Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Inspired by: Selfish - Justin Timberlake

Tags: Friends to Lovers, Romance, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Light Angst, Jealousy, Secret Crush, Pining, Sexual Harassment (not between Jikook!), Dancer Jeon Jeongguk, Dancer Park Jimin, Happy Ending

Guest appearances: Kim Seokjin

Words: 7.309

Published: May 30, 2025

Inevitable

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The soft glow of the overhead lights bathed the dance studio in a gentle radiance, while natural light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the polished wooden floor. The faint scent of sweat and determination lingered in the air as music played softly in the background, its tempo matching the beating hearts of the passionate dancers.

Among them stood Park Jimin, every movement of his body precise yet effortless, as though he were born to dance. His lithe frame moved with an elegance that seemed almost unreal, each step fluid, each motion a perfect balance of strength and grace. His flexibility was mesmerizing, his body bending with ease, limbs extending in flawless arcs as if gravity itself bent to his will. Whether executing a sharp turn or sinking into a deep stretch, he made every motion seem weightless, his control so absolute that even the most complex sequences appeared effortless. With every flick of his wrist, every graceful arch of his back, Jimin was painting emotion into the air, a masterpiece in motion.

Jimin’s presence was magnetic—his smile, his laugh, the way his honey-blond hair caught the light. Even in a room full of talent, he stood out. People gravitated toward him naturally, and today was no exception. The other dancers huddled around him during breaks, their faces lit with awe as he shared an anecdote about a mishap during practice in his captivating, sonorous voice. His engaging laughter rang out, warm and inviting.

Jeon Jeongguk watched attentively from the far side of the room, his back pressed against the floor-to-ceiling mirror, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t the type to join the crowd. He liked to watch—observe, take in the details no one else seemed to notice. Like the way Jimin’s full lips curved upward just a little more when he was genuinely amused, or how his eyes sparkled when he was caught off guard.

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He’s too perfect, he thought. Too far out of reach.

“Jeongguk-ah!” Jimin’s warm voice broke through his reverie, soft and familiar. Jeongguk blinked and shyly brushed some of his dark strands from his forehead, realizing that Jimin was smiling at him from across the room, his eyes curving into beautiful crescent moons as he lifted a hand in a casual wave.

“Uh, hey,” Jeongguk managed, raising a hand in return. His voice cracked slightly, which made Jimin’s smile widen.

“Why are you all the way over there?” Jimin asked loudly, tilting his head. “Come join us!”

Jeongguk shook his head quickly, attempting to seem nonchalant. “Nah. I’m good here.”

Jimin pouted, the playful expression tugging at Jeongguk’s heart. “Fine,” Jimin teased, rolling his eyes with a grin. “Suit yourself, broody.”

Jeongguk felt his cheeks heat up at the attention. Broody? That’s not fair, he thought, though the nickname didn’t bother him as much as it should.

From the corner of his eye, Jeongguk noticed Lee Daesung, their new choreographer, walking into the room. Tall and confident, he carried an air of authority that immediately turned heads. Jimin was one of the first to greet him with a bow, his natural politeness on full display.

The choreographer smiled warmly at Jimin, resting a hand on his shoulder as they spoke. They exchanged a laugh, and Jeongguk’s stomach twisted. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away.

“Jeongguk-ah, focus,” one of the other dancers said, nudging him lightly as they moved into formation for the next rehearsal.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeongguk muttered, shifting into position. But his eyes kept flickering back to Jimin, who was still talking to the choreographer, his gorgeous face alight with his trademark enthusiasm.

Jeongguk’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. Why does he have to be so perfect? Why does everyone have to want him?

As the music started, Jeongguk pushed his confusion down as best as he could, letting the rhythm guide his movements. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, one thought lingered in his mind:

I’m just one in a crowd of ordinary people, different from him.

Rehearsal carried on with the usual rigor. The rhythmic thud of the bass echoed through the studio, vibrating through Jeongguk’s chest as the troupe moved in perfect synchronization, each dancer finding their rhythm under the choreographer's watchful eye. The choreography was sharp and demanding, with each move requiring precision and vigor. Jeongguk threw himself into the routine, his muscles taut with tension. It was easier to let the music drown out his thoughts, even if only for a little while. Every turn, leap, and stretch was meticulously choreographed, but despite the collective focus in the room Jeongguk’s gaze kept drifting to Jimin. Again and again. Like an inevitable reflex.

Jimin danced like the music was an extension of his soul. Every movement was fluid, every expression electric and graceful. Jeongguk found himself mesmerized yet again, jealously caught in the pull of Jimin’s energy. But then his eyes shifted to the choreographer, standing at the front of the room, his gaze fixed on Jimin as well.

“Good, Jimin,” Lee Daesung called out, clapping his hands. “Your control is exceptional. Your lines are impeccable. Everyone, watch Jimin’s transitions. He flows effortlessly between steps.”

“Thank you, Seonsaengnim,” Jimin replied, his voice light but tinged with modesty.

Jeongguk gritted his teeth as he watched the exchange from the corner of his eye. He knew Jimin deserved the praise—he always did—but hearing it from someone else made something sharp twist in Jeongguk’s chest.

A murmur of agreement rippled through the dancers, but Jeongguk’s stomach churned.

“Of course, they all admire him,” Jeongguk muttered under his breath, his tone sharper than intended. He snapped his head away, focusing on his own reflection in the mirror, though his moves now felt mechanical and stiff.

The music cut abruptly. “Jeongguk,” the choreographer’s voice rang out, “your timing’s a little off on the last count. Let’s take it from the top.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard, nodding embarrassed. He avoided Jimin’s curious glance as the music restarted.

“Alright, everyone, let’s take five,” Daesung announced, clapping his hands. The group dissolved into small clusters, stretching, talking or refreshing with water.

Jeongguk grabbed his own bottle, retreating to the edge of the room again. He leaned against the wall, gulping down the cool liquid in silence. With his eyes closed, he tried to shake off the unease clawing at him, but the sound of Jimin’s wonderful laughter pulled him back.

His eyes snapped open. Across the room, Jimin was leaning against the barre, his face glowing as Daesung showed him something on his tablet. Their shoulders were almost touching.

“Jeongguk?”

He turned sharply to find Kim Seokjin, one of the senior dancers, staring at him with a curious expression. “You okay, kid?”

“Fine,” Jeongguk replied curtly, his tone sharper than intended.

Seokjin raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. You’re staring holes into the barre. Or…” He glanced toward Jimin and smirked knowingly. “Into someone standing near it.”

Jeongguk stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seokjin chuckled. “Sure, you don’t.” He patted Jeongguk’s shoulder. “Listen, kid, whatever’s eating you, you better sort it out. Distracted dancers trip, and tripping in this troupe? Not an option.” With that, he sauntered off, leaving Jeongguk alone with his simmering thoughts.

Why do I even care? Jeongguk questioned himself while he still continued to suppress the hint of an answer and hide it under layers of fake professionalism.

“Jeongguk-ah!” Jimin’s voice rang out again, pulling him from his thoughts.

Jeongguk looked up just in time to see Jimin jogging toward him, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks flushed from exertion. Jeongguk’s heart gave a traitorous thump.

“You okay?” Jimin asked, tilting his head. “You’ve been really quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” Jeongguk replied, trying to sound indifferent.

Jimin chuckled, the sound soft and familiar. “True, but this feels different. Are you tired? Or…” He hesitated, his smile fading slightly. “Did something happen?”

Jeongguk hesitated. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words lodged in his throat. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Jimin frowned, still unconvinced. He stepped closer and eased into a crouch in front of Jeongguk, closing the distance between them. Jeongguk’s breath hitched as the subtle trace of Jimin’s scent reached him—sweet and woody, like cedar and sandalwood. It reminded him of the body lotion he kept at home, the one he only used on days he needed comfort. Jimin’s eyes searched his face, dark and gentle, filled with warmth and quiet concern.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Jimin said softly. “If something’s bothering you…”

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. The sincerity in Jimin’s voice made it nearly impossible to keep his feelings—whatever they were—buried. But what was he supposed to say? That he was… jealous? Jealous of never being what Jimin was—so effortlessly warm, magnetic, adored? That every time Jimin smiled at someone else, it felt like losing a piece of something he’d never truly had to begin with?

“I know,” Jeongguk murmured, finally breaking eye contact.

Jimin studied him for a moment longer before nodding. “Alright. But I’m here if you change your mind.”

Before Jeongguk could reply, one of the other dancers called Jimin’s name. Jimin glanced over his shoulder, waving back at him.

“I should go,” he said, giving Jeongguk a small smile.

He’s absolutely breathtaking… was all Jeongguk could think as his gaze lingered on the elegant sway of Jimin’s retreating figure.

Later, as rehearsal wrapped up, Daesung gathered everyone for final notes. “Great work today, everyone. Let’s keep this momentum going. Jimin, can I steal you for a moment after this?”

Jeongguk’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the words, his yearning mind on high alert.

“Of course,” Jimin replied, flashing his signature smile.

Jeongguk didn’t wait to hear what they’d discuss, even though curiosity threatened to consume him inside. The moment the group was dismissed, he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. He had trouble breathing properly.

“Jeongguk-ah, wait!”

The sound of Jimin’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned, plastering on a neutral expression.

“You’re leaving so quickly?” Jimin asked, his head tilted slightly in that way that made Jeongguk’s heart ache. “I thought maybe we could grab dinner or something?”

“Not tonight,” Jeongguk said, his voice clipped. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Jimin blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Oh… okay. Maybe another time, then?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jeongguk turned and walked out before Jimin could say anything else.

The cool night air greeted him as he stepped onto the street. Jeongguk’s chest felt heavy, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and longing. He hated feeling like this—jealous, insecure, powerless.

Why do I care so much? he asked himself again. But the answer was clear. He cared because Jimin was everything he wasn’t: open, radiant, loved by everyone.

And Jeongguk? He was just a shadow.

As he walked home, he couldn’t shake the image of Jimin laughing with the choreographer, their shared moment replaying in his mind like a broken record.

What if someone like that could give him what he deserves? Someone who wasn’t stuck in their own head, jealous of the entire world?

Jeongguk sighed, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. I need to get over this. I need to get over him.

But even as he told himself that, his heart stubbornly refused to listen.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The next evening, Jeongguk found himself lingering outside the studio long after practice had ended. The muffled thrum of music spilled out onto the quiet street as he leaned against the brick wall, debating whether to head inside again or finally go home.

He shouldn’t have stayed. He knew it was masochistic, standing there waiting for something—someone.

The decision was made for him when he caught sight of Jimin and Daesung walking out of the studio together.

The scene unfolded in slow motion: Jimin’s soft laughter, Daesung leaning in to say something that made him smile, the easy way they walked side by side. For a moment, Jeongguk felt like an outsider peering into a world he didn’t belong to.

His heart clenched.

Jimin looked happy. And wasn’t that what mattered? If Jimin could be happy with someone else, someone who seemed to match his light in every way… wasn’t it better for Jeongguk to step aside?

Jeongguk turned and walked away before they could notice him, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The upcoming day at rehearsal, Jeongguk avoided Jimin entirely. He barely spoke during warm-ups and threw himself into every routine with an intensity that bordered on reckless. His movements were sharp, precise, but lacked the fluidity he was known for.

“Jeongguk, ease up,” Daesung said during a particularly grueling sequence. “You’re going to injure yourself if you keep dancing like that.”

“I’m fine,” Jeongguk snapped, immediately regretting his tone when the room went quiet.

Jimin’s eyes lingered on him, concern written all over his face.

After practice, Jeongguk tried to make a quick exit, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading straight for the door. But Jimin was quicker.

“Jeongguk-ah!”

The sound of his name, soft yet firm, froze him in place. Jeongguk sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag before turning around reluctantly.

Jimin stood there, a slight furrow in his brow. “Come take a walk with me? The air’s nice, and I think we both need a little break. My treat—let’s grab something to eat.”

Jeongguk hesitated, but something in Jimin’s expression—concern, but also familiarity—disarmed him. He gave a short nod. “Okay.”

The evening was cool, with a gentle breeze threading through the leaves of the trees lining the park path. They walked in companionable silence at first, the only sound their sneakers crunching lightly on the gravel and the distant hum of city traffic. A nearby street vendor caught Jimin’s eye, and he grinned. “Corndogs?”

Jeongguk gave a small smile. “Can’t say no to that.”

Minutes later, they strolled side by side, munching on golden-fried corndogs, the warmth of the food filling the space between them along with the scent of oil and ketchup. It felt easy—normal. Like it used to be.

“I’ve missed this,” Jimin said, licking a bit of mustard off his thumb. “Just hanging out like this. You’ve felt far away lately.”

Jeongguk stayed quiet, eyes on the path ahead. He bit into his corndog, chewing slowly.

Jimin glanced at him. “You’ve been acting off for days. I didn’t want to push, but… did I do something wrong?”

Jeongguk swallowed hard. “No,” he said too quickly, too sharp. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?” Jimin asked, his voice softer now. “Jeongguk-ah, please. Talk to me.”

Jeongguk stopped walking. The corndog in his hand suddenly felt heavy and forgotten. He looked at the ground, jaw tight, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

He wanted to tell him. He wanted to spill everything—how Jimin’s laughter was the brightest sound he’d ever heard, how his smile made the worst days bearable, how just the thought of losing him to someone else felt like a knife to the heart.

But the words got stuck.

“It’s… It’s nothing,” Jeongguk muttered, tossing the rest of his corndog into the nearest trash can with a frustrated flick of his wrist. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Stop it,” Jimin said, sharper than before, as he threw his own half-eaten corndog into the bin with unexpected force. The sudden motion made Jeongguk flinch slightly, caught off guard by the rare flash of intensity in Jimin’s voice. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.” He reached out, his hand brushing Jeongguk’s wrist. “You’re not nothing to me, Jeongguk-ah. So don’t act like I wouldn’t care.”

Jeongguk’s resolve cracked. He looked at Jimin, his emotions bubbling to the surface.

“I just…” He shook his head, frustration pooling in his eyes. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding pathetic.”

Jimin stepped in front of him, blocking his path gently. “Try me.”

Jeongguk looked up, his voice low but trembling. “You want to know what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “It’s that I’m tired of feeling invisible. Like no matter how hard I work, how much I give, I’ll never stand where you do. Never shine like you. And every time you smile at someone else, I feel like I’m losing something I never really had to begin with.”

The silence between them stretched, not heavy, but full—raw with truth.

Then, quietly, Jimin reached out, brushing his fingers against Jeongguk’s wrist. His touch was steady.

“You’re not invisible to me,” he said, his voice steady and sincere. “You never have been.”

But Jeongguk couldn’t let the words settle. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside, demanding to be let out. The dam had cracked, there was no stopping it now.

“Jimin, I’m just—” he broke off, dragging a hand through his tousled hair. “I’m so tired of feeling like I’m always in the background. Like no matter how hard I try, I’m never enough.” His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “Not for the troupe, not for you—”

He stopped abruptly, realizing what he’d just said. His eyes widened, panic setting in.

Jimin’s rosy lips parted in shock, but he didn’t let go of Jeongguk’s wrist. “Jeongguk-ah…”

“I didn’t mean—” Jeongguk began, but Jimin cut him off.

“Is that what you’ve been thinking? That you’re not enough… for me?” Jimin’s voice trembled slightly, his eyes shining with emotion. “Jeongguk-ah, how could you think that?”

Jeongguk swallowed hard, his defenses crumbling right there on the quiet park path. “Because look at you, Jimin-hyung,” he said, voice low and thick with emotion. “You’re everything good in the world. Everyone gravitates to you. Everyone wants to be near you, to be like you. And me? I’m just…”

“Just what?” Jimin interrupted gently, stepping closer, his tone more urgent now. “Jeongguk-ah, you have no idea how wrong you are. Do you even realize what you mean to me?”

Jeongguk froze, stunned by the shift in Jimin’s voice—so open, so sincere it made something ache deep in his chest.

“What are you talking about?” he whispered.

Jimin let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in for too long. He glanced at the ground, then back up at Jeongguk, eyes shining under the park’s faint lights.

“You’re the person I look for the moment I walk into the room,” he said quietly. “No matter who’s there, no matter what we’re doing, it’s always you. You’re the one I want to sit next to. The one I want to laugh with during breaks, sneak snacks with after practice, walk home with even if we’re going in different directions.”

He took another step forward, voice growing steadier, fuller. “You’ve always been the one. And maybe I’ve been too much of a coward to say it before, but I can’t keep pretending anymore.” He reached out, fingers brushing Jeongguk’s sleeve. “You’re not just someone to me, Jeongguk. You’re… you’re very special.”

Jeongguk’s breath caught. The words felt too big to hold, too impossible to believe.

“You don’t mean that,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head.

But Jimin only smiled, soft and fierce all at once. “I do. I’ve never meant anything more.” He stepped closer still, close enough for Jeongguk to see the tremble in his smile, the absolute certainty in his gaze. “And if it takes you a hundred times to believe it, I’ll say it a hundred times. I’ll keep showing you, again and again, until it finally sinks into that thick, broody skull of yours.”

Before Jeongguk could respond, Jimin closed the distance between them, his hands cradling Jeongguk’s face with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.

“Let me prove it,” Jimin whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against Jeongguk’s lips.

And then he kissed him.

Soft at first—gentle, almost hesitant, as if afraid Jeongguk might disappear. But when Jeongguk didn’t pull away, when he melted into Jimin’s touch instead, the kiss deepened. Slow and lingering, it was a promise in itself, one that spoke of every unspoken feeling between them. The world around them faded, leaving nothing but the warmth of Jimin’s lips and the way their hearts pounded in sync.

When they finally parted, Jeongguk blinked, dazed, his chest rising and falling as he stared into Jimin’s chocolate brown eyes. “You… mean it?”

Jimin’s smile was radiant, full of certainty. “Every word.”

A shaky laugh escaped Jeongguk, the weight of his doubts dissolving in an instant. “I… I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Jimin’s fingers traced soothing circles against Jeongguk’s jaw. “You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured. “Just stay.”

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The days that followed were softer—brighter, like someone had opened a window in Jeongguk’s heart and let the light pour in. There was still the usual rhythm of aching muscles, blaring speakers, and the relentless count of eight, but something had changed. The heaviness that once clung to him during rehearsals had loosened its grip. He didn’t feel like an afterthought anymore. He didn’t feel like a shadow.

Jimin made sure of it.

It was never loud or showy, just the quiet, consistent way Jimin anchored him. How he’d wait by the door after practice, pretending not to be looking until Jeongguk appeared. How his hand would find Jeongguk’s in the cool evening air, brushing against it until Jeongguk gave in and laced their fingers together. The way he’d casually lean against Jeongguk during breaks, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked home together more often now, stopping for late-night tteokbokki or warm canned coffee from a vending machine. Sometimes they talked about dance, sometimes about nothing at all. But more often, they just walked in silence. Comfortable, easy.

As the days slipped into weeks, Jeongguk found himself settling into the quiet joy of whatever it was that had blossomed between him and Jimin. It wasn’t labeled—neither of them had said the words out loud—but it was there in the way they moved around each other, in the way they always made space for one another, even in a crowded room, in the way they softly kissed and embraced each other’s company.

But just as comfort started to feel real, something else began to unsettle him.

It started subtly.

Their choreographer, Daesung, began calling on Jimin more frequently. At first, it was understandable—Jimin was undeniably one of their best dancers. But as time went on, Jeongguk noticed how often Jimin was pulled aside after practice. Individual training sessions became routine. Conversations between them stretched longer, their heads bowed close together over notebooks or phones, occasionally sharing a laugh that lingered too long in Jeongguk’s mind.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to remind himself that Jimin was his. That Jimin chose him.

But the unease settled in his chest like a stone. He never said anything, not when Jimin showed up late to their walk home with flushed cheeks and tired eyes, not when Daesung clapped him on the back in passing, like nothing was amiss. Jeongguk swallowed the jealousy, pushed it down hard, telling himself it was irrational. He didn’t want to be that guy—the clingy, possessive type. He didn’t want to show Jimin the ugly storm churning inside him.

So he smiled through it. Laughed with him. Held his hand.

But every now and then, when Jimin’s phone lit up with Daesung’s name late at night, Jeongguk’s fingers curled into fists beneath the long sleeves of his sweater.

He tried to trust. He wanted to trust.

Until the night everything cracked.

He’d planned something simple. Something sweet. A date night for just the two of them. He didn’t tell Jimin; he wanted it to be a surprise. He figured he’d swing by the studio after Jimin’s private training, then whisk him away for dinner and maybe a walk along the river. Something to pull them back into the little world they’d carved out together.

The studio lights were still on when he arrived.

From outside the practice room’s large window, Jeongguk could see them—Jimin and Daesung—standing close. Closer than necessary.

He stopped, breath catching as he watched.

Daesung said something that made Jimin laugh softly. The choreographer’s hands found Jimin’s shoulders, then slid down to his waist. Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. His heart began to thud in his ears.

Then it happened.

Daesung pulled Jimin into a tight embrace, and one of his hands—too casual, too bold—slid lower, cupping Jimin’s ass before giving it a squeeze.

Jeongguk froze.

His breath stopped. The heat that surged through him wasn’t just anger, it was betrayal, disbelief, devastation. He waited for Jimin to push him away, to swat Daesung’s hand, to recoil, something.

But Jimin didn’t.

He didn’t return the touch, but he didn’t resist it either.

And that was all it took.

Jeongguk staggered back from the window like he’d been punched. He didn’t wait for the hug to end, didn’t give Jimin a chance to explain. The corndogs he’d picked up for their date hung limp in the plastic bag at his side as he turned and walked away, the night air biting at his face, heart pounding painfully in his chest.

He couldn’t feel his fingers. Or maybe it was just his heart that had gone numb.

He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But the thing they’d built—the thing that had been soft and warm and safe—it felt like it had slipped through his hands without warning.

And this time, Jeongguk wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for trusting it in the first place.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The dance studio was quiet the next evening, save for the faint echo of a ballad playing from Jimin’s phone. He stayed late to practice, determined to perfect a solo that had given him trouble earlier. His movements were fluid, but his expression was tight, his usual lightness absent.

He hadn’t seen much of Jeongguk all day, and it gnawed at him. They were usually inseparable during breaks, but Jeongguk had kept his distance, avoiding eye contact and brushing off Jimin’s attempts to talk.

As Jimin landed the final spin, the sound of the studio door creaking open startled him.

Turning, he saw Jeongguk step inside, his posture tense, his face unreadable.

“Jeongguk-ah?” Jimin said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “What are you doing here? I thought you left hours ago.”

Jeongguk hesitated, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Jimin’s heart sank. The edge in Jeongguk’s voice wasn’t something he was used to. He set his phone down and approached cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

Jeongguk looked at him, his jaw clenched. “Are you and Daesung…?” He trailed off, unable to finish the question.

Jimin blinked, confused. “Me and—wait, what? No! Why would you think that?”

Jeongguk let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room. “Because you’re always with him! Laughing, smiling, like you’ve known each other forever. And he’s always so close to you, touching your shoulder, leaning in, grabbing your ass—”

“Jeongguk,” Jimin interrupted, stepping into his path. “Stop. Listen to yourself.”

Jeongguk stopped, his doe-like eyes meeting Jimin’s. They were filled with pain, frustration, and something deeper, something raw.

Jimin took a steady breath and stepped closer, his voice low and strained. “You saw that hug yesterday, didn’t you?”

Jeongguk’s silence was answer enough.

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. “That wasn’t what it looked like. He caught me off guard. I didn’t… I didn’t know how to react. I was so shocked I froze.”

Jeongguk’s brows furrowed. “You didn’t push him away.”

“I know,” Jimin said quietly, shame creeping into his voice. “And I hate that. I hate that I let it happen. But I panicked, Jeongguk. He’s my choreographer—our choreographer. And in that moment, all I could think about was how any wrong move could make me look like the problem. Like I was difficult, dramatic, overreacting. I’ve worked too hard to build my place here, you know that. I didn’t want to lose it because of his fucking hands.”

His voice cracked, just slightly, and he looked down.

Jeongguk’s expression shifted. The tension in his shoulders softened as understanding seeped in. He stepped forward and gently cupped Jimin’s face.

“Jimin-hyung… I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I had no idea. I just saw that moment, and I let it get to me. I should’ve asked. I should’ve trusted you.”

Jimin looked up, his eyes glassy. “I don’t blame you for being hurt. But I need you to know—I didn’t invite it. And I didn’t want it.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Jeongguk’s voice was firm now. “And you shouldn’t have to keep quiet about it, either. You don’t need to protect his reputation at the cost of your safety and peace of mind.”

“I know,” Jimin whispered. “But I didn’t want to make it worse. If word gets out, it’s my word against his. And I don’t want to be reduced to a scandal.”

“Then let’s be smart about it,” Jeongguk said, stepping closer. “We don’t have to blow it up, but we can talk to someone. Maybe the director or someone higher up who’ll handle it quietly but seriously. You don’t deserve to feel trapped or uncomfortable in a space that’s supposed to be about art and growth.”

Jimin studied his face for a moment, the storm in his chest easing. “You’d help me with that?”

“Of course I would,” Jeongguk said gently. “You don’t have to go through this alone. And I’m sorry for not giving you the chance to explain before jumping to conclusions.”

Jimin managed a small, crooked smile. “Thank you.”

They stood there in silence for a few heartbeats, the air between them shifting from tension to something tender.

“I thought…” Jeongguk’s voice broke, and he shook his head. “I thought I’d lose you to him. And it hurt more than I knew how to handle. It made me feel small, like I wasn’t enough.”

Jimin’s expression softened, and he stepped into Jeongguk’s space, his hand finding his. “You’re not losing me, Jeongguk-ah. You’ll never lose me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jimin’s thumb brushed over Jeongguk’s knuckles. “You’re not just someone I care about—you’re the person I feel safest with.”

The tension in Jeongguk’s shoulders eased as he took a deep breath.

“I’m truly sorry,” he murmured. “For being jealous. For… everything.”

“Don’t be,” Jimin said, pulling him into a hug. “Just promise me something.”

“Everything!”

Jimin pulled back enough to look into his sparkling eyes, his smile warm and teasing despite the weight they had just shed. “Next time you’re upset, come to me first. Don’t let it build up, okay?”

Jeongguk nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay.”

Jimin grinned, his arms still wrapped around Jeongguk. “Good. Now, let’s get out of here. I’m starving, and you owe me dinner for making me cry during practice.”

Jeongguk laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Deal.”

Later that night, after their impromptu dinner, Jeongguk and Jimin found themselves back at Jeongguk’s apartment. It wasn’t the first time Jimin had been there, but tonight felt different. The air between them was charged with something new, unspoken but understood. There was an undeniable pull between them, a magnetic force neither could ignore.

Jeongguk fumbled with his keys as they stood in the doorway of his apartment, the dim light from the hallway casting a soft glow across his features. Jimin waited patiently beside him until he opened the door. Jeongguk felt his heart race as he motioned for Jimin to step inside.

 “Sorry about the mess,” Jeongguk mumbled as he kicked off his shoes and slid them into the corner of the hallway.

Jimin laughed softly, lifting an eyebrow and toeing off his shoes. “Guk, I’ve seen your place before. You don’t have to apologize every time. Oooooooor just clean up already, you little messy.” He shrugged his leather jacket off, revealing a simple black t-shirt underneath, his body language relaxed but with an undercurrent of something else.

Jeongguk closed the door behind them, locking it with a click. The silence between them was palpable, but there was something comforting in it. They didn’t need words now. What had been left unsaid earlier hung between them like an unspoken promise.

Jeongguk smiled sheepishly, his nervous energy evident. He watched as Jimin wandered into the small living room, taking in the familiar space.

“You really should hang something on these walls,” Jimin said, his fingers brushing lightly over the empty, white-painted surface.

Jeongguk let out a small laugh, but it was a little strained. He scratched the back of his neck. “I was waiting for the right inspiration,” he admitted, his voice almost shy as he looked at Jimin, who now stood by the window, gazing out at the city lights in the distance.

Jimin turned toward him, his gaze softening when he caught Jeongguk’s big eyes. They stood there for a moment, silent, as the air seemed to grow thicker around them. Jeongguk’s heartbeat quickened, and he felt suddenly exposed, his breath shallow.

“Maybe you’ve found it,” Jimin said quietly, breaking the spell between them.

Jeongguk blinked, his throat going dry as he processed the words. He wasn’t sure what he had found yet, but standing here, with Jimin’s eyes locked on his, he knew this moment was one he didn’t want to let go of. He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. “Maybe I have.”

The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. Jimin tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to Jeongguk’s lips.

“Jimin,” his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… kiss you?”

Jimin’s heart swelled at the tenderness in the question, at the care Jeongguk was showing him. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he closed the distance between them, his hands finding Jeongguk’s. “You don’t have to ask,” he murmured.

The softness in Jimin’s voice sent a thrill down Jeongguk’s spine. He reached up, cupping Jimin’s cheek gently, and in that moment, everything else faded away. The world outside seemed distant, irrelevant.

Jeongguk leaned in slowly, giving Jimin every chance to pull away. But Jimin didn’t. When their lips met, it was as always gentle at first, a soft, tentative press. But as Jimin’s hands slid up Jeongguk’s arms, pulling him closer, the kiss deepened.

It was unhurried, exploratory. Jeongguk’s hand slid to Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer, his thumb brushing over the soft fabric of Jimin’s shirt. Jimin responded with a quiet sigh, his hand curling into Jeongguk’s shirt, fingers gripping the material as if he could hold on to this feeling forever.

The kiss deepened, and Jeongguk’s pulse raced as he felt Jimin’s soft lips and tongue move against his, warm and inviting. Their breaths mingled in the quiet of the room, every touch of their lips igniting something in both of them, a fire that had been smoldering for far too long.

Jimin pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against Jeongguk’s. His voice was shaky as he whispered, “It always feels so good to kiss you, Guk. But I… I really feel like needing more of you tonight.”

Jeongguk’s heart pounded in his chest, and his hands roamed up to Jimin’s shoulders, then down to his back, pulling him closer still. “I feel the same, Min,” Jeongguk admitted, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Jimin’s lips curled into a smile as he kissed Jeongguk again, slower this time, savoring every moment. They both pulled back reluctantly, their breaths mingling as they locked eyes.

“Jiminie,” Jeongguk said softly, his voice filled with awe. “You’re everything to me. I’m not good with words, but I need you to know that. You’re everything.”

Jimin’s eyes softened, and he placed a hand on Jeongguk’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his smooth skin. “You’re my everything, too. Don’t you ever doubt that.” He moved closer again, this time with more urgency, his lips pressing against Jeongguk’s as he tugged Jeongguk toward the cozy couch.

They sat down together, Jimin straddling Jeongguk’s lap as they kissed hungrily, their hands exploring each other’s bodies. Jeongguk’s fingers slid beneath the hem of Jimin’s shirt, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat radiating from him. Jimin’s breath hitched as Jeongguk’s hands roamed higher, cupping his face gently, his thumbs brushing along Jimin’s cheekbones.

The kiss became more desperate, both of them feeling the pull of something undeniable. It was a dance of need, a quiet urgency that neither of them had anticipated but both welcomed.

Jimin pulled back, breathless, eyes darkened with need. “Guk, I want this. I want you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But only if you’re ready. Only if you want it, too.”

Jeongguk’s heart thundered in his chest, and he nodded fervently, his hands tightening on Jimin’s hips. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

With those words, they made their way into the bedroom and both gave in completely. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about any expectations. It was about them finally coming together in the most intimate way, finally giving each other all the love and passion that had been building between them for so long.

Their love was a quiet storm, a tender and intimate dance where they learned each other’s rhythms, each other’s desires. The night unfolded in a haze of soft kisses, heated touches, and whispered confessions, and in the end, as they lay tangled in the sheets, hearts racing and bodies close, Jimin nestled against Jeongguk’s chest.

They talked about everything and nothing—childhood memories, silly moments from practice, their hopes for the future. At some point, the conversation lulled, and Jimin looked up at Jeongguk, his expression soft but serious.

“Can I tell you something?” Jimin asked quietly.

Jeongguk nodded, his fingers gently running through Jimin’s hair and massaging his scalp. “Anything.”

Jimin hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I was scared, too. For a long time.”

Jeongguk frowned slightly. “Of what?”

“Of losing you,” Jimin admitted. “Of ruining what we had… our friendship… by wanting more. But now…” He smiled, his hand resting over Jeongguk’s heart. “Now I know it was worth the risk.”

Jeongguk tightened his hold on Jimin, his voice steady but full of emotion. “It was always worth it. You’re worth everything.”

And as they lay there, their limbs entwined and the world outside the window quiet, Jeongguk whispered, “You’re the only one for me, Min. Always have been, always will be. You’re my home.”

Jimin’s smile was soft and content as he snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to Jeongguk’s chest. “And you’re mine, Guk. Always.”

In that moment, surrounded by the quiet of the night and the warmth of each other’s bodies, they both knew—this love was the kind that would last a lifetime.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The next morning, the sun peeked through the blinds, casting a soft golden light across the room. Jimin was already awake, propped up on his elbow, watching Jeongguk sleep. His heart swelled with affection as he traced the outline of Jeongguk’s face with his eyes. This was everything he’d ever wanted—someone who loved him just as much as he loved them. Someone who saw him, truly saw him, and still wanted him by their side.

Jeongguk stirred and opened his eyes, blinking up at Jimin. His lips curled into a sleepy smile. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.

Jimin smiled back, his heart fluttering. “Good morning, Guk.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on Jeongguk’s lips. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than I’ve ever slept,” Jeongguk whispered, pulling Jimin closer so they were face-to-face. “With you, I feel like I can breathe again.”

Jimin’s smile softened, and his fingers traced the outline of Jeongguk’s jaw. “I feel the same way.”

Jeongguk’s eyes softened as he gazed at Jimin. “I want us to build something, Jimin. Not just tonight, not just this moment. A future. Together.”

Jimin’s heart skipped a beat. “I want that too,” he said softly. “All of it.”

The day passed in quiet comfort. They spent time making breakfast together, laughing over spilled flour and burned jeon. It was simple, domestic, but it was perfect. They spoke about their hopes and dreams—their aspirations in their dancing careers, their desire to improve and grow both as a person and in their relationship. Every word exchanged felt like a promise of what was yet to come.

The vulnerability they had shared the night before had blossomed into something even more beautiful—an understanding, an unspoken commitment to one another. Through the laughter, the tenderness, and the shared moments of intimacy and silence, Jeongguk and Jimin knew that they were in this together, no matter what.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

The days that followed felt like a dream. A gentle rhythm of togetherness that Jeongguk had never known before. They settled into each other's worlds seamlessly, their bond growing deeper with each passing moment.

Jimin’s laughter had become the soundtrack to Jeongguk’s mornings, and Jeongguk’s quiet words of encouragement had become Jimin’s source of strength. They shared every part of themselves, the light and the dark, the joyful and the tender. Every moment with Jimin felt like a gift—a reassurance that love, true love, wasn’t about perfection, but about the connection that held two hearts together.

As the weeks turned into months, Jeongguk and Jimin’s love continued to grow. They supported each other in their careers, stood by each other in moments of doubt, and celebrated every small victory together. Every day, they built something new—trust, laughter, and memories that would last a lifetime.

The dance troupe noticed, of course.

“Look at those two,” Seokjin said one afternoon, lounging against the mirror with a water bottle in hand. He watched as Jimin held out half of his sandwich to Jeongguk, who took a bite without even thinking. “It’s like a cheesy romance drama, but with better choreography.”

“Jealous, hyung?” a dancer beside him quipped, raising an eyebrow and nudging Seokjin with an elbow.

Seokjin scoffed dramatically. “Please. I prefer my drama on screen, not in real life—less risk of heartbreak and shin splints.”

Jeongguk caught the comment and flushed, cheeks tinged pink as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. But Jimin just grinned, utterly unfazed. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing Jeongguk’s, and whispered with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, “They’re just bitter because we’re cuter.”

Jeongguk rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real heat.

“But you love it,” Jimin sing-songed, nudging him again.

Jeongguk didn’t answer—not with words. He just nudged him back, a subtle bump of his shoulder that said more than anything he could’ve voiced. And Jimin's grin widened, triumphant.

Later, as the sun dipped low and cast golden shadows through the high windows, Jeongguk found himself watching Jimin dance from across the room. Not with envy this time, but with quiet awe. The way Jimin moved was still mesmerizing, still otherworldly. But now, instead of feeling distant or unreachable, he felt like something Jeongguk was allowed to admire. To hold.

To love.

And as Jimin glanced back at him mid-spin, catching his eye and smiling like he knew exactly what Jeongguk was thinking, Jeongguk realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy. Really, truly happy.

And he wasn’t afraid of it.

The End.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

Chapter Text

Inspired by: Die With A Smile – Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars

Tags: Dystopia, Post-Apocalyptic, Attempts at Humor, Established Relationship, Garden Caretaker Park Jimin, Engineer Jeon Jeongguk, Vivid Dreams, Banter, Angst, Fear of Loss, Hope, Fluff and Smut, Top Jeon Jeongguk, Bottom Park Jimin, So Much Love, Hopeful Ending

Guest appearances: Kim Namjoon

Words: 11.604

Published: June 25, 2025

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∞

In the year 2650, Earth breathed in silence.

Where once cities clawed at the skies with steel and ambition, now the ruins lay humbled, overgrown with ivy and the stubborn roots of reclamation. Seoul, once a beating heart of civilization, slept beneath the dust and whispers of ghosts. The Cataclysm had come like a storm of judgment two hundred years past—sudden, merciless, and final. Few had survived. Fewer still remembered the world before.

But life, in its quiet defiance, found a way to mend.

Tucked in a cradle of ancient mountains and reborn forest, beyond the reach of the rotting megastructures and poisoned winds, stood the sanctuary—Eos. A place unnamed on any map, where nature and machine spoke in harmony. Here, solar flowers tracked the sun beside humming biodomes, and artificial bees danced over data-pollinated blossoms. The enclave was self-sustaining, self-healing. A whisper of what humanity could have been, and might yet become.

Among its people, two lives twined like vines grown from the same root.

Jimin rose with the light.

He moved through the garden barefoot, his steps soft against the moss-lined path. Dew clung to the hem of his white linen trousers. The scent of mint and crushed leaves lingered where his fingers brushed the green. The biodome’s glass overhead shimmered with soft morning gold, filtered through the mist that curled like dreams not yet dissolved. Jimin paused at the heart-tree—a sprawling specimen of ancient origin, genetically coaxed to yield both fruit and medicine—and pressed his palm to its bark.

“Still warm,” he murmured, the words more for himself than anyone else.

“You’re talking to it again.”

The voice came from behind, amused and low, like thunder in distant hills. Jimin turned without surprise. Jeongguk stood there, leaning lazily against a weathered steel railing, arms crossed, chestnut hair tousled from a sleepless night. The engineer’s toolkit hung at his hip, and his dark eyes shimmered with that strange mix of intensity and quiet affection that had become his signature. He watched Jimin with the kind of gaze that held both amusement and awe.

“It listens better than you do,” Jimin said with a soft smile, his voice no louder than the breeze.

Jeongguk stepped forward, gloved hands tugging gently at the vine winding around a sensor node. “That’s because I argue back.”

“And yet you keep coming.”

“I always come,” Jeongguk said simply. “You know that.”

They stood in the hush of green and glass, where time flowed like water around stones—slow and deliberate. Jimin looked at him, eyes ringed with sleeplessness and some echo of distant fire. He dreamt often, these days. Of metal birds screaming through blue skies, of neon cities and laughter that no longer existed. Faces that had never grown old.

“I saw them again,” Jimin confessed, voice barely audible.

Jeongguk’s hands stilled.

“People I’ve never met,” Jimin said, the words like mist dissolving in the morning light. “Strangers. Their faces… blurred, but full of something. Grief. Hope. All of it.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, listening the way he always did when Jimin spoke of dreams.

“They were standing in the city center,” Jimin continued, voice quiet. “Glass towers rising behind them, cracked and hollow. Neon signs flickering like dying stars. They didn’t speak, just stood there beneath the skybridge, waiting for something that would never come.” He exhaled, the sound brittle. “And no matter how close I got, I couldn’t reach them.”

He gave a hollow laugh, more breath than sound. “Always the same dream.”

Jeongguk didn’t speak, but reached out. His touch was firm and grounding, his calloused fingers brushing Jimin’s wrist. He didn’t say the usual reassurances. That the past was past. That the dead had their peace. That Jimin needed rest. They both knew the words were empty, even if true.

Instead, he said: “The perimeter is holding. The solar banks are at 96%. We’ll have enough to run the hydroponics through winter.”

Jimin leaned into him, forehead resting against Jeongguk’s shoulder. “You talk in numbers when you want to say I’m safe.”

“I say you’re safe by making it true.”

The sanctuary hummed around them, a soft living pulse. Beyond the biodome, the world was still broken. Raiders prowled the wilds. Storms brought acid rain. Nocturnal machines from the old wars stirred in the forgotten corners of the Earth. But here, within Eos, hope lived. Barefoot and calloused. Fragile and fierce.

And it lived, too, in the way Jeongguk watched Jimin when he thought no one saw. In the way Jimin saved the best of the morning harvest to leave at their private quarter’s table for Jeongguk to indulge. In silence shared under ancient trees, and nights spent mapping the constellations of old stories onto new skies.

The world had ended once.

But love—quiet, enduring, undeserved—had not.

∞

The light in Eos was golden that evening, warm as memory. It sifted through the biodome’s curved glass panels, casting dappled shadows across the garden path where moss softened every footfall. The air was crisp and laced with the scent of jasmine, peppered with the low, rhythmic hum of distant machines. Birds, strange but melodious, chirped in scattered harmony. Giant-leafed ferns whispered as the filtered breeze slid through them, and the heart-tree at the center stood tall and still, its silver-veined bark shimmering faintly in the setting sun. It was one of those rare evenings of peace in a world rebuilt from ash.

Jimin crouched beside a fragrant bed of herbs, fingers slender and sure as they glided across dew-speckled leaves. He buried his small hands in the dark soil, palms dirt-streaked and fingers gentle as he coaxed new shoots from the earth. The sleeves of his loose linen tunic were rolled past his elbows, revealing forearms freckled by the sun. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his neck, catching the fading light like dew on petals. His black hair, kissed by sunlight, shimmered like spun gold against the earth’s muted tones. There was a quiet reverence in the way he touched each plant, as if communicating in a language only the garden understood.

Jeongguk approached from the eastern arch, having finished his maintenance rounds near the solar terrace. He wore his usual dark utility vest over a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled, a multitool clipped to his belt. His left hand was gloved in a lightweight exoskin—a thin tech-layered mesh he’d built himself to steady the tremors in his wrist after last winter’s storm accident. It hummed softly as he flexed it.

He crouched beside Jimin, his presence solid and unhurried.

“Are you trying to charm the basil into growing faster, or are you just doing this to make me jealous?” Jeongguk drawled, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

Jimin smirked without looking up. “Why would I waste my energy on stupid things like jealousy? You’re already obsessed with me.” He plucked a leaf and held it up, inspecting it like it held the secrets of the universe. “Besides,” he added, eyes narrowed in mock thoughtfulness, “the basil respects me. Unlike you, who calls every plant a threat.”

Jeongguk grinned, neither denying nor confirming Jimin’s statement.

“They’re sprouting faster this season,” Jeongguk said distractingly, nodding toward the young basil and feverleaf seedlings.

Jimin glanced over, his smile slow and soft. “The soil’s still remembering what it means to be alive.”

There was a silence that wasn’t empty, just full of ease. The kind of silence only long love can hold. The garden’s ambient systems clicked on, subtle and unobtrusive, adjusting humidity levels with a gentle hiss of mist.

“Do you ever think,” Jimin murmured, brushing dirt from his fingertips, “about what it would take to rebuild... not just survive, but truly rebuild humanity?”

Jeongguk settled down beside him, stretching his legs. The edges of his boots were scuffed, his dark eyes tracking Jimin’s movements. “Sometimes,” he said and smiled. “Mostly when you ask me questions like that.”

“I mean it,” Jimin pressed, voice low and thoughtful. “We’ve done so much here. Eos is proof that harmony is possible. But we’re still isolated. Scattered. Just enclaves clinging to old stories. What does rebuilding actually look like? A thousand sanctuaries like this, connected? Or something else entirely? I feel like I am missing people I have never met but they are still a part of the void in my heart. I know… it… it sounds strange.”

Jeongguk was quiet for a beat, the wind stirring his hair. “Rebuilding means more than structures or systems. It’s who we decide to become. If we carry the mistakes forward... or learn from them.”

He looked at Jimin then, really looked. “You already rebuild, every day. In this garden. With the way you care for people in Eos. You bring things back to life.”

Jimin ducked his head, his cheeks blooming with that familiar flush—the one Jeongguk still found himself stunned by after all these years. “That’s just survival.”

“No,” Jeongguk said. “That’s choosing life. And love. And future. That’s harder.”

The words hung between them like ripe fruit, waiting to fall.

“I used to think hope was dangerous,” Jimin admitted, brushing soil from his hands onto his linen pants. “It felt like a trick. Like dreaming of a better world just made it hurt more when you remembered what we lost.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it’s the only thing that makes the loss mean something.”

Jeongguk reached over, his hand sliding into Jimin’s without a word. His grip was firm and grounding.

“We could build a school,” he said suddenly, his voice lighter now, laced with the quiet thrill of imagining. “Not just tech training, but stories, songs, history. Teach the kids how things used to be, at least as far as we know. So they can dream of something better.”

Jimin’s eyes sparkled. “A library, too. With real books. The kind that smell like dust and truth.”

“A wind tower. For energy and for climbing. And I’ll make benches, actual carved ones, so the elders can sit and tell lies about how fast they used to run.”

Jimin laughed, leaning his head onto Jeongguk’s shoulder. “And a greenhouse just for flowers. Not food, not medicine. Just beauty.”

They sat together in the fading light, surrounded by the soft sounds of a world healing: insects whispering through orchids, the hum of solar panels overhead, the hush of wind-blown leaves like pages turning in a forgotten book.

“Maybe that’s how we rebuild,” Jimin whispered. “Not with grand gestures. But like this. One garden. One day. One promise at a time.”

Jeongguk pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Then let’s keep planting.” He stood up again, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. “But you need to stop making me save you from man-eating vines like last month.”

“That ‘man-eating vine’ was a harmless cucumber plant,” Jimin countered smoothly, standing up to meet Jeongguk’s gaze. “And you screamed like it proposed to you.”

Jeongguk’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Lies. Slander. I’m the fearless protector of this sanctuary, remember?”

Jimin raised one pierced eyebrow, his expression mischievous but tinged with something deeper. “Fearless? Gukkie, I’ve seen you flinch at butterflies.”

“That butterfly had knives for wings,” Jeongguk said solemnly, stepping closer until they were just inches apart. His playful tone softened, his eyes scanning the constellation of freckles across Jimin’s face. “And anyway, I only flinch when I think something might hurt you, love.”

The filtered air between them stilled, the weight of his words pressing gently against the playful atmosphere. Jimin tilted his head, his teasing grin faltering into a wistful smile.

“You always say things like that,” Jimin murmured, almost to himself. “Like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

Jeongguk shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way his gaze lingered betrayed him. “Because I am. You’re the only thing holding this place together, Jimin. If you were gone…” He paused, then offered a crooked smile. “Who would keep the basil happy?”

Jimin laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Such a romantic,” he said, rolling his chocolate-brown eyes. But his tone softened as he reached out, brushing his cold fingers against Jeongguk’s forearm, where goosebumps bloomed.

“You’re always so dramatic, Jeongguk. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Jeongguk asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

Jimin hesitated, his smile faltering. “... I wish I could,” he admitted, and the warmth of the evening seemed to falter.

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Jimin took a step away, the distance more emotional than physical. He moved to the garden’s edge, staring beyond the sanctuary walls. There, the remnants of the old world lay in jagged silence—collapsed towers, skeletal cities, all swallowed slowly by creeping green. He sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“I’ve been having these new dreams lately,” he said, so softly the words almost dissolved into the hum of machines. “We’re together, here… but something happens, and I… I have to leave. I don’t know where, or why, but it feels like… like the universe is pulling me somewhere. Away… from you. And it feels… it feels so real, Jeongguk. Like warnings.”

Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He stepped up behind Jimin, his hands hovering for a moment before settling gently on Jimin’s shoulders. “Dreams don’t mean anything, love,” he said firmly, though there was a tremor in his voice. “They’re just… echoes. Flickers. Nothing real. Your brain playing reruns of your fears.”

“Maybe,” Jimin whispered, then turned to face him. His eyes shimmered, filled with something old and deep, something beyond language. “But what if they’re not? What if time’s running out, and we just don’t know it yet? I’m scared…”

Jeongguk cupped Jimin’s face in both hands to meet his gaze, thumbs stroking the curve of his cheeks. “Then let time try. Let fate try. Because I’m not letting you go anywhere without me. Understand?”

Jimin blinked, his lashes damp. A surprised, breathless laugh escaped him. “Jeon Jeongguk… master of melodrama and stubborn declarations,” he teased, though his voice was thick with emotion.

“Damn right,” Jeongguk said, a grin tugging at his lips. “Now stop worrying about dreams and start worrying about what’s for dinner, Mister Park. I’m starving.”

Jimin chuckled, the sound like light catching on glass and the tension easing as he stepped back. “Fine. But you’re cooking. I’m retired from kitchen duty after your last ‘fearless protector’ excuse.”

“Deal,” Jeongguk said, throwing an arm over his shoulder as they turned back toward the sanctuary’s main structure. “But if the rice is burnt, it’s because I was distracted. You know… by your overwhelming beauty.”

“Jeongguk,” Jimin groaned, shoving him playfully, but his grin betrayed him. “If this is how you flirt, no wonder the basil listens to me instead.”

As they disappeared into the brick building, the filtered breeze carried Jimin’s soft laugh and Jeongguk’s deep chuckle, blending into the tranquil sounds of the sanctuary. For a moment, the world felt whole again.

∞

Night in Eos was its own kind of magic. The biodome dimmed to a lavender glow, simulating twilight while the real stars blinked just beyond the dome’s seamless curves. Crickets hummed in the engineered grass, and the artificial creek murmured lazily, winding past sleeping trees.

In the northern wing of the habitat, behind lush privacy screens and sound-dampening moss walls, Jimin and Jeongguk lay tangled in the cotton folds of their shared bed.

Jimin’s head was nestled in the crook of Jeongguk’s arm, his leg slung shamelessly across his partner’s hips, skin warm, breath slow. Jeongguk’s hand traced calm, deliberate circles down Jimin’s back in equal parts reverence and invitation.

“You smell like basil and sunshine,” Jeongguk murmured, voice rough with sleep and mischief.

Jimin smiled against his neck. “I’m a very sensual herb.”

Jeongguk rolled them with practiced ease, settling atop Jimin with a smirk. “I’m going to make you into tea.”

“Oh?” Jimin’s breath hitched as hands slipped beneath his tunic. “Then I hope I steep well—”

BEEP. BEEP. CLICK.

The overhead comms system crackled with its usual total lack of respect for mood or timing.

“All residents of Eos, please report to the central council hall immediately. This is an urgent all-hands meeting. Repeat: mandatory assembly in the council hall. Effective now.”

There was a pause.

“Sorry for the interruption if anyone was… busy.”

That was Namjoon’s voice. Definitely Namjoon. Dry. Awkward. Unapologetically ruining evenings.

A beat.

“Urgent geological update. Get dressed.”

The comm cut.

Jeongguk let out a long groan and collapsed face-first into the pillow beside Jimin. “I swear on the solar grid, if this isn’t about lava directly under our bed, I’m quitting humanity.”

Jimin was laughing too hard to move. “He really said ‘if anyone was busy.’ I feel seen.”

“Violated,” Jeongguk mumbled into the pillow. “I feel erotically betrayed by Namjoon.”

Still chuckling, Jimin rolled out from beneath him and stood, reaching for his pants. “Come on, future humanity needs us. Your genius. My... basil-scented wisdom.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Jeongguk groaned, flopping back dramatically on the bed. “Because that was about to be the hottest night of our life, and now we have to put on pants.”

Jimin burst out laughing. “I know! We were, like, two seconds away from a spiritual experience.”

Jeongguk grabbed his boots with a scowl. “Namjoon didn’t just interrupt us. He personally cock-blocked the entire dome.”

“Right when you started with that voice,” Jimin added, tugging his tunic back on. “You know the one. All low and full of dark promises.”

“Oh, I know,” Jeongguk said, deadpan. “I was in the zone. That was certified seduction mode. And now it’s ruined. Gone. Stolen.”

Jimin winked, slapping Jeongguk lightly on the ass as he passed. “Don’t worry, lover. I’ll be thinking about it all through the meeting.”

Jeongguk sighed as he stood. “If I get another emergency geological update mid-foreplay, I’m deleting the whole Earthwatch system.”

Fifteen minutes later, the couple joined the throng filing into the central council hall—a spacious, dome-roofed structure with seats carved from repurposed stone and bioglass, lit from above by a lattice of moon-glow panels. The air inside buzzed with unease.

Namjoon stood at the central podium, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a datapad in one hand, and tension carved into his brow. He looked like he’d aged five years since yesterday.

When the murmuring died down, he began.

“Twelve hours ago, the Earthwatch sensors along the eastern ridge began transmitting high-pressure fluctuations beneath the crust. At first, we thought it was residual instability. But we just confirmed a pattern.”

He tapped his datapad. A hologram of the landmass below them flickered to life. Beneath Eos, glowing fault lines pulsed red.

“The tectonic plate beneath our region has entered an active shift cycle. In simple terms: the ground is moving. Again.”

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd.

Namjoon went on. “We don’t know when it will escalate, but the simulations are clear. We’re looking at possible quakes, landslides, and long-term instability. Eos isn’t just at risk. It may no longer be sustainable within the next few seasons.”

A heavy silence fell. Then voices broke through like weeds in dry soil.

“So we’re just supposed to leave?” an older woman demanded. “After most of us were born here?”

“We can reinforce the dome, right?” someone else called out. “We have tech, we have people. Let’s make it secure!”

Namjoon raised a hand. “We are considering all options, but the foundation itself is unstable. We must prepare for the possibility of evacuation. That means planning now—not when it's too late.”

Grumbling. Protests. Whispers of panic.

And then, from the third row, a calm, firm voice spoke.

Jeongguk stood. “Then let’s build something that moves.”

All eyes turned. Jimin glanced up at him with a quiet pride already blooming in his chest.

“If we can’t trust the ground,” Jeongguk continued, stepping forward, “then we make the ground irrelevant. We have old shuttle parts stored beneath the hydro wing. Most of them are grounded, but their cores still function. We repurpose. We build transport systems. Modular units—self-sufficient and mobile.”

“You want to turn Eos into a fleet?” someone asked, skeptical.

Jeongguk didn’t blink. “I want us to survive. And stay together. If the land won't hold us, then we go where it can’t reach.”

Namjoon nodded, slow, thoughtful. “You think you can do it?”

“Not alone,” Jeongguk said. “But I’ll train anyone who wants in. Mechanics. Coders. Even gardeners—Jimin already knows half the biopod systems better than I do.”

Jimin flushed modestly as several people turned to look at him.

Murmurs of interest sparked. Curiosity. Hope.

Namjoon exhaled, the weight of leadership momentarily lifting. “Then let’s get to work. We prepare for the worst… and build for something better.”

As the meeting adjourned, and people began discussing plans in earnest, Jeongguk returned to Jimin’s side.

“You okay, love?” he asked softly.

Jimin nodded, slipping his fingers through Jeongguk’s. “That was hot.”

Jeongguk grinned, teasing. “Hotter than our almost-sexy-time?”

“Debatable,” Jimin said. “But you do look good when you’re saving the world.”

They walked out of the hall together, hands clasped, already feeling the future shift beneath their feet—but this time, they would have to move with it.

The news settled over Eos like ash from a long-dead fire.

What had begun as a precaution, a technical discussion, a simulation on Namjoon’s datapad, had hardened into reality within days. The tectonic activity beneath the sanctuary was accelerating. Deep rumbles now echoed through the stone foundations at night, like something ancient stirring beneath the earth. The council had reached consensus.

Eos would have to be abandoned.

And though the decision was made with pragmatism, science, and survival in mind—it still hurt. It ached. Especially for those who had never known another home.

Jimin sat cross-legged on the floor of their quarters, back against the wall, a half-folded blanket in his lap. The room around him looked the same as always, filled with warm wood and artificial light, shelves of plants they’d nurtured together, a chipped mug still resting by the sink. But something was off. Air that once felt sacred now carried the hollow thrum of endings.

Jeongguk stood by the window, eyes fixed on the greenhouses beyond the dome. His jaw was tight, arms folded over his chest, but his posture betrayed him—too still. Like if he moved too suddenly, something inside him might crack open.

Then, softly—Jimin spoke.

“It feels like grieving someone who’s still alive.”

Jeongguk turned his head. His face, always so hard to read when he was hurting, was caught somewhere between defiance and helplessness.

“I keep thinking,” Jimin went on, fingers smoothing the blanket without realizing, “how we used to run through the water channels in the summer. How you used to get in trouble for hacking the dome temperature so we could pretend it was snowing.”

Jeongguk exhaled a short, dry laugh. “Namjoon still brings that up when he’s mad.”

“I hated this place sometimes,” Jimin admitted. “Hated how small it felt. How safe. But now…”

Jeongguk crossed the room slowly and sat beside him, letting their shoulders touch. His voice, when it came, was low and steady. “We were born here. Fell in love with each other here. Every piece of who we are is rooted in this place. Our history. Our… roots.”

Jimin nodded, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, heavy with the weight of love and loss intertwined.

“And now,” Jeongguk added, resting his head back against the wall, “we have to tear up the roots. Carry them with us. Hope they still grow somewhere else.”

Silence stretched between them again. Not empty, but heavy with shared memory.

“I’m so scared,” Jimin whispered.

“I know, love,” Jeongguk said, threading their fingers together. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not needing to.

There was something sacred in the stillness, a quiet goodbye spoken without words. And though the sanctuary they’d known all their lives would soon be left behind, what they carried—the love, the memories, the dream of something new—was unshakable.

For even if the ground beneath them gave way, they were each other’s anchor.

∞

The days blurred, one into the next, beneath a sky that felt less certain than it once had.

Where there had once been the still rhythm of harvest cycles and the quiet hum of life within Eos’s protective dome, now there was urgency in the air, tension beneath the surface like tectonic plates about to slip. The sanctuary, once timeless, had entered its final season. And all its people moved as though the ground beneath them might crack open at any moment.

The council had spoken, and the people had listened. With heavy hearts but determined hands, the enclave had turned its grief into action.

Workshops that once maintained irrigation drones and wind harps were now filled with salvaged metal and stripped shuttle cores from the old world. They worked from dawn until the solar lamps dimmed. Crafting, rebuilding, preparing to leave the only home they had ever known.

And in the center of it all—Jeongguk burned like a second sun.

His hands, oil-streaked and calloused, moved with practiced confidence over half-revived machinery. What others saw as scrap, he saw as promise. He led training sessions with younger citizens, guiding them through the labyrinthine systems of ancient shuttle tech with rare patience, never letting frustration show even when exhaustion carved shadows beneath his eyes.

And still, after everyone else had gone to rest, he would stay.

Tucked in a private corner of the hangar under sheets of solar tarp and flowering vines that had grown unchecked through the ruins, Jeongguk worked on one vessel in particular. A compact shuttle—sleek in design, strong in potential. He hadn’t said it aloud, but everyone knew: this one was for him and Jimin.

He’d named it Hope, scrawled faintly on the inside of the main hatch.

But hope was a weighty thing to carry alone.

Back in the quieter part of Eos, where the gardens still bloomed with the last of the medicinal amaranth and the warm scent of earth clung to the air, Jimin tended to his plants, but his hands often stilled. His thoughts, once so present, drifted more often now. Not in daydreams, but in visions. In dreams that felt too vivid to dismiss.

Each night, sleep pulled him into fragments of a world he had never known. Skies blackened by fire. Cities swallowed by roots and silence. He wandered through ruins, barefoot and searching, surrounded by faces he didn’t recognize—grieving echoes of a world long gone. And always—always—Jeongguk was missing.

Sometimes, Jimin would wake gasping, clutching the space where Jeongguk should’ve been, only to find it cold. The bed empty. The scent of him replaced by machine oil and night air.

At first, he said nothing. He told himself it was just stress. That it would pass once they were safe. But the ache in his chest grew with each dream, with each night Jeongguk returned later and later—shoulders bowed, lips silent, heart walled off behind exhaustion and purpose.

Eos was changing. Cracking open.

And Jimin felt it too: something inside both of them was beginning to shift. Like a fault line slowly awakening.

Elsewhere in the sanctuary, deep beneath the layers of soil and root, Jeongguk moved in a world of steel and sparks. The low, rhythmic hum of machinery pulsed through the underground hangar workshop like a heartbeat—a steady, metallic lullaby that echoed off concrete walls and old steel beams. This was his domain: a sanctum of sweat, silence, and salvaged miracles.

Crates overflowed with repurposed circuitry and forgotten tech, neatly organized in a way that only he could navigate. Diagrams were taped to the walls, some scrawled in haste, others worn soft by constant reference. It was controlled chaos. Chaotic to anyone else, but to Jeongguk, it was the closest thing to order.

At the center of the room stood a half-repaired shuttle, its sleek silhouette gleaming under the flicker of overhead lights. Its design was advanced, far beyond what most survivors could dream of building, and every bolt, every wire threaded into it carried Jeongguk’s signature touch.

He was building more than a machine.

He was building a future. A promise. A way out.

Kneeling beneath the body of the ship, a wrench in one hand and a plasma torch hissing nearby, Jeongguk worked with unwavering intensity. Sparks spat around him, lighting up the smudges of grease across his cheekbones and jaw. Sweat clung to the collar of his linen shirt, his chestnut hair damp and disheveled.

He muttered to himself under his breath, some calculations, pressure ratios and voltage thresholds. His voice the only one he'd heard for hours. Days, maybe. He didn’t keep track anymore.

The clock blinked somewhere behind him. Red, accusatory digits. He hadn’t eaten again. Hadn’t slept right in three nights. His limbs ached in that familiar, dull way they always did when he pushed too far—but he didn't stop. Not when the generators needed recalibration. Not when the outer perimeter sensors were flickering again. Not when Jimin’s greenhouse lights dipped for half a second yesterday. Not when everyone else is depending on him.

Because this was his way of protecting them all. Of protecting Jimin.

Jeongguk wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, smearing grease across already stained skin. His stomach growled, ignored like the blinking light on the fuel panel. He kept going—adjusting, welding, fine-tuning. Every arc of flame and twist of metal a desperate hymn of control. Of purpose.

No one asked him to do this much. Jimin certainly hadn’t. But still, Jeongguk took it all on. Repairs, trainings, defenses, power, provisions. Because he needed to be the one who always had given his everything.

Only hours later, when even the tools grew heavy in his hands and his vision blurred at the edges, would he finally peel himself away from the shuttle. Shoulders slumped, fingers stained with oil, breath quiet beneath the still-running machines.

The sanctuary above was blissfully unaware of the man dragging his oil-slicked fingers along cold railings in the dark.

Everyone else was asleep.

Except, sometimes, Jimin.

And that—more than the sparks or the rusted dreams in motion—was what kept him upright.

“Jeongguk,” came Jimin’s voice from the workshop entrance, smooth and teasing, “you’re starting to look like the brooding protagonist in a dystopian romance novel.”

Jeongguk rolled out from beneath the shuttle, blinking against the overhead glare. Grease streaked across one cheekbone like war paint. His voice was rough from disuse. “Dystopian romance?” he echoed, quirking a tired eyebrow.  “Is this your subtle way of confessing that you can’t resist me?”

Jimin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, dressed in soft layers that made him look more like a dream than a real person. His lips curled into that signature smirk—the one that always unraveled Jeongguk’s carefully wound resolve.

“Oh, absolutely,” Jimin said dryly. “Nothing is more attractive than a man covered in oil and stress.”

Jeongguk grinned and pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on his pants. “You say that now, but wait until I save your life with this beauty.” He gestured at the shuttle.

“Hmm,” Jimin mused, walking closer to inspect the vehicle. “And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse to hide from everyone and brood.”

“Brooding is an important part of my process,” Jeongguk shot back, leaning against the shuttle with a smirk. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too busy charming the plants and scolding me for not eating lunch.”

Jimin tilted his head, his smile softening. “Someone has to take care of you. You’re not as invincible as you think.”

Jeongguk’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. “And someone has to keep this place running until we have to leave for good. I’m not just doing this for fun, you know.”

“I know,” Jimin said, his voice gentler now. “But you’re not a machine, Gukkie. You can’t carry the weight of the entire sanctuary on your shoulders.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping. “Someone has to,” he muttered.

Jimin sighed, stepping closer until they were standing just inches apart. He reached out and brushed a grease-smudge off Jeongguk’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. It didn’t come off. But he lingered anyway. “You’re not alone,” Jimin said softly. “You have me. You have everyone here. You don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

Jeongguk looked up, his eyes meeting Jimin’s. For a moment, his walls cracked, and the exhaustion behind his confident façade was laid bare. “I’m not scared for me,” he admitted. “I’m scared for you, love. For us. If this sanctuary falls apart…”

“We’ll survive,” Jimin interrupted, his voice steady. “We’ve made it this far. And we’ll keep going, together.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Jimin said, his tone sharp now. “But it’s possible. And I refuse to let you burn yourself out trying to save everyone else when you can’t even save yourself.”

Jeongguk blinked, taken aback by Jimin’s sudden intensity. “Jimin—”

“Do you know what my dreams are about recently?” Jimin cut him off, his voice trembling. “It’s not just me leaving. It’s you… pushing yourself so far that I can’t follow you anymore. And it terrifies me, Gukkie. It terrifies me because I can see it happening right now.”

Jeongguk stared at him, speechless. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet purr of the workshop.

Finally, Jeongguk spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop. Because if I stop, it might be too late to finish in time.”

Jimin reached up again, his hands warm and steady as they cupped Jeongguk’s grease-smudged face. His thumbs brushed just beneath Jeongguk’s tired eyes, where shadows clung like stubborn ash.

“Then let me remind you,” Jimin said softly, but with the quiet authority of someone who had seen too many sunrises alone. “You don’t have to save the world all at once, Gukkie. Just save this moment. That’s enough.”

Jeongguk’s breath hitched, a flicker of emotion passing across his face—too fleeting to name, but too honest to hide. For a moment, the air between them stilled, filled with unspoken truths.

Jimin’s voice lowered into something almost coaxing. “Now take a break. I’m not letting you die of exhaustion before you finish this shuttle.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jeongguk’s lips parted like he might argue, might resist, but instead… he leaned forward. Just enough. His forehead met Jimin’s, and for a second, they stood there in the quiet of the workshop, breathing the same breath.

Then Jimin tilted his chin and pressed a kiss to Jeongguk’s lips. Soft, slow, and grounding. It wasn’t desperate or rushed; it was a kiss that said you’re allowed to rest. That said I’m here. I see you. I love you anyway.

Jeongguk responded with a quiet exhale against Jimin’s mouth, his hands finally rising to rest against Jimin’s slender waist as if remembering what comfort felt like. When they pulled apart, it was only by inches.

“You always know how to short-circuit me,” Jeongguk murmured, voice low and hoarse.

Jimin smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jeongguk’s forehead. “That’s because I built the blueprint to your heart, remember?”

“Dangerous knowledge,” Jeongguk whispered, a ghost of a grin touching his lips.

“And I intend to use it,” Jimin replied, taking his hand and giving it a gentle tug. “Come on, Mister Martyr Complex. Follow me.”

And this time, Jeongguk didn’t resist.

The night air was warm against their skin, touched with the scent of damp earth and fragrant flowers. The garden space outside the central dome lay hushed in silver light, cradled by vines and thick, sheltering trees. No footsteps echoed. No lights flickered in the distance. The rest of Eos had long since retreated to sleep.

Here, under stars older than history, they were alone.

Jeongguk let himself be led by the hand, fingers laced with Jimin’s, through the familiar winding paths lined with moonflowers and wind-swept herbs. His body ached with weariness, but the tension began to melt with every step away from metal and machinery. The earth felt softer beneath his feet. The night sky stretched above them like a vast breath held still.

Jimin stopped near the center of the garden, where tall grasses rustled in the artificial breeze and the curved dome of the greenhouse cast soft glimmers of reflected starlight. He turned, placing both hands gently on Jeongguk’s chest.

“You remember,” Jimin murmured, voice curling with mischief as his fingers toyed with the hem of Jeongguk’s shirt, “that night in our quarters… when Namjoon’s announcement ruined everything?”

Jeongguk huffed a laugh, the memory flashing in his eyes like a spark. “Don’t remind me. I was halfway to heaven.”

Jimin leaned in, brushing their noses together, lips just barely grazing. “Well,” he whispered, voice low and coaxing, “the stars are out. No announcements. No alarms. No Namjoon.”

He kissed him then—slow, sure, and purposeful.

Jeongguk didn’t need any convincing. His hands found Jimin’s waist, gripping with familiar heat as he breathed against his lips, “You always know when to finish what we started.”

“And you,” Jimin smiled, gently guiding him down into the soft grass, “always know how to follow my lead.”

Their mouths met again—unhurried, unburdened. It was the kind of kiss that unspooled tension thread by thread, that asked nothing but presence. The kind of kiss that didn't need fixing or rushing, just remembering. Remembering who they were before the weight of the world had pressed so hard on their shoulders.

Jimin's hands slipped into Jeongguk's messy hair, thumb grazing the back of his neck, and Jeongguk exhaled like he hadn't breathed fully in days.

They sank into the tall grass together, wrapped in the fragrance of earth and moonlit petals, slowly shedding their clothes like the last layer between them. The garden, once their playground as boys, had grown into their very own private sanctuary. And tonight, it welcomed them again—not as engineers or caretakers, not as saviors of a crumbling world—but simply as two men who loved each other beyond reason.

They lay skin to skin beneath the stars, touching gently, reverently—laughing softly at nothing, at everything. Jimin traced constellations on Jeongguk’s shoulder with his fingertips. Jeongguk answered with kisses to his pulse, his collarbone, the soft curve of his jaw. There were no grand declarations. They didn’t need them.

Every sigh, every lingering glance, every breath drawn between shared warmth said: I’m here. I’m still yours. Always and forever.

But the quiet didn’t last.

The kisses deepened, like a tide rolling in—cautious at first, then pulling with need. Jimin's laughter faded into a soft gasp as Jeongguk’s mouth claimed his again, more feverishly this time. The gentleness remained, but it was now threaded with something hungrier, something older than language and love burning at the edges.

Jeongguk shifted above him, the moonlight casting silver over the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulder. His hands framed Jimin’s face as if trying to memorize him through touch alone. Then his lips broke away, only to begin a slow descent, tracing reverent paths across Jimin’s jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone, then brushing over his chest.

Jimin arched under the attention, fingers curling in the grass, breath trembling with each press of Jeongguk’s mouth. “Gukkie…” he whispered, voice a breathless plea and a promise all at once.

But Jeongguk didn’t answer, at least not with words. He worshipped with his soft lips and his warm tongue instead, with the way his hands moved over Jimin’s twitching ribs and waist, grounding him in the moment, tethering him to the now. Each kiss was deliberate. Devotional. As if he were making offerings at a sacred altar. Because to Jeongguk, Jimin was nothing less.

“You’re everything, love,” Jeongguk murmured finally against his skin, like a prayer. “Everything I’ve ever needed.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. Not to stop Jeongguk, but to anchor him there. As if afraid the dream would end.

And if the world were ending, if Eos truly had its days numbered—then this was how they would defy it.

Not with noise. Not with fury.

But with this kind of love. Quiet. Fierce. Unshakable.

Their movements slowed again, breath syncing, heartbeats echoing between them in a rhythm older than words. There was no need for urgency—only presence. Only this.

Jeongguk hovered above Jimin, the curve of his face softened by starlight, eyes dark with something unspoken but deeply felt. He searched Jimin’s gaze, as if asking a silent question, one he’d asked a thousand times and never tired of hearing the answer to.

Jimin nodded, his hand rising to cup Jeongguk’s cheek. “I’m yours,” he whispered, with the kind of trust that could only be built through years, through storms weathered side by side. “Always.”

Jeongguk bent down, kissed him tenderly, the fever giving way to reverence. And when they came together fully, it wasn’t with haste or frenzy, but with aching care. Every movement was quiet poetry, every breath drawn between them sacred. The kind of closeness that blurred where one ended and the other began.

They moved like the earth and sky, meant to meet, even if just in that thin sliver of horizon.

Jimin’s hands roamed over Jeongguk’s back, mapping the shape of his spine like he’d done in countless moments before, but tonight… tonight, it felt like the first time all over again. Their bodies knew each other, but more than that… they remembered. They remembered the growing up. The silent looks across dinner tables. The first hesitant kiss behind the solar well. The nights wrapped in blankets, sharing warmth and wonder.

And now this: skin to skin beneath a mourning sky, the garden quiet around them, holding their secrets.

Each of Jeongguk’s hip thrusts and Jimin’s breathy moans were a testament of their devotion. The kind that held through grief, through fear, through decades yet to come. Jimin wrapped his legs around Jeongguk’s waist, drawing him closer, as if trying to fuse their bodies into one—closer, always closer.

Their shared climax was wordless, a slow swell that rose not in urgency, but in deep, spiraling connection—we are here, it said, and we are not leaving each other behind.

After they came down from their high, Jeongguk didn’t pull away. He stayed curled against Jimin, still buried deep inside his body, hand spread protectively across his chest, lips brushing the curve of his shoulder.

Jimin let out a soft sigh, his fingers carding gently through Jeongguk’s damp hair. “That was…”

Jeongguk smiled, his voice thick with warmth. “Everything.”

They lay there in the tall grass long after, not speaking, just listening to the symphony of night insects, the distant hum of machinery, and the pulse of each other’s heartbeats.

No matter what waited beyond the edges of Eos, beyond the trembling fault lines and the fragile hope of escape—they had this.

And this… was real.

They stayed curled together for a while longer, listening to the wind weave through the leaves above them. The stars blinked down like silent witnesses.

“You still tired?” Jimin murmured into the space between them.

Jeongguk chuckled softly, voice low and warm. “Less than before. Wanna go another round?”

Jimin chuckled. “You’re a menace, Mister.”

Jeongguk shifted, resting his forehead against Jimin’s, their noses brushing in the quiet. “I just… don’t want to forget this feeling,” he said softly. “In case things get harder. In case we don’t get many more nights like this.”

Jimin’s fingers traced idle circles over Jeongguk’s back. “Then let’s make this one last,” he whispered. “Long enough to remember when we’re old and stubborn and somewhere far from here.”

A breeze stirred the grass around them, cool against their flushed skin. The garden, silent and sacred, held them like it had since boyhood—its breath rustling through petals and leaves like a lullaby meant only for them.

So they stayed. Just as lovers holding each other beneath a sky that hadn’t yet given up on beauty.

They didn’t need to go back just yet. The garden would keep them safe a little longer.

Their breaths had long since settled, hearts slowed to a quiet rhythm beneath the hush of the stars. The garden around them exhaled with them—petals swaying gently, tall grass curling against their skin, the earth still warm beneath their backs. Jimin rested his head on Jeongguk’s bare chest, eyes half-lidded, lulled by the steady beat beneath his ear.

But Jeongguk’s hand, resting over Jimin’s shoulder, trembled slightly.

Jimin felt it, even before Jeongguk spoke.

“Jimin,” he said, voice barely more than a rasp. “Can I tell you something stupid?”

Jimin tilted his chin up, blinking sleepily. “If it’s about stealing more tools from the west bunker, I already assumed.”

A soft laugh escaped Jeongguk—but it was short-lived. He stared upward, toward the sky, as if afraid the words might come out wrong if he met Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s not that.” A pause. “It’s… sometimes I lie awake thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. The ground giving out before we’re ready. The shuttles failing mid-air. Us getting separated out there.”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He didn’t interrupt.

Jeongguk continued, barely above a whisper now. “But the worst part… the one that really guts me… is the thought of not being able to protect you. Of failing you, when it counts.”

Jimin reached up, gently cupping Jeongguk’s jaw, guiding his gaze downward until their eyes met.

“You haven’t failed me once,” Jimin said, steady and sure. “Not when my mother passed, not when the hydro system collapsed that winter, not when I broke my wrist and you carried me through the ice. You don’t have to protect me from everything, Gukkie. Just be beside me.”

“I’m supposed to be strong.”

“You are,” Jimin said, his voice fierce in its softness. “But strength isn’t carrying the world until your knees break. It’s letting someone else hold it with you.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard, his throat working around emotion. “If something happens to you…”

“It won’t,” Jimin said firmly. Then, softer: “And if it does, then something will have happened to me with you. I’d rather face the worst with your hand in mine than live through safety without it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Of all the years behind them, all the unnamed fears, all the love they had yet to speak aloud. Jeongguk leaned forward, resting his forehead against Jimin’s once again.

“No matter what happens,” he whispered.

“I’ll stay,” Jimin whispered, his voice thick with feeling. “You don’t even have to ask. I’m already yours. I love you… so much. More than words ever get right.”

Jeongguk’s breath caught, his thumb brushing along Jimin’s cheek like a vow. “I love you, Jimin. In this life and every one after. For eternity.”

They stayed like that, entangled in each other and in the night, until the stars began to fade into the earliest shimmer of dawn.

And even then—they didn’t let go.

∞

The earth trembled suddenly and violently beneath their feet, shaking the foundations of Eos. Alarms blared through the air, mixing with panicked voices as the enclave scrambled to evacuate. The once-tranquil haven, with its biodiverse gardens and quiet technology, now felt like a crumbling castle under siege.

Too early and not yet expected.

Jeongguk sprinted through the chaos, his boots pounding against the trembling ground as he scanned the area. His heart was racing—not from the exertion, but from fear.

“Jimin!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony.

No answer.

He cursed under his breath, dodging a falling beam from one of the structures. Dust clouded his vision, but he pushed forward, weaving through the fleeing crowd. His mind was a mess of calculations and raw emotion. The sanctuary was collapsing faster than they had anticipated. The seismic activity had escalated beyond anything they’d planned for.

And Jimin was nowhere in sight.

“Jeongguk!”

The sound of his name pierced through the chaos, and he whipped around to see Namjoon, the enclave leader, waving frantically from a group huddled near the shuttle Jeongguk had repaired. “We need to launch now! Most shuttles are ready, but we can’t wait any longer! The dome is about to crack any minute.”

“I’m not leaving without Jimin!” Jeongguk barked back, his voice resolute.

Namjoon hesitated, torn between urgency and understanding. Finally, he nodded sharply. “Hurry up, you don't have much time left!”

Jeongguk didn’t waste another second. He turned and bolted toward the gardens, his mind replaying their last conversation over and over. Save this moment. Save us.

He wouldn’t lose him. Not now.

He ran like there was no tomorrow with only Jimin in mind, jumping over debris and shattered concrete.

The garden was in ruins much like everything else in Eos, while the ground continued to shake and break.

The carefully cultivated rows of herbs and flowers lay scattered amidst fallen debris, their vibrant colors muted by the thick layer of dust that hung in the air. In the center of it all, Jimin was pinned beneath a massive chunk of a collapsed tree, obviously exhausted from trying in vain to free himself.

“Jimin!” Jeongguk’s voice cracked as he rushed to his side, falling to his knees.

Jimin looked up, his face pale but calm, a faint smile curling his lips. “You’re late,” he quipped, his voice strained but still managing to sound sassy.

“Don’t start with me,” Jeongguk snapped, his hands immediately moving to assess the situation. The wooden debris was heavy, too heavy for one person to lift alone. “Why the hell are you always in the middle of disasters?”

“Because someone has to make you look heroic,” Jimin replied, wincing as Jeongguk tried to shift the tree trunk. “Careful, Gukkie. I need my legs if I’m going to keep bullying you.”

“This isn’t the time for jokes!” Jeongguk growled, though his hands were trembling and his face betrayed his panic.

Jimin’s expression softened, his usual playfulness giving way to something more serious. “Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Look at me.”

Jeongguk froze, his dark eyes locking with Jimin’s.

“You’re going to get out of here,” Jimin continued. “Even if I can’t. The shuttle’s ready, right? You’ll make it. You’ll survive. That’s enough for me.”

“Stop,” Jeongguk interrupted, his voice shaking and first tears making their way over his flush cheeks. “Don’t you dare talk like that.”

“I’m being realistic, Gukkie,” Jimin said calmly, though his voice cracked slightly. “You can’t save everyone. You’ve been trying to carry the world on your shoulders, but you can’t carry me too. And you have to be safe. For me.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving without you, love.”

Jimin sighed, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re so stubborn. It’s one of the things I love most about you. And also the most annoying.”

“Shut up,” Jeongguk muttered, his eyes darting around for something—anything—that could help. His gaze landed on a broken steel beam nearby, and an idea sparked.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said with certainty, standing abruptly.

“Jeongguk, you can’t—”

“Save it,” Jeongguk snapped again, grabbing the beam and wedging it beneath the trunk. He threw his weight against it, gritting his teeth as the metal groaned under the strain. Slowly, agonizingly, the obstacle began to shift.

“Jeongguk, you’re going to hurt yourself!” Jimin shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

“Better me than you!” Jeongguk gritted out, veins bulging as he pushed with everything he had. “You’re not allowed to give up on me, Jimin! Not after everything we’ve been through!”

With a final, desperate heave, the wooden debris shifted enough for Jimin to pull his legs free. Jeongguk immediately dropped the beam and collapsed beside him, panting heavily as the earth relentlessly shook beneath them, cracking open the area nearby.

Jimin stared at him, wide-eyed, before breaking into a laugh. “You’re insane,” he said, his voice shaky.

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome, love,” Jeongguk shot back, rubbing the tears from his cheeks and pulling Jimin to his feet. He winced when he noticed Jimin favoring one leg. “Can you walk?”

“Barely,” Jimin admitted in pain, leaning heavily on Jeongguk as they started toward the shuttle.

“I’ll carry you,” Jeongguk said confidently.

Jimin chuckled despite the situation. “If you carry me, I’m going to make fun of you for the rest of your life.”

“Deal,” Jeongguk said, wrapping an arm around Jimin’s waist to lift him from the ground into his loving arms.

The other shuttles were already powering up when they arrived in the hangar, the engines roaring to life and one starting after the other on their unpredictable journey to leave Eos. Namjoon waved them over, relief flooding his face when he saw them.

"Cutting it close, as always," Namjoon said with a wide grin, his signature dimples deepening as he helped them aboard. He stood tall and composed, the kind of captain who would make sure everyone else got out first before leaving the sinking ship himself.

“Wouldn’t be us if we didn’t,” Jimin quipped, though his voice was weak.

As their shuttle lifted off on autopilot mode following the others, the sanctuary collapsed behind them, swallowed by the earth. Jimin and Jeongguk sat side by side, their hands clasped tightly together.

“See?” Jeongguk said, his voice soft but tinged with quiet triumph. “I told you I wouldn’t let you go, love.”

Jimin turned to him, eyes shimmering. But before he could speak, Jeongguk reached for his hand and whispered, “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. I’d rather face the end with you than live it without you.”

Jimin’s breath caught, the weight of those words pressing gently against his heart. He leaned in, their foreheads touching, eyes closed.

“Then it looks like we’re stuck with each other,” he murmured, lips curling into a small, teary smile.

“Forever,” Jeongguk answered, as the shuttle carried them into the unknown sky.

∞

The shuttle glided through the sky, its hull rattling gently as it broke through the final remnants of ash-filled clouds. Beyond, the world opened up—a strange, shimmering expanse of untouched wilderness, vast and raw under a pale, glowing sun. It was the kind of landscape that seemed pulled from a dream, unspoiled by human hands and alive with a quiet promise of hope.

Inside, the atmosphere was far less serene.

“Jeongguk, if you don’t stop pacing, I swear I’m going to strap you to that chair,” Jimin drawled, reclining lazily against the padded seat of the shuttle. Despite the casual pose, his ankle was tightly bandaged, propped up on a crate. His eyes followed Jeongguk, who had been wearing a groove into the floor with his restless pacing.

Jeongguk shot him a loving glare. “I’m not pacing. I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking and pacing,” Jimin countered, his voice laced with sass. “Multitasking. Look at you, a real renaissance man.”

Jeongguk stopped mid-step, turning to face him. “You’re awfully snarky for someone who almost got left under a huge tree trunk.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “And you’re awfully dramatic for someone who insists he has everything under control.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders tensed, his jaw working as he tried to summon a witty comeback. Instead, he sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair as he sank into the seat across from Jimin. “You know I can’t just relax, right? Not when everything’s still so…” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the unfamiliar landscape stretched endlessly.

“Uncertain?” Jimin finished for him, his tone softening.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk admitted. “I don’t know what’s out there. What if it’s worse than what we left behind?”

Jimin tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. “Do you know what I think is worse?”

Jeongguk leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

Jimin ignored the sarcasm, his voice dipping into something more philosophical. “Worse than the unknown is staying where you are because you’re too afraid to move forward. It’s like refusing to breathe because you’re scared the air might hurt you.”

Jeongguk blinked, caught off guard by the insight. “Okay, that’s… surprisingly profound.”

Jimin smirked. “I have my moments. I can’t let you have all the deep thoughts. It’d ruin the balance of our dynamic.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “The balance of our dynamic? What is this, a rom-com?”

“Not with that attitude,” Jimin shot back, his grin widening.

A chuckle rippled through Jeongguk, and for a brief moment, the weight pressing down on his chest felt a little lighter.

But then Jimin reached out, gently resting a hand on Jeongguk’s arm. The touch was light but deliberate, and it sent a ripple of warmth through Jeongguk.

“You’re not alone in this,” Jimin said softly, his tone free of sarcasm for once. “You’ve never been alone. And you never will be—not as long as I’m here. So… What’s really on your mind?”

Jeongguk stared at him, his chest tightening. The sincerity in Jimin’s eyes was overwhelming, a depth of feeling that Jeongguk sometimes struggled to express but always understood when it came to Jimin.

“Jimin…” he began, his voice faltering.

Before he could finish, Jimin leaned forward, capturing Jeongguk’s lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. The world outside the shuttle faded away as Jeongguk responded instinctively, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Jimin’s neck.

The kiss deepened quickly, their pent-up emotions spilling over. Jimin tugged at Jeongguk’s shirt, his fingers curling against the fabric as he pulled him closer. Jeongguk groaned softly, his hands wandering over Jimin’s waist and hips, careful of his injuries but unable to hold back the urgency building between them.

“Are you sure about this?” Jeongguk whispered against Jimin’s lips, his voice thick with need.

Jimin laughed breathlessly, his eyes sparkling. “Do I look unsure to you?”

That was all the encouragement Jeongguk needed and he instantly got rid of his clothes.

They moved together in a tangle of limbs, their kisses growing more feverish as they let go of the weight they’d been carrying for so long. Jeongguk guided Jimin down onto his already bare lap, his movements deliberate and gentle as he carefully removed Jimin’s underwear and the linen tunic, taking extra care around the bandaged ankle.

“You’re always so careful,” Jimin murmured, his voice laced with both affection and teasing as Jeongguk carefully nipped on one of his stiff nipples.

“Because you’re important, love,” Jeongguk replied simply, his gaze locking with Jimin’s.

The vulnerability in those words sent a shiver down Jimin’s spine. He cupped Jeongguk’s face, his thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “And you’re insufferable,” he said with a teasing smirk before pulling him down for another kiss and sinking slowly onto Jeongguk’s pulsing hardness.

Their connection was electric, every touch igniting sparks that made them forget the chaos and ruins they’d escaped and the uncertainty of the future. It was as if the universe had shrunk to the space they occupied, a cocoon of warmth and desire that made them feel invincible.

Jimin moved with reverence and growing urgency, lips never straying far from Jeongguk’s. It wasn’t just desire—it was devotion written in motion, in sighs and soft gasps, in the way they held each other like a promise.

Later, when their breathing had settled and the night wrapped gently around them, Jimin rested his head on Jeongguk’s shoulder, still nestled comfortably in his lap. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet, steady rhythm of their shuttle and Jeongguk’s heartbeat beneath his ear—strong, grounding, familiar.

“You’re my home,” Jimin whispered, the words soft as a breath, yet full of weight.

Jeongguk tightened his hold on him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “And you’re mine.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, letting the weight of the world melt away. Outside, the strange new landscape stretched on, but inside the shuttle, they had found a sanctuary of their own—one that no apocalypse could ever take away.

Jeongguk’s voice was quiet, hesitant, as his fingers traced slow circles on Jimin’s bare back. “You asked me earlier what was on my mind, love.” Jimin looked up and met his vulnerable gaze. “It’s just… this place we’re heading to, this new enclave… what if we’re not ready for it? What if I’m not ready for it?”

Jimin studied him for a moment before responding. “Do you think anyone ever feels ready for something like this?”

Jeongguk frowned, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know. Maybe not. But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jimin agreed, his tone surprisingly gentle. “But fear isn’t a bad thing, Jeongguk. It means you’re alive. It means you care. And caring? That’s half the battle.”

Jeongguk’s gaze dropped, his fingers stilling as Jimin’s words sank in. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Jimin said, his voice firm. “But you’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got Namjoon and the others. Hell, you’ve even got that annoying little kid who keeps stealing snacks from the supply crates.”

Jeongguk cracked a small smile at that. “Hyeon? He’s relentless.”

“Exactly,” Jimin said, his grin returning. “And if a six-year-old with sticky fingers can survive the apocalypse, I think you’ll be just fine.”

For the first time, Jeongguk let himself relax completely, sinking into the seat as he looked at Jimin. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make everything sound… possible,” Jeongguk said, his voice tinged with admiration.

Jimin shrugged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “It’s a gift. Or maybe it’s just because I know you better than you know yourself.”

Jeongguk wrapped his arms more snugly around Jimin’s waist, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“Adorably annoying,” Jimin corrected, flashing a cheeky grin.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Jeongguk said, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his amusement.

A soft chime echoed through the shuttle, and Namjoon’s voice crackled over the intercom. “We’re approaching a potential landing site. Get ready.”

Jimin’s expression turned serious, though the warmth in his gaze didn’t waver. “Here we go,” he said, his voice steady.

Jeongguk nodded, tightening his arms around Jimin for a brief moment before shifting slightly. “Ready?” he murmured, then gently helped Jimin off his lap and rose to his feet, offering his hand with a steady smile. “Let’s face it together.”

Jimin took his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Always.”

As the shuttle descended and they were dressed again, the view outside shifted to reveal a lush, vibrant valley teeming with life. For the first time in what felt like forever, Jeongguk felt a flicker of genuine hope.

“Our new world… our new… home,” Jimin said, his voice quiet but filled with awe.

Jeongguk glanced at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “As long as you’re in it, I think we’ll be okay, love.”

Jimin smirked, leaning into him slightly as they stood side by side. “You’re finally catching on, Jeongguk.”

The shuttle touched down, and the doors hissed open, letting in the fresh, untainted air of their new world. Together, they stepped into the unknown, ready to build a future as long as they had each other.

∞

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the shuttle’s curved windows, illuminating the cabin with gentle light. Outside, the unfamiliar landscape stretched endlessly, a quilt of vibrant greens, golden grasses, and crystalline streams winding through rocky hills. The air, when the vents finally opened, smelled fresh and alive, untainted by the poisons of the old world.

Jimin stirred first, nestled against Jeongguk’s chest. The steady rhythm of Jeongguk’s heartbeat had become his favorite sound, grounding him in this fragile new reality. He blinked lazily, letting the light wash over him, before glancing up at Jeongguk’s sleeping face.

“You look like an angel,” Jimin murmured with a smirk, though there was no one awake to hear him. “A snoring angel, but still.”

Jeongguk stirred, groaning slightly as his arm instinctively tightened around Jimin. His voice came out rough but amused. “I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do,” Jimin teased, propping himself up on one elbow. “But I guess I can let it slide since you saved my life. Twice, technically.”

Jeongguk cracked one eye open, giving him a sleepy glare. “Twice? Try four times. Don’t forget the time I—”

“—dragged me out of that burning building,” Jimin finished with an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, yes. I’m indebted to you forever, oh noble hero.”

Jeongguk smirked, brushing a strand of hair from Jimin’s face. “Forever, huh? I like the sound of that.”

Jimin stilled, the weight of Jeongguk’s words sinking deep. Sentimentality had never come easily to Jeongguk—and even now, when it surfaced more often than it used to, it still hit Jimin like a live-prolonging rush through his veins.

“Forever,” Jimin echoed softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Jeongguk’s lips.

By mid-morning, the two stood outside, shoulder to shoulder with Namjoon and the rest of their fellow survivors. For the first time in their lives, they were beyond the glass dome of Eos—beyond the only world they had ever known.

The wilderness stretched out before them, untamed and vibrant, teeming with colors and sounds they had only seen on ancient recordings. The air—unfiltered, wild, real—filled their lungs with a kind of clarity that made Jimin’s eyes sting. A strange bird with iridescent feathers darted between trees, its cry echoing like laughter. Hyeon, the youngest among them, took off in delighted pursuit, his giggles ringing through the morning like wind chimes.

“It’s beautiful,” Jimin whispered, awestruck, his voice barely rising above the rustling leaves.

Jeongguk nodded slowly, though his gaze was wary. “Beautiful... but unpredictable. We don’t know what’s waiting out there.”

Namjoon stepped forward, adjusting the strap of his pack as he looked to the horizon. “Then we’ll learn,” he said calmly. “Together. This is more than survival, it’s a beginning. For us. For everyone who comes after.”

Jeongguk exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I get that. I do. But where do we even start? Shelter? Food? Security?”

Jimin turned to him, eyes still wide with wonder, but his voice steady. “Gukkie, we’ll figure it out. Just... breathe it in. The sky, the air—it’s all real. We made it.”

Jeongguk met his gaze, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “And if we fail?”

“Then we try again,” Jimin said simply. “Because that’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done.”

Namjoon clapped a hand on Jeongguk’s shoulder, his smile reassuring. “He’s right. We have everything we need to start over. And the best part is, we get to choose what kind of world we want to build.”

Jeongguk exhaled slowly, his tension finally giving way to determination. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Later that evening, after a day of exploring and mapping the nearby terrain, the group gathered around a makeshift fire. The air was cool, but the warmth of the flames and the quiet camaraderie made it bearable.

Jeongguk stood, glancing around at the others before his eyes landed on Jimin. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “If we’re going to start over, we should mark it somehow. Something to remind us of what we’re building here—and why.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Got something in mind, Mister Philosopher?”

Jeongguk’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Yeah. I was thinking… we plant something. A tree, maybe. Something that’ll grow with us. Like our heart-tree back at home.”

The group murmured their agreement, and Namjoon nodded. “A symbol of hope. I like it.”

Jimin stood, brushing dirt from his pants as he walked over to Jeongguk. “A tree, huh? That’s very poetic of you, Gukkie. I’m impressed.”

Jeongguk shrugged, his cheeks tinting pink. “Well, I do also have my moments.”

The group worked into the night, carefully planting a young sapling near the edge of their camp. The moonlight bathed the scene in a silvery glow, and as the last handful of soil was patted down, Jeongguk and Jimin stood back to admire their work.

“It’s small now,” Jimin said, his voice thoughtful. “But it’ll grow. Just like us.”

Jeongguk wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “We’ll make sure of it.”

They stood there in silence, watching the sapling sway gently in the unfiltered breeze. The world around them was vast and uncertain, but for the first time, it didn’t feel so overwhelming. Together, they had faced the end of everything—and now, they were ready to build something new.

The first sunrise of their new world painted the sky in hues of gold and pink, casting its light over the sapling and the two figures standing beside it.

“Welcome to the future,” Jimin whispered, leaning into Jeongguk.

Jeongguk smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And what a future it’s going to be.”

The End.

∞

Chapter Text

Inspired by: Closer – Nine Inch Nails

Tags: Omegaverse, ABO, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Defiance, Jimin is a Menace, Jeongguk can handle him, Sexual Explicit Content, First Time, Jimin in Heat, Body Worship, Alpha Top JK, Omega Bottom JM, Happy Ending

Guest appearances: Jung Hoseok

Words: 12.470

Published: July 07, 2025

Animals

Α Ω

The Buk-gu estate was all clean lines, rich wood, and sharp corners. A modern sanctuary polishecaud with old money and Alpha pride. The scent of territory was thick in the air: assertive, clean, peppered with cedar, clove and sharp musk, all layered over cold dominance. It was designed to make lesser wolves feel small.

Jimin hated it on principle. After all he had never done small.

Which is why he made sure everyone saw him when he walked in like he owned the place.

Late, of course. Fashionably, obscenely so. The reception hall had already quieted for the main toast when the doors opened again with a dramatic click. Heads turned. Murmurs rippled.

“That’s… Park Jimin of Nam-gu, isn’t it?”
“They sent him? No, Nam-gu wouldn’t risk it… Surely not…”
“Blue-grey. Gods, I’ve never seen it in person.”

He didn’t belong here. Not technically. The inter-pack treaty celebration was by invitation only, a diplomatic event for high-ranking Alphas and their carefully chosen Seconds. Jimin had neither rank nor invitation. But he had something better.

A name. A reputation. A body like a well-forged weapon. And no shame.

“He’s looking for trouble again.”
“How dare he not be scent-blocked…”

Jimin smiled like he heard every word and found it amusing. He stepped into the reception hall as if he were royalty, sapphire-blue silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to be a scandal, silver jewelry glinting against his sun-warmed skin. He knew everyone was staring at him. He basked in it. All those different pack members murmured, nostrils flaring. A few Alphas looked like they were calculating whether they should escort him out or get on their knees.

Jimin chuckled sweetly and kept walking. He moved like temptation with teeth—hips loose, smirk lazy, each step deliberate. And behind his scent, fresh and spiced with faint heat, lurked something unmistakable:

Defiance.

Whispers chased him as he strolled through the crowd.

His eyes were scanning the room, hunting one scent in particular. And when he found it, his chest tightened despite himself.

Jeon Jeongguk.

The Alpha’s scent was unmistakable. Dark cedar, black tea and something electric underneath, like ozone before a summer storm. Stronger now than when they were younger. Tighter. More controlled. But it still made something in Jimin’s stomach curl, annoyed and intrigued.

At the center of the hall, dressed in black and steel-gray, the Head Alpha of Buk-gu stood like a storm held barely in check. Broad-shouldered, magnetic, carved from composure. He was mid-conversation with a regional Elder when Jimin’s scent reached him—sharp and deliberate, like a gauntlet thrown.

Jeongguk stilled.

His head turned. His voice stopped. Their eyes locked across the crowd.

And the room seemed to hush, instinct thrumming low through the walls like a held breath.

Years collapsed in a heartbeat.

Jeongguk was taller now, his frame filled out with quiet strength, his jawline drawn in clean, decisive lines. Gone was the softness Jimin remembered. But his eyes—those impossibly round, ink-dark eyes—hadn’t changed. They still held that unnerving calm. That knowing. That pull.

They hadn’t spoken since their teens. Not really. But Jimin remembered the last time with perfect clarity—the heat of it, the shame.

Jeongguk had stepped in during a scuffle with older Alphas, trying to rescue him.

As if he needed rescuing.

The humiliation had seared through him like wildfire. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he bit Jeongguk in his left upper arm—deep and punishing. Anger had driven it, instinct had sealed it.

He’d lost a fang. One that grew back over the years that followed.

Jeongguk had bled down his arm, jaw tight. But he said nothing. Didn’t retaliate. Didn’t flinch. And he never brought it up again.

Not once.

But now, that same boy stood as an Alpha with more power than most packs could dream of. The flawless Jeon heir turned leader. Jimin hated the way his name stirred through the city. Reverence. Obsession. Desire.

He wanted to see if the crown fit or if Jeongguk was just a pretty figurehead playing pretend.

So he came to find out. Dressed like bait. Smelling like trouble.

Jeongguk’s expression didn’t change. But his pupils dilated, just barely, his nostrils flared.

Jimin grinned and cut a path straight toward him.

“Jeon Jeongguk,” he said sweetly, voice carrying just enough to draw attention. “Didn’t expect Buk-gu’s golden boy to start hosting such boring parties.”

The Elder raised a brow. Jeongguk gave the faintest nod of respect before dismissing him.

“Park Jimin,” Jeongguk said, his voice low and unreadable. “Didn’t expect Nam-gu to send an Omega envoy.”

Jimin let out a breathy laugh and tilted his head. “They didn’t,” Jimin said, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt. “I came because I was bored. And because I heard the puppy leader of Buk-gu was playing house with the other big dogs. Thought I’d see it for myself.”

The tension in the room snapped taut. A dozen Alphas stiffened. Someone choked on their drink.

Jeongguk didn’t blink. “This is a private gathering. Entry is by invitation only.”

“Then consider me a gift.” Jimin’s smile sharpened. “Or a dare.”

Jeongguk’s jaw ticked, but his voice remained even. “Uninvited guests are... usually removed.”

“Then remove me,” Jimin whispered, just loud enough for the nearby Alphas to hear. He stepped into Jeongguk’s space, almost touching. “Go on, Alpha. Show them how you keep order.”

A dangerous silence dropped between them like a blade. Jeongguk didn’t move, didn’t touch him, but his eyes pinned Jimin in place with enough weight to make lesser wolves drop to their knees.

Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice a velvet threat.

“I see some Omegas grow bold when they’ve been spoiled too long.”

Jimin smiled, too sharp to be pretty. “I see some Alphas still mistake curiosity for submission.”

For a second, Jimin swore he saw it. The flicker of heat behind Jeongguk’s gaze. Want. Hunger. Control fraying. And then Jeongguk’s scent changed. Subtly, like a wire drawn taut. Thunder behind the clouds.

Jimin’s heart kicked. It was working.

He turned and wandered off before Jeongguk could speak again. Not out of fear, but because he wanted to be chased.

Α Ω

It was well past midnight when Jeongguk found him again.

The reception had thinned out. Polite Alphas had left. The rest were deep in Champagne and politics. But Jimin was outside, alone in the estate’s private garden, leaning against the carved stone railing with a half-empty crystal decanter dangling from one ring-clad hand, the other resting lazily on the curve of his hip. The garden was quiet now, the distant hum of celebration muffled by walls of manicured hedges and sharp stone archways. It was a place for privacy. Intimacy. And Jimin was soaking in it like honey.

The moon turned his toned skin silver. His lithe legs were wrapped in tight black trousers that clung like a second skin, just barely decent beneath the silk drape of his shirt, and his scent curled through the hedges like a snare. Eyes half-lidded, he was all sin and spoiled charm, drinking in the crisp night like he owned it.

Jeongguk’s shadow fell across him. “That Whiskey isn’t yours.”

“I figured you owed me a drink,” Jimin said lazily. “For making your party interesting.”

Jeongguk stepped forward, slow and silent.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said calmly.

Jimin took a sip straight from the decanter. “You keep saying that, but here I am. Funny how that works.”

Jeongguk stared at him. The scent of the Omega’s rising heat was faint but still present, masked by his unblocked scent, but he could smell the truth beneath it. Wild and teasing. Dangerous.

“Why are you really here, Jimin?” Jeongguk asked almost too politely, stepping into the dim moonlight with narrowed eyes. His voice was quieter now.

Jimin tilted his head. “I was wondering when you'd come find me, puppy leader,” he said sweetly, swirling the Whiskey in the decanter. “You left your party unguarded. Tsk.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re trespassing,” Jeongguk’s voice came from nearby. Low. Controlled. Almost soft. “Again.”

“Mm.” Jimin took a slow sip. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just decorating the place.”

Another pause. The kind that stretched.

Jeongguk stepped further toward Jimin. Not rushing, not looming, simply… arriving. Like the inevitable.

Jimin looked him over in the moonlight. Too handsome. Too composed. The thick cords of his throat flexed as he watched Jimin, jaw clenched, hands loose at his sides like he didn’t want to touch, but could, at any moment.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t touching.

Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. His scent coiled in the air, almost suffocating. Controlled, yes, but also tense. Tightly wound.

“Don’t mistake patience for weakness, Omega.”

“Don’t mistake boredom for obedience, Alpha,” Jimin shot back, stepping forward, too close again. “I’m not here to play nice.”

“You think I’ll snap for you?” Jeongguk murmured, voice low enough to curl into Jimin’s ear like static heat. The kind that prickled down his spine and left goosebumps in its wake. “You think I haven’t seen a thousand pretty things try?”

“No,” Jimin said. “But I’m the one you remember. And we both know it.”

A long pause.

“I really should throw you out,” Jeongguk said, stepping even closer, voice flat. “Mark you as a trespasser. Show you what respect means.”

Jimin swallowed hard but didn’t move.

“I dare you.”

Jeongguk moved before he knew it.

One arm braced beside Jimin’s waist on the stone railing, the other catching his wrist, decanter and all. Not tight. Not rough. But dominant. Just enough to tell Jimin’s body: you’re mine now, if I want you to be. Jeongguk’s scent flooded the garden like a stormfront, curling around Jimin’s throat like a collar.

Jimin’s breath stuttered, his heart kicked. Not with fear. He didn’t do fear. It was something darker, hotter.

“You want to act like prey?” Jeongguk said, voice barely a growl. “Want me to treat you like it? To show you what it means to be hunted?”

Jimin shivered and hated himself for it.

Because this wasn’t some wild thing trying to rut him into a corner. This was worse. This was worse because Jeongguk wasn’t out of control.

He was in it.

Every inch of him was restraint. Power. Patience forged into something hungrier than instinct.

Jimin’s smirk faltered for half a heartbeat. But he didn’t pull away.

“You’d let me violate you?” Jeongguk murmured, scenting close to his neck. Not touching, but close enough that Jimin felt heat burst beneath his skin. “You’d let me desecrate you?”

His words weren’t a threat. They were a vow. A challenge to the mask Jimin wore so flawlessly. The smug invulnerability, the false sense of control. He was tearing through it, not with claws… but with hunger and the sheer weight of being wanted.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” Jeongguk whispered. “Or do you finally want someone to see you beneath the silk and arrogance?”

Jimin swallowed, lips parting.

The crystal decanter slipped from his hand, shattering against the stone path, the rich amber liquid spilling and staining the ground.

Neither of them looked away.

“You think you scare me?” Jimin asked, voice light but sharp. “I’ve had better Alphas beg for a touch.”

Jeongguk’s expression didn’t change, but his pupils dilated—just a flash. He leaned forward until there was barely a breath between them. Still didn’t touch. Still didn’t bite.

“Begging,” Jeongguk murmured, “doesn’t make them better.”

“Oh?” Jimin tilted his chin. “What does?”

Jeongguk's eyes dropped to his lips. “Stillness.”

Jimin’s breath caught.

“I’ve seen you move through every room like fire, Park Jimin,” the Alpha said, voice now a whisper that curled around the edges of things. “What I want is to see what happens when I take that fire in my hands… and hold it still.”

Jimin hated that his throat tightened.

“I came here to see if you’d crack,” he said, more defiant now, voice sharper. “To see if the golden Alpha was just another brute with better manners.”

“You thought I’d break,” Jeongguk said, stepping closer, so close now that his breath touched Jimin’s cheek. His hand slid from the railing to cup beneath Jimin’s jaw, lifting his face with a touch both gentle and precise, as if handling something sacred. Or dangerously volatile. “But you never considered what it would feel like to bend.”

Jeongguk didn’t kiss him. Didn’t bare his teeth.

Instead, he leaned in further, his scent crashing over Jimin like thunder through silk.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Omega,” Jeongguk whispered, voice low and steady, eyes locked on his. “I haven’t laid a hand on you until now, not because I couldn’t, but because I chose not to.”

Jimin's pulse pounded in his throat. “And what if I want you to?”

Jeongguk’s grip on his jaw tightened, just barely. “Then ask.”

“No,” Jimin hissed.

“Of course not,” Jeongguk whispered back, smile ghosting across his lips. “Because you’re afraid I’ll ruin you the moment you do.”

Jimin bared his teeth. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Jeongguk said, and then… his thumb grazed Jimin’s lower lip.

Still not a kiss. Not even a promise of one.

Just the echo of a warning.

And then Jeongguk let go of his jaw and wrist and made a step backwards.

Jimin stood there in the silence, trembling with something that wasn’t fear and wasn’t rage, but tasted too much like want to be safe.

The perfect Alpha hadn’t cracked and gave in to his primal desires. Yet.

He’d only started tightening the leash.

And Jimin had never felt so exposed.

The garden behind the Buk-gu estate was bathed in cold moonlight, shadows long and stretching like claws through the sculpted hedges and stone paths. The quiet made every breath louder, every heartbeat heavier. And between them, the air was vibrating.

Jimin stood still, chin high, refusing to be the first to look away. Standing his ground.

Jeongguk’s eyes dragged over him. Slow, deliberate, unflinching. Not the way most Alphas looked at him, all lust and eager fantasy. This was different. Jeongguk wasn’t admiring. He was measuring. Like a wolf deciding whether to devour or dismantle.

“You’ve always been like this,” he said finally. “A beautiful little fire looking for gasoline.”

Jimin let out a quiet, almost taunting laugh as he stepped toward the stone fountain, turning just enough to offer his back, the line of his spine proud and deliberate. “And you’ve always been waiting for someone to burn you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to meet Jeongguk’s gaze.

That struck something. Jeongguk’s eyes narrowed, the faintest crack in his composure flaring to the surface.

“I’m not afraid of you, Alpha,” Jimin said again, steady and defiant, his fingers gliding along the cool stone rim of the fountain. His voice dipped lower, thick with challenge. “Not your title. Not your temper. And definitely not your rules.”

Jeongguk’s growl rumbled low in his chest, darker this time. “You certainly should be, Omega.”

Jimin tilted his head back, baring the vulnerable line of his throat like an offering—or a dare. His smile was wicked. “Then make me.”

Jeongguk moved. Swift, silent, unstoppable. One second of stillness, and then he was on him.

He didn’t touch him this time. He caged him. Arms braced on either side of the fountain, body crowding in on Jimin’s backside, heat and scent pressing like a promise. His lips were close enough to brush against Jimin’s scent gland, but they didn’t.

The garden fell away. Jimin couldn’t hear anything but the wild drumming of his pulse and Jeongguk’s low, controlled voice.

“You come into my home,” Jeongguk said, voice calm like a blade’s edge, “reeking of heat and arrogance, wearing that—” his gaze raked down, “—and you think I won’t bite?”

“I want you to,” Jimin whispered. “That’s the point.”

Jeongguk growled—quiet, guttural, deep in his chest. His restraint was stunning, terrifying. Like standing in the eye of a storm.

“I could ruin you,” Jeongguk murmured, his lips ghosting over the shell of Jimin’s ear. “Right here. No audience. Just you, on your knees. Finally learning what respect tastes like.”

Jimin’s breath hitched.

But his voice stayed steady. “Then what?” he asked, lashes low, words like velvet and steel. “You get me out of your system? Or fall harder for the Omega who still won’t roll over?”

Jeongguk stilled. Just for a second. But Jimin felt it.

There. That was the nerve.

Jimin’s smile curled slow and dangerous. “You remember when I bit you as a kid? You bled. I didn’t apologize then either.”

“Oh, I remember,” Jeongguk said. And then his fingers slid into Jimin’s soft blue-grey hair. Not to pull. Just to hold. Firm. Unmistakable.

“But I didn’t bleed because of the bite,” he whispered against Jimin’s skin. “I bled because I let you win. I let you believe you were untouchable. Above being claimed.”

The words dropped like thunder. Jimin’s stomach twisted, heat rising unbidden beneath his skin.

His next breath was shaky. “And now?”

Jeongguk’s mouth hovered just above his own, too close to ignore, too careful to touch.

“Now,” Jeongguk said slowly, “I know exactly how to claim you… without ever leaving a mark.”

He pulled back then, slowly, deliberately, dragging his fingers from Jimin’s hair like a parting vow. Like a man satisfied with how far the knife had gone in. Every inch of him was calm, controlled, cruel in how gently he left Jimin undone.

Jimin blinked, heart thundering, hands gripping the cold stone of the fountain in front of him.

Jeongguk didn’t look back as he turned and walked away.

But his scent clung to Jimin’s skin like smoke. Like memory. Like promise.

And for the first time in years, Jimin didn’t feel in control.

Α Ω

Jimin had always known Jeon Jeongguk would wear power like a second skin.

Even as teenagers growing up in opposite corners of Busan, they’d been aware of each other. Not close, but orbiting the same sun. Jeongguk had been the golden Alpha-in-training of Buk-gu: stoic, gifted, already marked by elders as the pack’s future leader.

Jimin had always been the dazzling, untouchable Omega of Nam-gu. Constantly seen, impossible to forget. His blue-grey hair wasn’t a statement; it was legacy. That shade, rare and near-mythic among Omegas, marked him as one of exceptional lineage and elite genetics, born once in a generation. He was adored, envied, and utterly unwilling to kneel.

Their worlds were different, but their presence always seemed to brush—tense, electric, unspoken.

There’d been moments, of course. Ones neither of them ever spoke of. Like the time a group of older Alphas cornered teenager Jimin over a territory squabble. He hadn’t needed help—or so he told himself—but Jeongguk had stepped in anyway. Calm, collected, infuriatingly composed.

Jimin’s response had been instinctive and vicious: he bit him, hard. It wasn’t about violence. It was about pride. About sending a message.

I don’t need your protection, Alpha.

Jeongguk had never retaliated. He hadn’t even flinched. Just looked at him with something unreadable. And walked away.

Years passed. And while Jeongguk rose quietly through the ranks—ascending to Head Alpha of Buk-gu, praised for his discipline, strength, and near-unnerving calm—Jimin remained in his gilded cage. Pampered. Admired. Stifled.

Nam-gu never truly saw him. They spoiled him with silk, fine wines and lavish attention. But it was always under the assumption that he’d behave. That their beautiful, fiery Omega would play the role assigned. Safe. Compliant. Pleasant. They never respected him, only contained him with affection and control.

Jimin was born into Nam-gu’s highest caste as an Omega of rare and coveted lineage. His blue-grey hair alone marked him as genetically exceptional, a trait whispered about in elite circles and envied across territories. When his secondary gender presented, the pack didn’t see a boy; they saw a symbol. A radiant emblem of Nam-gu’s prestige and power.

From the start, he was everything an Alpha-led society revered: exquisitely beautiful, intoxicatingly scented, dangerously clever. He was adored by the public, paraded like a trophy, and praised for every graceful bow and sharp remark. But admiration came with a price.

Because in a culture built on appearances, obedience, and controlled strength, an Omega like Jimin—bold, outspoken, disobedient—was not just inconvenient. He was dangerous.

So they dulled the edges.

They showered him in indulgence to contain him: private tutors, designer clothes, rare wines, imported silks. He lived in luxury, but it was a velvet cage. He wasn’t allowed to train. He was never given a voice in pack councils. Every outing beyond Nam-gu territory came with a chaperone and a warning.

They told him he was cherished. What they meant was: stay still, shine pretty, don’t make noise.

He was a prize. A political asset. A soft weapon dressed in silk. To let him be wild would threaten the very hierarchy that kept them in power.

They didn’t want to protect him.
They wanted to possess him.

And Jimin was bored. Deeply, dangerously restless. And far too clever to stay caged for long.

His pack fed him silk, praise, and rare vintages like offerings to a shrine, but never freedom, never purpose. He was too clever to be kept, too wild to be tamed, and the gilded affection they wrapped around him was just another kind of leash.

So when Jeon Jeongguk’s name began to swirl through Busan again—spoken with reverence in council chambers, panted in Omega salons about him courting potential mates, whispered like a prophecy in every territory—something in Jimin tightened.

Not jealousy. Not exactly. It was older than that. Older than their packs, older than memory.

He remembered Jeongguk as a teenager. A prodigy Alpha already bearing the weight of his future title, eyes too calm for someone that young. He remembered the day Jeongguk stepped between him and a group of circling Alphas, all fangs and ranks, as if Jimin needed saving. He remembered biting him, proud and furious and humiliated, even losing a fang through his rage.

But Jeongguk hadn’t looked at him with pity. Or with anger. Not even then.

Now Busan bowed at his feet. Admired him. Wanted him. Omegas cooed about his scent, Alphas tracked his rise like a coming eruption.

And Jimin needed to know.
Was Jeongguk still that calm boy with too much promise in his shoulders? Or had he become something worse—something worthy?

He wanted to know if that boy had changed. If the Alpha Busan praised so highly had earned the title. Or if he was just another wolf waiting to be provoked.

So Jimin crashed the treaty celebration. Uninvited, unapologetic, and dressed to provoke.

Not out of rebellion.

But to find out what it would take to make the perfect Alpha fall apart.

Because he could.

He smiled as he entered the Buk-gu estate, knowing full well the stares he drew. And when he found Jeongguk in the center of the hall he made a performance of it.

He called him puppy leader to his face. Mocked his title. Flirted like it was warfare. Every gesture, every word, calculated to test the Alpha’s control.

And Jeongguk had watched. Silent, stone-faced, with pupils too dark to be calm.

Later that night, Jimin made himself comfortable in the moonlit garden. Barefoot in the grass, expensive liquor in hand, attention wrapped around him like a second coat.

That’s where Jeongguk found him.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. He didn’t even raise his voice.

He approached.

The air between them turned to wire. Sharp and tight, thrumming with something unspoken. Jimin, ever fearless, only pushed harder. “Then make me.”

That’s when Jeongguk snapped entirely.

Not in fury. Not with violence. But with precision. He moved fast, pinning Jimin in place, breath hot against his ear, scent pressing down like dominance itself. He didn’t touch where he wasn’t allowed. He didn’t take. But he showed.

Showed what it meant to be an Alpha.

What it meant to challenge one.

Jeongguk had murmured low, the words sliding like silk over a blade: If Jimin wanted to act like prey, he’d be treated like it.

And Jimin—used to winning, to holding the upper hand—felt something crumble inside himself. Not fear. Something worse. Anticipation.

He’d gone there to rattle Jeongguk’s composure.

Instead, it was his own mask that started to slip.

Α Ω

It began the third morning after the inter-pack gathering.

Jimin woke in his own bed, swathed in silk sheets that still held the chill of night air. Pale morning light filtered through the high windows of his Nam-gu apartment, casting soft glints across the polished floors. He lay still, the rhythm of his heart far too quick for someone who had supposedly walked away triumphant.

He told himself he’d won. That he’d gotten under Jeon Jeongguk’s skin.
The tension in that garden had cracked like thunder. Jeongguk’s scent curling hot and sharp in the dark, their words sparking like flint and steel. For one suspended moment, Jimin had felt it: the young Alpha faltering, leaning toward something primal.

But then... nothing.

No scandal. No retaliation. No message.
Only silence.

And it left him feeling unexpectedly hollow. Restless. Like a match that hadn’t quite caught flame.

Then came the first gift.

A sleek black box, delivered by a silent Buk-gu courier. Inside: a single-necked bottle of vintage plum wine, older than Jimin, and a velvet pouch containing a silver bracelet. Simple. Elegant. Inscribed on the inside: Nameless, not unseen.

He laughed, sharp and bitter. Was this supposed to impress him? Rattle him? No note, no claim. Just scent. Jeongguk’s. Faint, controlled. Marking it all like an Alpha laying territory.

Jimin didn’t wear the bracelet. But he didn’t return it either.

A few days passed.

The second delivery arrived wrapped in matte navy paper. Books. First editions. The exact three titles Jimin had told an older cousin he adored when he was sixteen, years ago, in a conversation held in secret under summer trees. Titles no one else would remember. One had a dried petal still tucked between the pages.

Jimin stared at them for hours.

He didn’t mention it to his pack. Couldn’t. The Nam-gu elders were already murmuring. Jeongguk’s name came up more and more, in more reverent tones. Even the Alphas who once scoffed at the Buk-gu prodigy now spoke of alliances. Mating prospects. Influence.

And then Jeongguk came.

No warning. No formal message. Just a quiet ripple of tension one evening as Jimin returned to the Nam-gu estate from a stroll around the beach and found a foreign car parked in the courtyard. Jeongguk stood near the threshold, speaking calmly with Jimin’s uncle, an elder advisor. The Nam-gu wolves were tense, postures rigid. Jimin could smell it in the air—confusion, unease, wariness disguised as hospitality.

But Jeongguk? He looked calm. Dressed in black slacks and a pale gray tunic that only made his presence more unsettlingly graceful. He didn’t seek Jimin out. Didn’t look at him.

Which made Jimin burn.

He was pacing his apartment that night, restlessly. Seething. Jeongguk had crossed territorial lines. Worn his scent like armor. Walked into Nam-gu’s heart and unmade him by doing nothing at all.

That was the worst part.

No threats. No demands. Just gifts, scent, and silence.

It drove Jimin mad. Because it worked.

By the end of the second week, Jimin could barely sleep. His skin was too hot. His nest too soft. His world too quiet.

And Jeongguk—that maddening Alpha—had taken root in his mind like a splinter. Not for what he’d done. But for what he wouldn’t do.

He wouldn’t chase. He wouldn’t bend. He wouldn’t just take.

He was treating Jimin like prey already caught. No need to run it down.

And worse than anything—Jimin was starting to wonder what would happen if he let himself be caught.

Jimin cracked on the thirteen’s night.

The moon hung low, swollen and golden above Nam-gu’s stone terraces. Heat had settled in his body like a curse—early, thick, and cloying. The Omega in him clawed at his skin, furious at being ignored. At not being claimed.

But Jimin wasn’t some trembling little thing. He was sharp, practiced defiance. So he stood alone on the balcony in a silk robe knotted tight, breath shallow, spine rigid.

And still—he waited.

When Jeongguk appeared again, it wasn’t in the estate’s courtyard or at its threshold. It was inside. In his apartment. In his bedroom.

Jimin didn’t hear him come in. One moment the room was empty, and the next, he turned from the window and Jeongguk was there—calm as a millpond, dressed in black, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Stare deeply dark, nostrils flaring.

Jimin didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Jeongguk’s gaze dragged over him. Over bare legs, flushed skin, the taut knot at his waist holding the silk closed like a last defense. That gaze landed somewhere between reverence and possession.

“Still not scared?” Jeongguk asked quietly.

Jimin swallowed. “Should I be?”

A pause.

“No,” Jeongguk said, stepping closer. “Not scared.”

The air thickened. Jimin backed toward the edge of his bed, refusing to drop his gaze, even as his heart thundered.

“I’m not yours,” Jimin said.

Jeongguk tilted his head. “No,” he murmured, “but you want to be.”

The burn of shame curled under Jimin’s ribs—but it wasn’t shame, not really. It was recognition.

He hated how right Jeongguk was. Hated that Jeongguk’s scent had settled into every part of his room without ever once touching him. Hated that when he dreamed, he didn’t dream of knots or claiming marks—he dreamed of Jeongguk looking at him like this.

Like he already knew him. Like he saw the defiance, the fire, the loneliness—and yearned for him because of it.

“Why are you doing this?” Jimin whispered.

Jeongguk’s expression didn’t change. “Because you’ve been waiting for someone to see you.”

Then—finally—he reached out.

His fingers didn’t touch skin. Just the belt at Jimin’s waist. Slowly, deliberately, Jeongguk undid the knot, the silk falling open just enough to expose the throb of Jimin’s scent glands and the shallow rise of his bare chest.

“You said you weren’t scared,” Jeongguk murmured, voice low enough to crawl beneath skin. “Then let me show you what it means to be wanted. Not owned. Not leashed. Known.”

Jimin stayed quiet. Overwhelmed. His breath hitched as Jeongguk stepped closer, dipped his head and scented him—slow, deep, not with hunger but with devotion.

And that was what undid Jimin.

Not the dominance.

The reverence.

Jeongguk stepped back after some torturing minutes, eyes dark with restraint. “Not tonight,” he said, voice thick. “When I touch you, it won’t be because you’re unraveling. It’ll be because you asked.”

And then—he left again.

Leaving Jimin standing in the middle of his room, silk robe loose, scent glands throbbing, heart in shreds and completely bathed in Jeongguk’s scent. Cedar and black tea.

And for the first time in his life, Park Jimin wanted to be caught.

Α Ω

Jeongguk knew the second Jimin walked into his reception hall.

Not by sight—though the Omega was a blue haired vision, all silk and impossible arrogance—but by scent. Subtle at first, like a single thread of fresh yuzu and summer heat unraveling through the cool marble corridors of Buk-gu estate.

It had been years since they’d shared a room or any proximity at all. Years since that sharp-mouthed, beautiful boy from Nam-gu had bitten him in front of three senior Alphas for daring to step in. Jeongguk hadn’t forgotten. Not the sharp tang of blood. Not the sting of pride. Not the flash of Jimin’s eyes—equal parts rage and humiliation.

That day, Jeongguk learned something important.

Jimin didn’t want protection.

He wanted to be seen.

To be respected.

And that night at the inter-pack gathering, when the ambient lighting shifted warmer and the scent of politics thickened the air, Jeongguk saw him again. Not the legend. Not the trophy Omega. Him—underneath the mask. Restless. Testing. Waiting for someone worthy to push back.

So Jeongguk didn’t take the bait. At least not all of it.

He let Jimin have the spotlight, the smirks, the slow swirl of dominance games. But he met him step by step. He watched. Responded. Measured his words like blades. And when the provocation crested, he touched, just enough.

While the rest inside the hall murmured behind champagne flutes, Jeongguk was already mapping the deeper game in the garden outside the building. Not how to claim Jimin, but how to make him wait.

How to court him, properly. Precisely.

He already knew, even then, which gift he would send first. And the second. Each one chosen not just for what it was, but for what it would do to Jimin.

Scented presence, woven through silk and silver.

No notes. No pressure.

He knew Jimin would feel it anyway.

And when the wind shifted thirteen nights later—blowing from Nam-gu’s side of the Busan area with a fresh bite of citrus and tension so thick it nearly staggered him—Jeongguk knew.

The Omega was cracking.

Heat, maybe. Or something older. Hungrier.

That was when he moved.

Buk-gu’s wards were tight, but Nam-gu? Nam-gu relied on rank and ritual. Jeongguk had already been there once. Days ago, by car, in daylight. An official visit to speak with Jimin’s uncle, the elder advisor who’d attended Buk-gu’s treaty gathering. A political courtesy. A shared drink. The uncle’s apology on Jimin’s behalf for his behavior the night in Jeongguk’s estate. Nothing more.

But that visit gave him what he needed. The lay of the land. The rhythm of the guards. Which lights stayed on late. Where to find Jimin’s apartment.

So when he came back, it was different. No car. No invitation. No formal request.
Just him by foot, scent-masked and silent, slipping in from the southern hillside where the old pines curled over the slope like claws. He moved barefoot so the stones wouldn’t betray him.

He followed the scent.

Not the trail. The pulse of it, low and aching like a thread of song only his instincts could hear. It drew him past the walls, through the garden, over polished stone and moonlit terraces to the one room that still breathed warm and restless in the night.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t announce himself.

The apartment was easy to access and the door to his bedroom wasn’t locked. The room smelled like want.

Jimin had his back to the window, moonlight catching the edge of his cheekbone. He was wrapped in a silk robe, but Jeongguk could see the tremble in his breath. He looked like he’d been waiting for a war and found something worse: a mirror.

He didn’t speak at first. Neither did Jeongguk.

Just silence. And scent.

Every instinct in his body screamed to take what was offered. To bare teeth, to mark, to own. But Jeongguk wasn’t there to prove his power.

He was there to give Jimin the one thing no one ever had.

A choice.

So he undid the robe. Slowly. Reverently. And instead of pressing his mouth to Jimin’s throat, he pressed his nose to the base of his neck right over the scent gland and inhaled. Deep. Gentle. Deliberate.

He wasn’t marking. He was memorizing.

Because this wasn’t a game anymore.

Jimin’s scent had changed. Beneath the layered heat and defiance was something rare. Unsettling.

Submission?

No.

Trust.

Jeongguk stepped back before his own resolve could fracture. Said words he hadn’t planned but meant with bone-deep certainty. Then he left the way he came—unseen, unhurried.

Only once he reached the trees again did he let out the breath he’d been holding.

Something had shifted.

Not just in Jimin.

In him.

Because now that he’d tasted what Jimin looked like when he trusted—not performed, not provoked—he wasn’t sure he could go back to anything less.

And if Jimin still thought he was the one pulling strings?

He was about to learn what it meant to be hunted for real.

Α Ω

Jeongguk didn’t sleep that night.

He returned to Buk-gu before sunrise, clothes still scented faintly of pine and silk. And of Jimin. Fresh yuzu and summer heat. The city was hushed in that liminal hour between night and morning, when secrets stayed secrets and no one asked questions. He washed in silence, changed into fresh linen, and met his advisor and confidant Jung Hoseok on the eastern terrace as the sky began to pale.

The Beta was already there, nursing a black coffee and frowning at his tablet.

“You’re back early,” Hoseok said without looking up. “Or did you never leave?”

Jeongguk said nothing. Just leaned against the terrace railing, arms crossed, eyes trained on the fog that pooled at the base of the mountains.

Hoseok sighed. “So. Did you get what you wanted?”

“No,” Jeongguk said. “But I saw what I needed.”

At that, Hoseok set the tablet down. Watched him carefully. “You didn’t touch him?”

Jeongguk’s jaw flexed. “Not the way you mean.”

“Good.”

That was the thing about Hoseok. Loyal, unshakably Beta and always the one to remind Jeongguk where the line was. Especially when instinct threatened to blur it.

“You think I don’t know the difference?” Jeongguk asked, quiet.

“I think you’re getting close to forgetting it.”

They stood in silence a while, the cold wind snapping at their sleeves. Then Hoseok spoke again.

“So. What now?”

Jeongguk didn’t answer right away. He thought of Jimin’s scent on his fingers and in his nose. Of the way Jimin had shivered—just slightly—when Jeongguk had breathed him in.

He thought of what it cost someone like that to stay still. To be seen.

And how rare that kind of trust was.

“I want him to feel it,” Jeongguk said finally. “That I’m not going to chase with teeth and growls. That I can wait. Control myself. But I will have him.”

Hoseok raised a brow. “You’re courting him the traditional way.”

Jeongguk gave a faint, crooked smile. “With a few modifications.”

Hoseok shook his head. “You’re insane. You scent-marked him in his own home.”

“I memorized him. That’s different.”

“Not to Nam-gu.”

“I wasn’t there for Nam-gu,” Jeongguk said, voice hardening. “Not for the unique Omega. I was there for Jimin.”

Another pause. Hoseok studied him again. “You’re serious about this.”

“I wouldn’t risk war otherwise.”

A beat. Then Hoseok gave a dry laugh. “You always said you weren’t interested in bonded politics.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is this?”

Jeongguk looked down at the forest below, where the wind tangled through the black pines.

“This isn’t about politics,” he said. “This is personal.”

Hoseok watched him for a long time before picking up his tablet again.

“Fine. Tell me what you need.”

Jeongguk turned, eyes sharper now. Focused. Hungry.

“I want the next gift delivered by midday. No courier. Hand-delivered by you as my direct representative.”

Hoseok nodded slowly. “What is it?”

Jeongguk’s voice dipped lower, colder. “A scent-bound wrap. What’s inside will be unmistakable. With a note.”

Now Hoseok looked surprised. “You’re writing to him?”

“No. Just three words.”

He met Hoseok’s eyes, firm. Final.

Α Ω

The knock came just as the sun reached its peak—sharp and deliberate. Jimin wasn’t expecting anyone, especially not a stranger. He opened the front door of his apartment cautiously to find a man standing there with a measured step, holding a small, scent-bound package wrapped in soft silver-gray wool. No courier, no intermediaries—this was something different.

Jimin didn’t invite him in. The man’s presence alone was a message.

“Omega Park Jimin, my name is Jung Hoseok, personal advisor to Buk-gu’s Head Alpha, Jeon Jeongguk. It is my honor to deliver this courting gift on his behalf,” the man said quietly, his eyes steady.

Jimin took the package, his fingers tightening around it. He closed the door without another word, heart quickening. This wasn’t just a gift. It was another move in a game he thought he’d been controlling.

The soft wool still carried Jeongguk’s scent, sharp and intoxicating, curling through his senses like smoke.

He tried to push it away. Tried to remind himself who he was: untouchable, unbroken, the fiery Omega who never bowed. But the scent clung to his skin, to his thoughts, and with it came memories. Sharp, confusing, and dangerously electric.

Jimin’s fingers trembled slightly—a crack in the armor he’d worn for so long—as he untied the delicate knot, unveiling the fine silver chain within. Threaded through its center was a single, polished wolf’s fang. Sleek, sharp-edged, and unmistakably familiar. His breath caught.

He knew exactly what it was.

Not a trinket. Not a gesture chosen at random. That fang had once been his, torn from his own mouth in a moment of fury when Jeongguk, still a young Alpha, had dared to interfere. Jimin had bitten him hard, bloody and unflinching, humiliated by the idea of being rescued, of being owned. That moment had scorched itself into both of them. And now, Jeongguk had returned it. Not as a warning, but as a remembrance.

It was no longer bloodstained.

Now it gleamed, preserved and cradled by silver, its curve reverent, like something sacred.

Not a threat.

A history. A vow. A truth forged between two who had never played by the rules.

Jimin turned it in his hand, feeling the smoothness where once there had been violence. It could be worn like a crest, close to the throat or against the heart. A symbol of what they were: sharp edges, bruised pride, heat, and something dangerously close to devotion.

Then his eyes flicked to the folded note tucked beneath the chain.

Three words.

I see you.

Jimin’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. The game was no longer just about dominance or submission. It was a hunt, a dance, a bond forged in fire and teeth.

And this time, he wasn’t running.

His resolve began to splinter. The walls he’d built against Alphas, against submission, against instinctual desire, were starting to crumble. Every moment alone, he caught himself thinking of Jeongguk—how the Alpha moved with that quiet power, how his restraint only made him more dangerous. The way Jeongguk saw him—not as prey, not as property, but as a force to be reckoned with.

It was primal, this hunger clawing at him. The kind of craving that wasn’t just about possession or dominance, but something deeper, something sacred and terrifying.

Jimin hated that he wanted it. That he was already caught.

And he hated himself more for knowing he’d started this game.

Now there was no turning back.

He had to act. Tonight.

Because the chase was over. The next move was his.

Α Ω

It was nearly midnight when Jimin crossed Buk-gu’s southern perimeter. He didn’t ask for permission. Didn’t need it.

The guards wouldn’t stop him. Not when his scent rolled through the woods like mist, too elusive to challenge, too deliberate to question. He moved quietly, every step certain, drawn along the narrow trail where pine needles softened the ground and the air still held traces of Jeongguk.

That was how he found the path.

Not by sight, but by scent. Jeongguk’s scent, faint but persistent, clinging to bark and leaves, woven into the underbrush. The Alpha’s presence had marked the way the evening before, and now it lived beneath Jimin’s skin, haunting and familiar.

He followed it easily. Like instinct.

Like it had been waiting for him to come.

The estate stood quiet beneath a pale, watching sky, its architecture clean and commanding, every line echoing the Alpha who ruled within. Jimin slipped through the back, barefoot, pulse racing, mouth dry. The scent of Jeongguk lingered in the stone, in the wood, in the air itself. It pulled at something raw inside him.

The gift from earlier sat unopened no longer.

He had unraveled it with shaking fingers the moment the door closed behind the Beta. And when he’d seen what lay inside something in him had cracked. Not shattered. Split, cleanly, like something finally opening.

Now, as he stepped through the garden shadows, Jimin carried it with him, clenched in his left hand and held close to his heart. Not yet worn, but too sacred to leave behind. The yearning in his chest was no longer tolerable. The ache had become a constant burn, fed by a man who knew how to worship without touch, without force, without stripping him of pride.

Jeongguk had never tried to tame him.

He saw him.

And Jimin had to know—had to hear it—before the need consumed him entirely.

He found Jeongguk’s chambers without trouble.

There were no guards posted nearby. No locks. As if Jeongguk had known, somehow, that Jimin would come.

Jimin stepped inside.

The scent hit him instantly—deep cedar and black tea, clean and dominant, softened now with something warmer, the trace of his own scent still clinging in faint undertones. It stole the breath from his lungs and made him dizzy.

He paused in the dark, letting his eyes adjust, gaze drawn to the low glow of a bedside console light. Jeongguk was standing by the window, bare-chested and calm, his hair still damp from a recent shower. He didn’t flinch.

“You came,” Jeongguk said.

Jimin’s throat tightened.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I have questions.”

Jeongguk turned slowly. The sight of him—quiet, massive, lit by the city beyond the glass—was enough to make something unsteady lurch deep in Jimin’s gut. He despised it. Hated how much power the Alpha held without even trying.

“I’m listening.”

Jimin stepped further into the room, holding his chin high.

“Are you serious about this?” he asked. “The courting. The gifts. The showing up. The games. Or is this just to make me bend?”

Jeongguk didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he moved forward, steady and deliberate, until Jimin had to step back. His spine met the wall, but still, he didn’t drop his gaze. Wouldn’t.

Jeongguk’s hand came up, not touching, just hovering near his jaw, fingers grazing the air like a scent-mark.

“I’ve never played with you,” he said quietly.

“Then what is this?”

Jimin’s voice was quiet but steady as he lifted his hand, slowly uncurling his fingers to reveal the delicate silver chain resting in his palm. The pendant—a single, ivory-white fang—gleamed in the soft light. His eyes searched Jeongguk’s face, unreadable.

Jeongguk didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he stepped closer, gaze fixed on the fang as though it was something sacred. His dark cedar scent wrapped around them—dominant and steady, threaded now with something softer. Longing. Claim. A tension years in the making.

With careful fingers, he took the chain from Jimin’s hand. The metal was cool against Jimin’s skin as Jeongguk fastened it at the nape of his neck, then let the fang settle just between his collarbones. His hand lingered there, palm warm over Jimin’s chest, fingers brushing the pendant like it meant everything.

And maybe it did.

When Jeongguk finally spoke, his voice was low and rough at the edges.

“I’ve been in love with you for years, Jimin.”

Jimin blinked, breath catching. “What?”

“I saw you before anyone else did. Not just your beauty. Not the mask. I saw the way you carried yourself like you didn’t need anyone. Because no one ever gave you the space to need. You pushed every Alpha away because you were protecting something sacred inside yourself.”

His voice dropped further.

“You still are.”

Jimin just stared into those round dark eyes as Jeongguk cupped his cheek, the touch warm and sure. Grounding.

“I know what I’m doing,” Jeongguk murmured. “This isn’t about conquering you. This is about standing where you can finally lean, Omega. If you want to.”

The words hit harder than any kiss.

Jimin swallowed, his scent flaring in a confused rush, sweet with heat, sharp with pride, layered in longing. His glands were exposed and trembling. Jeongguk didn’t lunge for them.

He just leaned in, exhaling quietly against Jimin’s throat, where his scent lived strongest. Not rubbing. Not marking. Just… breathing him in.

Like he had before. Like he meant to memorize every part of him again.

“You shouldn’t love me,” Jimin whispered, voice hoarse. “You don’t know what that costs.”

“I do,” Jeongguk said.

He pulled back just enough to meet Jimin’s eyes again. Those beautiful chocolate colored almond shaped eyes glistening with the faintest sheen of unshed tears.

“And I’m willing to pay it.”

Jimin’s resolve cracked completely.

He sagged deeper into Jeongguk’s side, his forehead resting firmly against the solid warmth of his shoulder as he inhaled deeply. His body trembled with the weight of his own admission. The tangled mix of tension, fear, and a terrifying, exquisite relief. This was no longer a game. He had started it, but Jeongguk would finish it. And, deep down, Jimin wanted him to.

The first prickling warmth stirred beneath his skin before he fully registered it. A slow, creeping fire curling from his core, swelling swiftly like a tide rising without warning. Jeongguk’s scent surrounded him, sharp and intoxicating, threading through the air and clinging to him like a silken tether he couldn’t escape. It tangled with his own raw, urgent scent, sending a shiver that traced every nerve along his spine.

Jeongguk’s gaze stayed fixed on him, steady and calm even as the storm roared inside Jimin. Without breaking the quiet intimacy of the moment, he shifted closer, his breath brushing gently against Jimin’s neck. A whisper of scent and unspoken promise that made Jimin’s breath hitch.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jeongguk said softly and full of understanding, voice low and steady like the anchor Jimin desperately needed. “I can help. But you set the rules. I will not cross the line you draw.”

Jimin hesitated, tension tightening his throat. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and yearning, the fire inside him rising with an urgency that nearly overwhelmed his pride. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go so easily. His voice was strained, rough with doubt and resistance. “I… I’m not sure. This… this isn’t something I can just give in to. Not without control. Not fully.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “I might need help. But I have to know you won’t push me past what I’m ready for.”

Jeongguk nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “I understand. No pressure. No rush. I’ll be here—watching, waiting, supporting. Whatever you need, whenever you’re ready. But please… please stay. Let me help you, Omega.”

He slid his hand down gently, brushing along Jimin’s arm, the touch so light it could have been a feather, yet it grounded them both in the moment. The scent of Jeongguk grew more intense, deeper, wrapping around Jimin like a protective cloak. It was both a promise and a challenge.

Jimin closed his eyes, breathing in rich cedar and black tea, feeling it stir something primal beneath his carefully constructed walls. The pain for connection, for release, was there—aching and pulsing—and Jeongguk was the only one who could understand it without trying to break him.

The room was heavy with silence, broken only by their breathing, slow and deliberate. Jimin’s body trembled slightly, the heat and the pain in his lower abdomen rising faster now, but somewhere beneath the fear was a fragile thread of trust beginning to weave itself through the tension.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Jimin admitted, voice barely audible.

Jeongguk’s lips curved gently. “You don’t have to. Not all at once. Just let me be here.”

And in that moment, surrounded by scent and shadows, Jimin’s resistance softened just enough to let the smallest spark of surrender ignite inside him.

The fire inside Jimin was insistent, relentless, and no amount of pride could smother it now. His voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper. “Alright. But no… no full surrender.”

Jeongguk nodded once, his hand brushing lightly against Jimin’s jaw again. A touch to calm, but it carried the weight of a promise. Then, with delicate care, Jeongguk leaned in, his lips just grazing the shell of Jimin’s ear, a grazing bite that sent a jolt through every nerve ending.

Together, they moved into the delicate, dangerous dance—Jeongguk’s presence a steady flame to sooth Jimin’s growing heat, while Jimin clung to the fragile control he was still able to grasp. The scent of their mingling heat filled the room, raw and sacred, blurring the line between restraint and surrender.

The first waves came gently, but there was no mistaking the way Jimin’s body arched toward warmth, toward Jeongguk. The tension that had coiled beneath his skin finally began to loosen, melting in slow increments as Jeongguk guided him onto the makeshift nest he quickly arranged on his spacious bed just minutes before—layers of soft throws and clothes laced subtly with Jeongguk’s scent. No dominance. No claim. Just comfort. Familiarity. Shelter.

Jeongguk didn’t touch him at first. He simply knelt close, waiting until Jimin opened his eyes and gave the smallest nod. That was all it took.

His fingers brushed over Jimin’s bare arm, barely a whisper of contact, but enough to make Jimin shudder. His heat had bloomed now, raw and wild beneath the surface, and every nerve sparked alive under that reverent touch.

“You’re burning,” Jeongguk murmured, his voice rich and low, thick with restrained need. “Let me ease it.”

Jimin gave no answer, but his breath hitched as Jeongguk leaned in, nuzzling gently at the crook of his neck, where scent lived thick and private. He inhaled slowly, reverently, like a man standing before something holy. His nose barely grazed the gland—never enough to stake, never enough to bind. But just enough for Jimin to feel it. To feel seen.

Jimin’s hands trembled as they curled into Jeongguk’s shirt. He was no longer pushing him away, but neither did he pull him closer. He simply breathed, letting Jeongguk’s scent wrap around him, letting it sooth him, velvet-rich and grounding.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Jeongguk murmured softly, voice caught between a confession and a vow. “Not like this. Not in heat. Just… being near you like this. Touching you the way you deserve. With nothing taken.”

Jimin closed his eyes again, and in that moment, the fear slipped to the edges. He tilted his head ever so slightly, allowing Jeongguk deeper access to his scent gland. It wasn’t surrender. It was permission.

Jeongguk moved with devotion, brushing his lips across Jimin’s collarbone, slow and unhurried. He kissed down the line of his shoulder, then up again toward the edge of his throat. Every motion asked before it took. When his tongue and teeth grazed skin, it was delicate, like a wolf greeting its destined mate, not a dominant claiming its Omega.

Jimin gasped, his fingers tightening. “Don’t—”

“I won’t.” Jeongguk’s breath fanned warm across his neck. “No marks. Only soothing.”

Their scents tangled slowly, gradually, creating a haze between them that felt like a shield from the world outside. Time unraveled. Jimin let himself feel—not the haze of heat, but the presence of the Alpha who never demanded, only offered.

Jeongguk undressed them slowly and guided Jimin down carefully, supporting each motion like he feared Jimin might shatter in his arms. Beneath them, the bed welcomed the weight of two bodies long denied each other, the yearning between them humming and heavy. His hands never rushed, never strayed beyond what Jimin allowed. Every brush of fingers, every glide of fabric from flushed skin, was deliberate. Meant to honor, not to take.

“You’re the most beautiful living being on earth, Omega,” Jeongguk whispered, voice thick with awe, lips grazing along salt-kissed skin. He trembled now, overcome by the pull of Jimin’s citrus scent and the deep, instinctive ache that had simmered for years. The heat had him trembling now, aching low and deep, but Jeongguk moved as if they had hours. Days. A lifetime.

Every touch was soft. Hands along ribs, lips to his temple, breath against his cheek. And when he kissed Jimin—truly kissed him for the first time—it was with the care of a man who had loved in silence for years.

There was no rush. No claim. Only need. Only admiration.

And in that sacred hush of scent and longing, Jimin whispered, “Jeongguk… don’t… don’t stop.”

So Jeongguk didn’t.

He simply gave.

And Jimin, piece by piece, let himself receive.

The minutes blurred.

At some point, Jimin lost track of time entirely. The fire under his skin didn’t relent, the pain in his lower belly came in waves, but Jeongguk was always there—hands warm, body steady, scent like a balm in the storm. He never overwhelmed, only adjusted with every change in Jimin’s breathing, every twitch of muscle, every flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

Heat stripped pride. It melted even the most practiced mask. And Jimin, who had spent years mastering control, now lay trembling in another’s bed, caught between desperation and awe. Not because he was overwhelmed, but because Jeongguk refused to take what was so easily offered.

He didn’t rut.

He didn’t dominate.

He didn’t push.

He worshipped.

Jeongguk stroked his flank slowly, palm gliding over sweat-slick skin, and pressed another kiss just beneath his ear. “Still okay, love?”

Jimin nodded, lips parted. His breath came in shallow pulls, but not from fear. It was instinct now. Need, but tethered by trust.

Jeongguk moved again, this time nestling closer, letting their bare chests touch fully. Skin against skin. His scent curled around Jimin’s pulse, calming and low. His lips ghosted down the side of Jimin’s throat.

“Tell me what you need, Omega,” he murmured, voice raw with restraint.

Jimin barely managed to whisper, “More.”

So Jeongguk gave him more.

Not with force, but with presence. He rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate motion—just enough for Jimin to feel the weight of him, the searing heat where their bodies met, erections brushing in a maddening rhythm that spoke of restraint, of hunger, of everything still to come. One hand slipped down, smoothing over his thigh, guiding his leg to hook over Jeongguk’s hip. Their scents burst into bloom—Jimin’s fresh and sharp, Jeongguk’s woody and herb—intertwining like a second skin.

Jimin moaned, soft and honest, and arched into the heat of Jeongguk’s chest. He turned his face slightly, pressing his nose into Jeongguk’s neck where the Alpha’s scent lived strongest. He nosed at it, breathed it in, then licked once, a small graze of tongue in instinctive grooming.

Jeongguk stilled. Shuddered.

Then, gently, he returned the gesture, nosing along the line of Jimin’s jaw, tracing his way to the crown of his head, then back down. He didn’t rush. He didn’t mount. He just breathed him in and scented him over and over again, held him tight, and let Jimin tremble through wave after wave of heat-driven ache.

Jeongguk kissed him again, slowly this time, like he was memorizing the shape of Jimin’s mouth, like it mattered. His lips were warm, steady, coaxing rather than demanding. And Jimin let himself be kissed, let himself soften into it, opening under the tenderness like petals unfurling to light. His fingers curled into the muscle of Jeongguk’s back, not to pull him closer, but to anchor himself. Because something in that kiss felt too real. Too deep. Like it could ruin him gently.

At one point, as their lips parted just enough to breathe, Jimin turned to him, eyes glassy with heat and cheeks tinged with fevered pink. His voice was hushed, still unsteady from the kiss, laced with both defiance and need.

“Touch me,” he said, gaze locking with Jeongguk’s like a challenge wrapped in surrender.
Then, softer, barely a breath between them— “Please.”

Jimin’s breath caught as Jeongguk’s hands smoothed over his thighs between their bellies to wrap his fingers around Jimin’s rock hard and precum leaking shaft with awe, not haste. His touch was a vow, not to own, but to honor.

He didn’t speak, just reveled in the way Jimin moaned under his touch. He didn’t have to. Jimin could feel it in the way Jeongguk nosed along his shoulder, his jaw, his ribs, his chest and nipples while he carefully began to put pressure around Jimin’s throbbing cock and pumped his hand up and down ever so slowly. When his teeth touched skin, it was with worship, not demand. A slow, grounding pressure. The promise of what he could take in an instance, but wouldn’t.

“You make me perfect, Jimin,” Jeongguk breathed between open-mouthed kisses over Jimin’s hot, perspiring skin. “You help me become somebody else… a better version of myself… a better Alpha for my Omega.”

The thought came unbidden. Words echoing in rhythm with Jeongguk’s movements. A confession buried in memory and fever.

Jimin clung to him, trembling and slick, body open and burning with need, but it was the wide, vulnerable and desperate look in his eyes that undid Jeongguk’s final restraint. That expression wasn’t lust. It was surrender. It was trust. And it sent something primal howling loose in Jeongguk’s chest.

The scent of Jimin’s heat was a drug. Sticky-sweet, heavy with pheromones, it clung to Jeongguk’s lungs and wrapped around his instincts like chains. Every part of him screamed to claim, to fill, to knot and mark and keep—yet he didn’t.

Not all of it. Not yet.

But he did need to dive in deep. Not for dominance. For something far more meaningful. Because the ache in his core was no longer just about release.

It was the urge to merge.

To feel Jimin in every way, every flutter, every pulse, every tremble that proved this was real.

His voice shook as he kissed Jimin’s temple, then his jaw, then his lips. “I can’t…” Jeongguk breathed, his voice breaking against Jimin’s skin. “Jimin, I can’t hold back anymore. I need you. All of you.”

Jimin’s pupils were blown wide, lips parted, already breathing harder from the heat curling stronger in his belly. But when Jeongguk paused, waiting, Jimin found the clarity he needed through the haze.

“Take it,” Jimin rasped, the words trembling but certain. “Take me as my first. I want this. Want you.” He swallowed, jaw tight, and added, “But not… not without protection. No knotting.” His hand curled briefly in the sheets, his throat tightened. “And don’t… don’t you dare claim me.”

Jeongguk nodded once, solemn and grounded, his Alpha instincts raging beneath the surface but held tight in check by reverence. “I hear you,” he murmured, forehead resting against Jimin’s for a beat. “Everything we do is yours to give.”

Moonlight spilled across Jimin’s body as he was gently guided onto his back, limbs pliant, chest rising and falling fast. The silver chain around his neck glinted faintly, the sharp curve of his old fang resting between his collarbones like a promise. Jeongguk stilled at the sight of it, his fingers brushing the pendant once, tenderly, like it meant everything. Because it did.

Then Jeongguk moved like the tide. Slow. Unstoppable. Not in a rush. Never careless. He worshipped Jimin’s skin with lips and tongue, mapping every trembling place that had ever flinched from being seen. He opened him up with patience and devotion, his scent thick with restraint, coaxing, comforting, wanting.

And when Jimin was spread open beneath him—gorgeous, wrecked, willing—Jeongguk reached for the small silver packets he'd tucked away just in case.

“I’ve got you,” Jeongguk whispered as he put on a condom, his voice sounding soft and full of desire in Jimin’s ear.

The Omega’s legs tightened around his hips in answer. Willing. Steady.

That was all it took.

“I want to feel you from the inside,” Jeongguk growled through clenched teeth, drunk on arousal and more than that—on the trust. The sheer gift of it. Because he now had the certainty that he was Jimin’s first. No one had touched him like this before. No one had been let in. No one had been trusted enough before.

And Jeongguk was overwhelmed.

Not with power, but with devotion. Wonder.

“Gods,” he gasped, burying his face in the crook of Jimin’s neck for a breath, needing the anchoring scent, the grounding pulse. “You chose me. You really…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t breathe through the gratitude thick in his throat.

Then, slowly—achingly slowly—he pushed in. Breaching the tight rim with careful, reverent pressure, letting Jimin feel and adjust to every inch of the stretch. Every second of the connection.

Jimin arched beneath him, eyes glassy, mouth parted, the slender line of his throat bared in something like surrender—but deeper. Trust. Wholeness.

There was no pain in his face. Only heat. Relief. Something unspoken that Jeongguk would carry forever.

But Jeongguk didn’t move further—not yet.

Instead, he paused, his breath shaking, lips brushing Jimin’s temple.

“Is this okay, Omega?” he whispered, voice tight with restraint. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Jimin turned his head slightly as his rim clenched around the unfamiliar intrusion, eyes meeting Jeongguk’s, pupils wide and shimmering. He nodded once, breath hitching and then added, softly, “Yes. I want to feel all of you.”

Jeongguk exhaled shakily, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he said, barely holding back. “If you need to stop, I stop. You say the word—anytime.”

Jimin’s hand found his cheek, grounding him.

“I know,” he whispered. “I trust you, Alpha.”

That nearly undid him.

Jeongguk kissed the inside of Jimin’s wrist, then moved again. Slow and reverent, letting Jimin feel every moment of it. The tight and slick heat welcomed him like it had been waiting a lifetime only for him. His vision blurred, overtaken by the sheer intensity of it all.

Jeongguk pushed in deeper, inch by inch, torturously deliberate but unrelenting, until there was no space left between them. Until he was fully sheathed in Jimin’s trembling warmth, completely surrounded by scent, breath and body.

Jeongguk stilled—just to feel it. Just to be in this moment.

Then he gasped, soft and stunned, followed by Jimin’s moan—deep, raw, and full of everything words couldn’t hold. There was no shame between them.

“You feel like—fuck,” he rasped, his voice breaking, heart full to the point of ruin. “You feel like everything, Jimin.”

Jeongguk braced himself, hands splayed wide over the fine lines of Jimin’s ribs, as though to hold him together. Or maybe to hold himself together.

“Gonna start moving now,” Jeongguk whispered, voice thick with restraint, reverence etched into every syllable.

And then he did—slowly at first, testing, learning, attuning.

Each movement after that was measured not in thrusts, but in worship. A rhythm tuned to the gasping song of Jimin’s breath, the soft desperate sounds pulled from his chest, the quiet begging for more that left his lips when their hips met again and again.

Not rushed. Not taken. Given.

And Jeongguk gave it like a vow. Like each motion was a prayer said with his body. Reverent. Anchored in awe.

For the Omega beneath him wasn’t just beautiful. He was choosing this. Choosing him.

And that made Jeongguk move with something close to devotion.

He could have lost himself in the slick, sinful clutch of Jimin’s body. But he didn’t. He stayed with him. Watched his face. Kissed every tremor.

He felt the way Jimin’s body told truths his mouth wouldn’t say.

Felt the way his scent deepened, ripened, tangled with Jeongguk’s until it filled the entire chamber.

It was sacred.

It was carnal.

And it was only the beginning.

Their bodies moved in rhythm, slick with sweat and scent, Jeongguk whispering steady reassurances into the crook of Jimin’s neck. The air was thick with heat and need and the unspoken truth neither had dared name until now. That this was more than shared extasy.

It was a ritual.

When Jimin trembled on the edge, his fingernails dug into Jeongguk’s back. Not to wound. To anchor. Jeongguk leaned down, his breath trembling, and pressed his mouth to the base of Jimin’s neck. His teeth grazed the gland. Barely. A breath of pressure.

No mark. No claim.

“Not yet,” Jeongguk whispered, voice hoarse. “Not like this. You’ll choose it, when you're ready.”

Jimin shattered. Not in pain. In freedom. And he never felt this safe in his life.

And when it finally came—when the world narrowed to nothing but the slick sound of skin on skin, of breathless pleas and sacred promises—the climax hit them like a storm breaking after days of building heat.

Jimin shattered first, his back arching off the sheets as he cried out Jeongguk’s name, voice ragged and raw. His body convulsed around Jeongguk, tightening in rhythmic waves that pulled the Alpha deeper, locked him in place, and dragged him over the edge with him.

Jeongguk followed a breath later, with a groan that sounded like devotion torn from the marrow. He pulsed deep inside Jimin, hips jerking helplessly as he poured himself into him, head buried against Jimin’s neck where his lips found soft skin and bit slightly—not a mark, but a promise. Just enough pressure to ground them both.

They kissed feverishly in the aftermath. No finesse. Just mouths crashing together, salt-slick and breathless. Jeongguk tasted everything. Jimin’s tears, his sweat, the last remnants of his cries. He swallowed every sound the Omega gave him like a starving man.

And it wasn’t over. Not even close.

The heat kept building, ebbing and surging like waves under Jimin’s skin. Even through the exhaustion and overstimulation, their bodies answered each other with instinctual urgency.

Jimin pushed Jeongguk onto his back and rode him next, wild and unfiltered, braced on his hands as he gasped through another release. Jeongguk held his hips steady, respectful even in his sharp thrusts, letting the Omega chase what he needed until Jimin collapsed over him again, trembling.

Later, when the heat surged again and Jimin offered himself without a word—back arched, head turned, scent slick and begging—Jeongguk couldn’t hold back.

He took him from behind, hands gripping Jimin’s waist with trembling reverence as his hips snapped forward, deeper with each thrust. The rhythm turned carnal, a raw, unfiltered expression of years of want compressed into a single, burning moment.

Jimin moaned into the pillows, shameless and undone, clawing at the sheets as his body surrendered with another tightening release. His scent spiked around them, thick and desperate, and Jeongguk drowned in it.

Tears welled in his eyes before he realized it—hot and unstoppable. And as his rhythm faltered briefly from the wave of emotion, he gasped out against the back of Jimin’s shoulder, voice ragged and broken.

“I want to fuck you like an animal…” he growled, not from cruelty or vulgarity but from the sheer collapse of restraint. From joy and carnal arousal so wild it hurt.

Jimin whimpered, hips pressing back in invitation, and Jeongguk gave in completely. His thrusts turned frantic, driven by instinct and love and the unbearable truth that the body beneath him finally, finally belonged to him.

When they came together again, it was less of an ending and more of a collapse. Jeongguk folded over Jimin’s back, kissing down his spine with soothing slowness, tears still slipping silently from the corners of his sparkling round eyes. Each press of his lips was a thank you, a promise, a prayer whispered into skin.

And Jimin, panting and trembling beneath him, turned his head just enough to meet his gaze—eyes soft, spent, and shining.

He saw the tears.

And he smiled.

At one point they simply clung to each other, too overwhelmed to move. But even then, Jeongguk’s cock swelled again, and Jimin pulled him close with a whisper of affirmation.

They didn’t sleep until dawn threatened the horizon. Their bodies were marked in sweat and scent and feverish touches, the sheets ruined beneath them.

And when it was eventually over, when the fire inside Jimin had settled to a low, molten hum, they lay tangled together, breath shallow and uneven, bodies glistening with sweat. Jeongguk’s arms wrapped around him like a shield.

Jimin buried his face against Jeongguk’s chest, lips brushing bare skin, and inhaled deeply. He scented him deliberately, possessively. Nuzzling just below Jeongguk’s collarbone, where a claim might one day rest.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Because his body had already said it, again and again, with every trembling kiss and gasp and cry.

Mine.

And Jeongguk, as if hearing it clearly, whispered against Jimin’s hair.

“Yours.”

The air in the room had shifted.

Not just from the fading scent of climax or the low thrum of residual heat, but from something deeper. Like their bodies had spoken what their mouths were too afraid to say, hearts still syncing slowly back to a steady rhythm.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Jeongguk’s hand traced the curve of Jimin’s waist, fingers barely skimming the surface, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch him like this. His thumb caught on a fading bite mark—a grazing one, reverent and respectful—and his breath stuttered.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he said quietly. “But I want all of you. Not just your heat.”

That cracked something new open.

Jimin’s breath hitched. He blinked slowly, and when he looked up at Jeongguk, there was nothing veiled in his gaze. No bravado, no mask. Just the raw honesty of someone who’d finally stopped running. Of someone who finally started to trust.

He reached up, knuckles brushing along Jeongguk’s jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath his fingers, grounding himself in the reality of him.

He kissed him then—not from arousal, but from everything else. The kiss wasn’t heated. It was slow. Careful. It was a kiss that said, I hear you.

When they parted, Jeongguk brushed a streak of blue hair off Jimin’s forehead as he whispered, “Don’t leave.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

“I won’t,” Jimin whispered back fiercely. “Not unless you send me.”

And Jeongguk simply held him closer.

He didn’t send him away.

He never would.

And for the first time in years, Jimin slept through the night—tucked into the crook of Jeongguk’s arm, his face pressed to his chest, surrounded not by the fire of survival, but by something softer. Something safer.

The bond wasn’t spoken.

Not yet.

But already, it was sinking roots. Quiet. Steady.

Growing.

The End.

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