I’ll repeat it again. Thank you for inviting me.”
Their eyes met, open, soft, something unsaid hovering right there between them.
Yoongi looked away first this time, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess… you being here doesn’t feel out of place.”
Jimin’s heart thudded.
He wanted to say something… anything. But instead, he said, “Then maybe I’ll come by again.”
Yoongi nodded, eyes still on the sink. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Silence loomed over, and Jimin hardly thought of something to divert the tension into something lighter.
As Yoongi dried his hands, Jimin leaned against the counter, sipping the last of his water.
“By the way… where’s Seokjin?” he asked casually. “He’s usually around.”
Yoongi gave a small smile. “Oh. I asked him to take your place at the flower shop today.”
Jimin paused. “Wait—what?!”
Yoongi shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You were here, helping with the bundles. Didn’t want your shop to be left unattended, so… I asked if he could sub.”
Jimin gaped. “Namjoon was there. So you mean, you let Namjoon and Seokjin run my flower shop?”
Yoongi snorted. “Why do you sound like that’s a threat? Jin-hyung seemed to be doing fine the whole day.”
“Because it is,” Jimin muttered, horrified. “Joon panics around expensive petals, and… I don’t know how Seokjin would be of help.”
Yoongi chuckled. “Well, they survived the day.”
There was no trace of worry from Yoongi. He was confident Seokjin would be of great help even just for a day.
“Uhh, I really hope so.” Jimin grumbled.
**********
Later, the kids had been tucked in, and the house had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that only settles after bedtime.
Yoongi brought out two mugs of warm tea and handed one to Jimin without a word. They sat at the table again, but this time, without a task between them.
Just space.
And the comfort of silence not needing to be filled.
Jimin glanced around the kitchen, taking it in again. Not just the smell of fresh bed or the trace of flour on the counter, but the quiet signs of life.
Crayon drawings clipped on the fridge. A tiny sock hanging from the back of a chair. A folded blanket on the armrest nearby.
This was a lived-in space. A real home. And somehow, Yoongi fit into it perfectly.
“I really like your house,” Jimin said. “It’s warm.”
“It’s a mess.”
Jimin smiled. “A warm mess.”
That made Yoongi chuckle. He looked down at his mug, thumb running along the rim. “It wasn’t always this way.”
Jimin waited.
“I used to think I had to have everything under control,” Yoongi said softly. “Before the kids. Even after. I didn’t know how to ask for help. Still don’t.”
“You’re doing fine,” Jimin said, looking at him carefully. “And for what it’s worth, I think it’s okay not to have it all figured out.”
Yoongi exhaled slowly, the kind that lets something go.
Jimin let the steam rice into his face, breathing it in. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“This,” Jimin said. “The home. The parenting. The everything.”
Yoongi looked down at his cup. “It doesn’t feel like I’m good at it most days.”
“But you are,” Jimin said firmly. “The kids are smart and kind. They’re so full of joy.”
Yoongi was quiet for a moment. “They’ve been through a lot. I try not to let them carry more than they have to.”
Jimin nodded slowly, eyes softening. “You carry enough for the three of you.”
There it was again, that weight, that honesty between them.
Yoongi leaned back in his chair, fingers curled around the mug. “It gets lonely sometimes. I mean, not just the single-parent part. But being the one who’s supposed to have it together all the time.”
Jimin’s voice was quieter now. “Do you ever let yourself fall apart?”
Yoongi smiled faintly. “Only when no one’s looking.”
“I’m looking now,” Jimin whispered.
The air shifted.
Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just looked at Jimin with eyes that said I know.
“I don’t let people in easily,” Yoongi said, low yet calm. “But when I do, it’s because it matters.”
Jimin’s heart stammered.
“Does this matter?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Yoongi met his eyes, and for a second, the truth hovered dangerously between them.
But instead of answering directly, Yoongi just reached across the table, gently brushing a petal off Jimin’s sleeve. “You stayed.”
Jimin swallowed. “I did.”
“Still,” Yoongi added, “I’m glad you came.”
Jimin felt the words land like a weight in his chest.
“I’m glad I did too,” he said, and then, “I’ll… head out before I make this house even messier.”
Yoongi stood with him, walking him to the door. The hallway was dim now, warm with just one small light near the coat hooks.
Jimin slipped on his shoes slowly, as if part of him didn’t really want to leave.
“Let me walk you out,” Yoongi said, opening the door halfway.
Outside, the air was cool.
Jimin turned to face him, one hand gripping the strap of his bag.
“So,” he said.
“So,” Yoongi echoed.
Their eyes met again in the half-light, and for a moment, Jimin thought Yoongi might say something—ask him to stay a little longer, maybe. Admit something they both didn’t want to name.
But instead, Yoongi just looked at him like he was memorizing something he didn’t want to forget.
“Thanks again… for today,” Yoongi said.
“Thank you for dinner,” Jimin replied, just as soft.
Neither moved, and then…
“I saved you a cinnamon roll,” Yoongi added, almost shy.
Jimin blinked. “You did?”
Yoongi nodded. “It’s in the fridge. You can come back for it.”
The smile that bloomed on Jimin’s face was immediate.
“Are you always this smooth, or is it the late hour talking?”
Yoongi smirked, stepping back inside.
“You’ll never know,” he said, just before the door closed, “unless you come back.”
Click.
Jimin stood there for a second, lips parted, a laugh caught in his throat.
And then he walked away, heart thudding like a drum, already craving the next time.