Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell above the café door chimed, delicate and soft, like it didn’t want to disturb the peace inside.
Yoongi stepped in, rubbing frozen fingertips together, breath fogging up as he exhaled. His phone had died. His driver was late. And he had absolutely no intention of sitting in traffic listening to Jimin’s voice messages about rearranging studio schedules.
The café was… quiet. Not empty, just calm.
Muted jazz played from unseen speakers. A Doberman — large but uncropped, absurdly calm — rested behind the counter, blinking slow amber eyes at him.
The air smelled of cinnamon and something freshly baked. Maybe scones.

“Welcome to Seonlight,” came a voice.
Yoongi looked up.
The barista had his back turned, sleeves pushed up, a black cap decorating his head, hands deftly tamping espresso. He was humming — not loud enough to recognise the song, but Yoongi's ears caught something in the melody. A softness. A longing.
“Take a seat. I’ll call you when your drink is ready.” the voice said.
Yoongi furrowed his brow. “I didn’t order anything.”
“You look like someone who needs an Americano and no questions.”
Yoongi paused. Then, for reasons he wouldn’t examine too closely, he sat down.

He glanced around the café. Minimalist, but not cold. Wooden tables. Handwritten signs. A single framed drawing of a bridge — he didn’t know why it tugged at something in his chest.
The drink arrived minutes later. It had his name spelled right — Yoongi, not Yungi — written in thick, soft lettering on the sleeve. But underneath it was a quote.
"Even shadows can’t exist without light."
Yoongi blinked. He used that line once. Years ago. In a song that never made it out of demo. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe the quote was a popular saying and Yoongi heard it somewhere and thought he came up with it when he wrote it down. His head has always been foggy like that.

“You been open long?” Yoongi asked, glancing toward the counter again.
The barista — now looking down as he wiped his hands on a towel — smiled. Only a little. Not much could be seen as his cap was pushed down low only his lips could be seen.
“A while. People just don’t notice until they’re lost.”
“Huh?”
“The café,” the man clarified. “We don’t advertise.” The silence hung thick in the air, like something was there, questions, answers, explanations but Yoongi couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Yoongi stood to leave. He had the weirdest itch between his ribs, like he was forgetting something important. The barista didn’t offer his name. Yoongi didn’t ask.
But as the door closed behind him and the bell chimed once more, Jungkook finally looked up.
Just long enough to whisper, “Still can’t recognise my voice, huh, hyung?”

Chapter Text

Yoongi stared at the cardboard coffee sleeve sitting on his desk.
He’d kept it.

He told himself it was because the quote bugged him — “Even shadows can’t exist without light” — but the truth curled deeper. The handwriting, the way his name was spelled perfectly, the rich warmth of the café… all of it felt like déjà vu wearing someone else’s coat.
That café had scratched at something. Not nostalgia — something older. More personal.
And that voice.

“You’re distracted,” Jimin said, not looking up from his tablet. He was perched on the arm of the studio couch, eating crackers like it was his job.

“You’re always talking,” Yoongi replied, not looking up either.

Jimin smirked. “That’s true. But today it’s not getting on your nerves.”

Yoongi glanced over. Jimin held up the coffee sleeve, which he’d clearly stolen from the desk.

“Seonlight?” he read. “Is that the one behind the bookshop on Daejo Street? Minimalist vibe, smells like baked guilt and broken dreams?”
“Something like that,” Yoongi muttered.

Jimin peered at the quote. “Wow. Deep. Sounds like something you said in one of your depressed producer eras.”
Yoongi didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because he had said that. Years ago. To someone he shouldn’t have said anything to at all.

Flashback — Four Years Ago

The first time Yoongi met Jungkook, it was through Jimin.
“He’s just a kid,” Jimin had said, dragging a college freshman through the door of Namjoon’s apartment, where half the friend group was already gathered for drinks and pizza. “But he’s in vocal performance and he can out-sing Taehyung, I swear to God.”
Jungkook had big eyes, a bigger hoodie, and an awkward wave.
“Hi. I—uh. You’re Min Yoongi, right?”
Yoongi, already halfway through a beer, had nodded slowly. “Sometimes.”
“Your mixtape got me through high school.”
“Jesus,” Yoongi muttered, taking a drink. “I feel ancient now.”
Jungkook had laughed — shy but bright, like sunlight through blinds. “You’re not that old.”
He was wrong. Yoongi felt ancient just standing next to that kind of sincerity.

Present

The door opened again, letting in a slice of city noise. Jimin left Yoongi’s sleeve on the desk and stood, brushing crumbs from his jeans.
“Anyway,” he said, “If you’re obsessing over a barista with a decent quote game, maybe you should just go back and ask his name. Could be good for your brand. Yoongi, but soft.”

“Soft gets people killed in this industry,” Yoongi replied.
Jimin rolled his eyes. “You keep pretending you’re still made of iron, hyung. But you looked like someone who felt something yesterday. Even if it was just the cinnamon.”
And with that, Jimin left.
Yoongi didn’t reply.

He just turned the coffee sleeve over in his hand, again and again, until the edges frayed.

Meanwhile, back at Seonlight, Jungkook wiped down the espresso machine for the third time.
Bam yawned from his blanket behind the counter, sensing the shift in energy.
Jungkook didn’t look up.
But under his breath, he murmured, “Don’t come back, hyung. Not until you remember what you broke.”

Chapter Text

<4 years ago>

The party had thinned out by 2 a.m.
Jungkook sat cross-legged on the floor, shoulder pressed against the edge of Namjoon’s couch, watching the fairy lights flicker in the kitchen window. The world outside looked sleepy. Inside, it smelled like beer and strawberry soju and a faint cologne he couldn’t name — only that it clung to the person sitting behind him.
Yoongi.

He was quiet, nursing the same drink for over an hour. His eyes half-lidded, but never fully closed. He was watching — not people. Jungkook.
Jungkook had felt it all night. The weight of that gaze. The way their knees had brushed under the coffee table during that dumb card game. The way Yoongi hadn’t pulled away.

“You’re still here?” Yoongi murmured, voice low and lazy.

“I live here now,” Jungkook said without thinking, and Yoongi let out a huff of laughter — warm and tired.

“Joon won’t like that.”

“He won’t notice.” Jungkook turned to look at him. “He’s asleep with AirPods in. He’s dead to the world.”
Their eyes met. Yoongi’s lingered.

“You should sleep too, kid.”

“You always call me that,” Jungkook said, not hiding the sting in his tone.

Yoongi tilted his head. “You don’t like it?”

“Not tonight.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dense — like the kind of quiet that swells before something happens.
Yoongi’s drink clinked gently as he set it on the table. He didn’t say anything when Jungkook shifted closer.
The heat between them was already there. Just waiting.

“You’re not drunk, right?” Yoongi asked, low and careful.
“No.”
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Do you?”
That broke something. Yoongi’s mouth found his without hesitation.

Kissing Yoongi wasn’t soft. It was urgent, like he was trying to swallow down everything he couldn’t say.

Hands in Jungkook’s hair, dragging him in. Jungkook didn’t fight it. He leaned in, knees straddling Yoongi’s lap, fingers trembling as they explored skin — under Yoongi’s hoodie, the warm line of his stomach.

“Hyung,” he breathed, and Yoongi stilled.

“Don’t say that right now,” Yoongi whispered.

So Jungkook kissed him again instead. Deeper. Slower this time. His heart thudding so loud he thought Yoongi might feel it.
Clothes peeled away. Hands shaky but confident. Jungkook remembered thinking, I want this to mean something. I want him to remember this.

When Yoongi pushed into him, Jungkook gasped — a mix of pain, surprise, and need.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Please don’t stop.”

Yoongi’s lips grazed his neck, slow, almost reverent. His voice barely above a whisper. “You’re gonna wreck me, you know that?”
And Jungkook wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it wasn’t just the alcohol or the loneliness.
That night, he gave Yoongi everything. His first kiss, time and finally his whole soul.

And Yoongi kissed him slow while he came, holding his face like he was something fragile.

🌙 Aftermath

Later, Jungkook lay on the floor beside him, tangled in the blanket Yoongi had thrown over them.
Yoongi’s hand brushed his shoulder, then stilled. He didn’t say anything.

Jungkook wanted to ask What now? but didn’t. He was afraid of the answer.

So instead, he whispered, “Was this… okay?”
Yoongi looked at him. Eyes shadowed.
“It was a mistake,” he said.
A different tone than later. Softer. Quiet.

“what?” Jungkook said, not sure if he was asking or begging. His doe eyes dotting around Yoongi's face in the dark, trying to decipher him, trying to read him, trying to understand had that night truly been a mistake for him. He came up with nothing.

"you don't mean that." Jungkook said, unsure if he was trying to convince Yoongi or himself. Probably both.

“I do,” Yoongi replied. “You’re too young. You don’t know what you want. And I don’t… I don’t do this.”

Jungkook said nothing. What could be said anyway? Yoongi had just cleared where he stood. A fucking mistake. Just stared up at the ceiling, letting a silent tear roll down the side of his eye into his ear, as Yoongi rolled over and pretended to sleep.

Chapter Text

☕️
Yoongi returns to the café
Yoongi stood outside Seonlight, staring at the door like it might open on its own.
It was raining. Just a drizzle, the kind that slicked the pavement and made everything look cinematic and sad.
He didn’t know why he came back.

That’s a lie, he thought. You know exactly why.
He pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of espresso and cardamom drifted out like a sigh. There were only two customers inside, both curled in armchairs near the window. The lights were dimmer than before.

And behind the counter, he was there again — the barista.
Dark hair tied up this time. A black shirt rolled to his elbows. The dog was asleep at his feet.

“You came back,” the barista said, tone neutral but not unfriendly.

“I was in the area,” Yoongi lied.

The barista nodded like he didn’t care either way. “Same drink?”

“Yeah.”
Yoongi sat in the same seat as before. Same spot by the window. And watched him.

There was something about the way the guy moved. Like he’d done this a thousand times but still cared about each step.
Careful, smooth, like… like choreography.
That’s when it hit him.

“Have we met before?” Yoongi asked without thinking.

The barista froze, just for a second.

Then, he smiled — barely, head hung low as he focused on pouring the coffee into the cup. Cap still allowing only a sliver of his face to show.
“I get that a lot.”

“No, I mean…” Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “You remind me of someone.”

“People do that,” the barista said, setting the coffee down gently. “They try to find ghosts in strangers.”

Yoongi stared at him. “You’re kind of philosophical for a barista.”
“That’s what happens when you listen more than you speak.”

Flashback — Weeks after the hookup

“Are you just going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
Jungkook stood in Yoongi’s studio doorway, arms crossed, lip raw from biting it.
Yoongi didn’t turn around. His hands were buried in the mixing console, headphones around his neck.

“I’m busy.”

“You’ve been busy for three weeks.”

“And you’ve been showing up like we’re dating.”

The words hit like a slap.

Jungkook flinched. “I thought… it meant something.”

“It was a mistake.”
Jungkook’s voice cracked. “Then why do you keep looking at me like it wasn’t?”

Yoongi finally turned. “Because I’m stupid. Because I liked it. And that’s the problem, Jungkook. You’re too young. You want things that’ll ruin you.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want.”

“You’ll thank me for this someday,” Yoongi said, more to himself than to Jungkook.

“No,” Jungkook said, stepping back. “I’ll never thank you for breaking my heart.”

☕️

< Present >

Yoongi gets curious

“What’s your name?” Yoongi asked suddenly.

The barista looked up. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes.

“J,” he said. “Just J.”

Yoongi squinted. “Short for something?”

“Short for ‘just drink your coffee,’ probably.”

Yoongi huffed. “You always this cryptic?”

“Only when people come in asking about ghosts.”

The smile he gave wasn’t playful. It was guarded. Like he’d built it brick by brick.

Yoongi reached into his bag and pulled out his phone.

On his Spotify list, K.EON’s latest track was paused halfway. A moody, haunting acoustic song titled “If You Knew.”
Yoongi pressed play again. Let it run softly through his earbuds as he sipped the coffee.

"If you knew who I was
You wouldn’t be sitting here
If you knew what I saw
You’d disappear."

The lyrics were too raw. Too familiar.

His fingers froze around the cup.

“You like music?” the barista asked, nodding toward the earbud.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said. “Producer. Been doing it a while.”

“Figured.”

“You listen to K.EON?”

The barista shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“The lyrics…” Yoongi said. “They sound like someone I used to know.”

The barista’s hands stilled for just a second. Then moved again. “Maybe they’re someone you still do.”

🩹

Hours later, the café was dark. Bam stretched, blinked up at him, then padded off toward the back room.

Jungkook stared at the table Yoongi had sat at. His untouched pastry. The way his fingers lingered on the coffee sleeve.

His voice saying “Have we met?”

Jungkook’s throat burned.
He reached under the counter and pulled out a small notebook. Tattered edges. Inside: sketches. One of a white piano. One of the person Jungkook had yearned for years, sitting on a rooftop, drawn from memory. One of two hands almost touching the keys.

He flipped to the next page and scribbled a lyric:

“It’s cruel, how memory works. You remember my smile but not my name.”

🎬

On a open MacBook behind the counter, a file blinked open.
A music folder.

K.EON — unreleased demos.
Owner: Jeon Jungkook.

Chapter Text

Jungkook sat on a stool backstage, one leg bouncing, mic cord coiled around his fingers like a nervous habit.
His bandmates were setting up — casual, laughing, sipping water — but his head was somewhere else.

“Hey, JK,” Jiwoo, their keyboardist, called. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just—tight stomach.”

“You’ve played bigger gigs in Tokyo. This is just a soft launch.”
Jungkook nodded, but it wasn’t the crowd that had him tight-chested. It was the city.

Seoul.

And the possibility — however distant — that someone from his past might hear his voice.
👥

Yoongi wasn’t planning to stay long.

He was here for Jiwoo — a part-time session musician he’d worked with on a project last year. She’d messaged him, said her indie group was doing a set tonight. “Lowkey.

Nothing big. Come if you want to feel human again.”

So he’d shown up. Hoodie, cap, tired eyes, espresso in hand. Just to be polite.

He slid into the back of the venue. Not more than 40 people in the space — dim lights, string bulbs, soft chatter.

His phone buzzed with a text from Jimin. He ignored it.

“Our final act tonight,” the emcee said, “is a local rising voice — faceless, fearless — give it up for K.EON.”

🎤
Jungkook stepped into the light.

Not much of it — just a backlight behind him and a soft glow on the mic. The shadows did most of the work. His black shirt hugged his frame. Hair tucked under a hood, cap pulled low.

Bam’s old collar wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. For grounding.

He looked up once, just to scan the crowd — instinct.

That’s when his breath caught.

Yoongi.

Sitting alone in the back, arms crossed, hood up. Tired eyes. Same as always. He doesn't even know how he spotted him, for some reason Yoongi was the first person Jungkook always noticed. Like a moth to a flame.

Jungkook looked away before it could register. Took a breath. Gripped the mic.

“This song’s called ‘Ashes First, Then Light.’”
No one clapped yet. The room held its breath.

🎵
"I was the question you buried under silence,
The warmth you didn’t ask to keep.
Now I’m the echo in your hallway,
The song that makes you lose sleep."

🎵

Jungkook sang like he wasn’t hiding.
And that was the cruel irony.

Under the lights, in front of strangers — he told the truth. Loud. Clear. Honest.

He watched Yoongi out of the corner of his eye. The way his brow furrowed slightly. The way he sat forward, as if something in the lyrics felt… familiar.

🎧

He couldn’t place it — the voice. The song.
But something in it made the back of his throat sting.
A line. A note. A melody he’d heard before in a dream or demo or someone’s bedroom floor.
Who the hell is this guy?

The lights didn’t help. All he could see was a silhouette. But the voice — it hit like déjà vu carved into melody.

🎵
"You lit me, left me, told yourself it was mercy.
But now I burn bright in the places you don’t see."
🎵
His voice cracked just enough on the word mercy that he had to close his eyes.
When the song ended, there was silence for a breath.

Then applause — not thunderous, but real.

Jungkook nodded once. Stepped back into the dark.

Jungkook moved fast, hoodie still up. Through the staff door. Past the crowd.
He didn’t wait to see if Yoongi was still there.

His hands shook once he got outside. Cold air slapped his face.
He stood under a flickering streetlight, trying to breathe.

Jiwoo joined him moments later.

“That was intense,” she said. “You okay?”

Jungkook wiped his face. Didn’t realize he’d been crying.

“Yeah. Just needed to let something go.”

Chapter Text

The city outside the venue was colder than Yoongi remembered.
A wind swept down the narrow street, rustling signs, tugging at his hoodie. But he didn’t move. He stood near the curb, staring up at the soft orange glow of the venue’s marquee, as if it might give him answers.

K.EON.

A name he’d never heard. A voice he swore he knew.

The singer hadn’t shown his face. The lights had been low — golden backlight and soft haze, smoke machine fog curling around his silhouette.
But it wasn’t just the voice. It was the lyrics.
Lines that bit.

Words he might have said, once. In an apartment. In a bed. In a moment he never spoke about again.
He ran a hand through his hair, knuckles cold.
His skin felt wrong.

He needed answers.

Back in his car, he searched for K.EON on his phone.

Spotify, YouTube, SoundCloud — pages of songs, no interviews, no social profiles. No face.

Just artwork — abstract images, charcoal drawings of empty stairwells, unlit windows, doorways that led nowhere.

One EP was titled “Seonlight.”

Yoongi froze.

No way.

Coincidence, maybe. The café was obscure, sure — but not invisible.
Still, something itched at him.

He stared at the EP cover. It was a sketch of a single hand, outstretched, reaching toward a dim ceiling bulb. The shading was sharp. Deliberate.

It reminded him of a sketch he’d seen once in Namjoon’s apartment. Four years ago.
He closed the app. Drove home in silence.

🌤 The Next Morning, Seonlight

Seonlight smelled like orange peel and dark roast today.

Sunlight filtered through the window in thin beams, catching dust motes in the air. The glass fogged slightly from the warmth inside.
Yoongi stepped in quietly, hands in his coat pockets. A grey wool overcoat this time, layered over a hoodie. Black jeans, boots that clicked softly on the wooden floor.
His hair was slightly damp from the morning mist — not styled. Just human. Tired.

Behind the counter, the barista glanced up.
Same cap. Same black shirt. Same shadows covering his eyes.

But this time, the sleeves were rolled higher — revealing a faint scar over his right wrist. Thin. Diagonal. Not new.
Something in Yoongi’s chest twitched.

“Back again,” the barista said.

“Guess I like the coffee,” Yoongi replied.

“Or the silence.”

“Both.”

The barista started preparing the order without asking — same Americano, no sugar.

Yoongi watched him work.

His hands were steady. Strong. Familiar in their rhythm.
He remembered, distantly, the same fingers sliding up a mixing board. Tapping a beat on a thigh. Tracing a lyric on a fogged mirror.
He shook the thought off. No. Stop it.
He’s just a barista.

“Rough night?” the barista asked, sliding the cup toward him.

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“How would you know?”

“You’re stirring your drink with the sleeve, not the spoon.”

Yoongi looked down. He was.

“Right.” He exhaled, rubbed his temple. “Caught a set at a venue last night. Weird voice stuck with me.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird like… it said things I didn’t know I remembered.”

The barista’s lips twitched. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It was.”

“What was the name?”

“K.EON.”

The barista’s eyes flicked up, just for a moment. “Yeah. He’s good.”
Yoongi sipped his drink.
His eyes drifted to the corner shelf where a new sketch had been propped up. Just pencil on rough paper — but sharp. Controlled.
Two figures drawn back-to-back, each holding a flame behind them.

“That yours?” he asked.

“Mm.” The barista didn’t elaborate.

“You draw too?”

“When I’m not pouring caffeine into ghosts.”

Yoongi huffed. “What’s with you and ghosts?”

“They make better company than people who forget.”
☁️
As he left the café, Yoongi paused by the door.

“What did you say your name was again?”

The barista looked up.

Sunlight hit his jawline just right — sharp, clean, older than the kid Yoongi remembered.

“J,” he said.

“Right.”

Yoongi hesitated. “Well. See you around, J.”

“If you say so, hyung.”

The door shut.
Jungkook stood still behind the counter.
His fingers tightened around the edge.

Bam let out a small huff, resting his chin on Jungkook’s foot.
Jungkook whispered, “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.

Chapter Text

The café was half-empty, golden light spilling across woodgrain.
It was that soft hour between rushes — when time stretched a little, music played lower, and everything slowed into breath and shadows.

Jungkook wiped down the marble counter, rag in one hand, the other absently spinning his ring — a thin silver band, resting where his mother’s hands used to scold his fidgeting.

The back door was cracked open to let in breeze. Bam sat nearby, lazy and alert, his head resting on crossed paws like royalty at ease.
Jungkook had let his hair fall loose today — tucked under the café cap but not tied. It framed his face in pieces, hiding the sharp edge of his jaw and the look in his eyes that had become a little too tired to explain.

His fingers hurt today — not from café work, but from guitar strings.
He’d written a song at 3 a.m. last night. It had felt too much like bleeding to be therapy, but not enough to be closure.
He hadn’t titled it yet. But the chorus came out like an accusation.

“You asked me to stay quiet, and I did / Even when your silence grew teeth.”

🚪

The bell over the door chimed.
Jungkook looked up — a glance only.

He recognized him instantly.

Park Jimin.

Same blonde streaks. Designer sunglasses (indoors), bubble jacket with a crescent moon pin. His walk was confident — dancer-smooth.
Jungkook didn’t react outwardly. His face remained still, as if carved from habit.
But his stomach dropped.

What is he doing here?

👀

Jimin stepped inside and paused — something tugged at him immediately.
The place smelled like nutmeg and cinnamon and fresh-ground espresso — cozy, nostalgic. But that wasn’t it.
His eyes landed on the barista.

“Nice dog,” he said first.

The guy nodded, not smiling. “His name’s Bam.”

“You don’t look like a Bam person.”

“I wasn’t,” the barista replied. “Now I am.”

Jimin tilted his head, taking him in.
Tall. Muscular build. Strong hands. Soft jawline, mostly hidden by hair and that uniform cap.

But it wasn’t his looks.
It was the way he stood.
I’ve seen that posture before, Jimin thought.

He ordered a latte and sat down, but kept watching. Not with suspicion — with interest.
Something about the guy made him uneasy, but not in a threatening way. In a déjà vu kind of way.
He heard him speak to another customer — low voice, warm but distant.
And when he laughed — a quiet, brief sound — Jimin’s heart stuttered.
I’ve heard that laugh before. Somewhere.
It sat in his chest like a splinter.

☕️

“So,” Jimin said casually when the barista brought his drink over, “you draw?”
He nodded toward the framed sketch on the back wall.

The barista shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You sell them?”

“Only if someone insists.”

“Your linework’s sharp,” Jimin added. “You study?”

“Just remembered things. That’s all.”

“Memories?”

“Mistakes.”

Jimin leaned forward. “What kind of mistakes?”

The barista met his eyes — briefly.

And that was when Jimin felt it.

Just for a moment. A flicker. A heartbeat.
Jungkook.

He didn’t say anything.

Just smiled slightly and walked away.

🧠

It can’t be.
Jungkook was in Japan. Out of contact. Off the grid.
And if he had come back, someone would’ve said something. Right?

But… that scar on his wrist. That laugh. That stillness.
What if it is him?
Jimin sipped his latte.
It tasted like burnt sugar and unfinished apologies.

📷

As Jimin stood to leave, he pulled out his phone and — casually, carefully — snapped a picture of the sketch by the counter.
Just the art. Not the barista.
But his hand was in frame.
That same silver ring.
The same one Jungkook used to fidget with when he was nervous.
Jimin left without a word.

But the picture burned in his pocket.

Chapter Text

🕯

Jimin returned to Seonlight three days later.

This time, he came alone — no excuse, no meeting, no hunger. Just questions.
The café looked the same. Always did. The light through the front windows was soft, filtered through sheer beige curtains that moved slightly when the door opened. Dust floated in beams above the tables like tired stars.

Inside, the air smelled like burnt sugar and bitter coffee — a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

“J” was behind the counter. Same posture. Same uniform — a fitted black shirt, sleeves cuffed halfway to the elbow, a charcoal apron tied at the waist. His café-issued cap sat low on his forehead again, hair dark and loose beneath it.

Bam lifted his head as Jimin entered. One blink. Then down again.
Jimin sat at the counter this time.

He wanted proximity.

“You again,” J said. His tone wasn’t annoyed. It wasn’t anything, really.

“Me again,” Jimin echoed.

“Latte?”

“Surprise me.”

J gave a short nod, then turned to prep the order.

Jimin watched him move — the barista’s movements were practiced and smooth, but not indifferent. He worked with his whole body, small adjustments in balance and form like muscle memory. Like choreography.

That’s what struck Jimin this time.

The way he moved.
There was something familiar in the fluidity. The tension in his back when he turned. The grace in how he reached for the ceramic cup on the upper shelf, like he already knew the weight of it.

Jimin’s throat tightened.
“You ever dance?” he asked suddenly.

J’s hands paused over the espresso machine for a second.

“A little. Not anymore.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Didn’t like what it made me remember.”

Jimin tilted his head. “And coffee doesn’t do that?”

“Not unless you burn it.”

J passed him the drink. It was a honey flat white, delicate foam folded into a heart with a broken edge.

“Your dog’s name is Bam,” Jimin said slowly, sipping.

“Yeah.”

“Interesting choice. Doberman?”

“Mm.”

“You know Jungkook had a dog named Bam too.”

J’s hand tensed around the towel he was folding. Just for a breath. Then relaxed.

“That so?” he said.

Jimin met his gaze.

And for the first time, J didn’t look away.

Something passed between them — not confirmation, not denial. Just a pause, long enough for the past to slip its fingers through the present.
Then Jimin leaned back and smiled like it was nothing.

“Nice coffee,” he said.

“Thanks,” said J, turning away.

🌘 That Night, Yoongi’s Apartment

Yoongi sat in the dim warmth of his apartment, elbows on the kitchen counter, staring at a laptop screen like it owed him answers.
He’d been listening to the same K.EON track for the third time that night.

"Ashes First, Then Light."
The production was subtle — acoustic layering, soft percussion, clean vocals with raw edges. The kind of imperfection that only came from someone who meant it.
But what unsettled him wasn’t the production. It was the lyrical voice.

It was too… close.

“You lit me, left me, told yourself it was mercy…”
Mercy.

That word had come out of his mouth once. On a night he hadn’t forgotten. Not really.
He’d said that pushing Jungkook away would be mercy.

That it would save them both.
That Jungkook would “thank him someday.”
But Yoongi had waited for that day for years.

And it never came.

His email to K.EON’s listed manager — an anonymous band profile — had gone unanswered.

He’d tried three times. Always unsigned. Always vague.

He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

“Your music reminds me of someone I broke.”
“You sound like someone I loved but wasn’t brave enough to hold.”
“Do you remember me?”

The screen blurred slightly as he stared.

His coffee had gone cold beside him.

His shoulders ached — not from work, but from carrying something invisible and old.

He reached for his phone and opened his private playlist.

There it was.

A demo track labeled “Unnamed_4am_JK”
A voice, younger then. Softer. Unpolished. Still unsure of itself.
Jungkook, humming a melody Yoongi never finished writing.

He closed the file.
Then opened his messages.

He hovered over Jimin’s name.
Typed:
“Do you think about him lately?”

Deleted it.
Sent nothing.

🕯
Back at Seonlight, the café had emptied.
Jungkook stood in the quiet, wiping down the same counter for the 4th time, slowly, hands steady.

The same playlist from years ago played in the background — jazz and ambient rain.
The track shifted.

A soft demo. His own voice, distorted through filters.
Bam raised his head and blinked at him.

“I know,” Jungkook murmured, resting a hand on the dog’s head. “He’ll figure it out soon.”

A pause.

“I just don’t know what I’ll do when he does.”

Chapter Text

🌧

The sky was bruising purple when Jimin returned to Seonlight, rain threatening the edges of every cloud. He wore a black windbreaker, hood pulled down, sneakers silent on wet concrete.
Inside, the café lights were already on — warm and soft against the cold city. The glow looked innocent from the outside.
But Jimin’s chest was a mess of knots.

The bell chimed.
Bam lifted his head immediately. A sound rumbled low in his throat — not a growl, but close.
Jimin didn’t flinch.

The barista behind the counter — J — didn’t greet him this time.
Just stood, silent, hands braced on the counter like he was already bracing for impact.

“You’re not even going to deny it?” Jimin said.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp — like the edge of a broken glass.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked up.
“No point,” he said quietly.

“So it is you.”

“Was there ever a real question?”

Jimin walked forward slowly, eyes scanning every feature.
The jawline was sharper, the frame broader, the voice deeper — but the way he stood, the way his left thumb pressed against his ring finger when he was anxious…
It was him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because you didn’t ask.”

“Don’t pull that,” Jimin snapped. “You disappeared. Two years. We thought you were dead.”

“You didn’t think about me at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

The café was empty, the hum of the fridge the only sound besides their voices.
Bam lay silently in the corner, watching.

“You could’ve said something,” Jimin said again, quieter now. “You could’ve—”

“Said what, hyung?” Jungkook’s voice was low but cracking. “That I heard everything? That I know exactly what he said about me?”
Jimin froze.

“What… what are you talking about?”

🔁 Flashback

The apartment was louder than usual. Music from Taesun’s speaker, laughter in the kitchen, bottles clinking. Jungkook had come back for his sketchpad — just five minutes, in and out.
But then he heard Yoongi’s voice.
From the hallway. Behind the half-closed door of Namjoon’s room.

“It was a mistake.”
Jungkook stopped cold.

“It never meant anything. He’s just a kid anyway.”
Laughter. Taesun’s voice. “God, thank you. I thought I was the only one who saw how clingy he was.”

“Yeah. He was just… there. It happened. I don’t know what else to say.”
Jungkook didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

The sketchpad fell from his fingers, unnoticed.

He turned.

And walked out.

No goodbye. No door slammed. Just… gone.

💥The Present

“You heard that?” Jimin asked, horrified. “He—he didn’t know—”

“He knew exactly what he was doing,” Jungkook said. “He just didn’t think I’d hear it.”

“He regretted it, Jungkook. He—”

“He said he regretted me.”
The words came out hard. Like a punch he’d been holding in for years.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” Jungkook continued, voice trembling. “He was the first person I ever—”
He cut himself off.

Jimin swallowed. “We thought you left because of Taesun.”

“You let Taesun replace me.”

“We didn’t know! He was charming, he was—”

“Fake.”

“We realized later.”

“Too late.”

“So you ran?” Jimin demanded, suddenly sharp. “You punished all of us for what Yoongi said?”

“I punished myself,” Jungkook snapped. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

💔

Jimin’s eyes were glassy now. “You think I didn’t notice you were hurting? That I didn’t want to help?”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you shut down! You vanished!”

“Because you left me no choice!”
Their voices echoed in the quiet café, bouncing off wood and glass and every memory they’d left behind.
Jungkook stepped back, breath shaky.

“You want answers, Jimin?” he said, voice low. “Here’s one: I don’t owe you anything anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“It has to be. Because if it’s not, I might not survive this a second time.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than shouting.

🌑

Jimin turned, slowly.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t slam the door.

Just like Jungkook had, two years ago.
This time, he was the one walking out.

And Jungkook was the one who didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

❄️ Namjoon’s Apartment, Late Afternoon

The apartment smelled like soy sauce and something vaguely burnt.
Jungkook stood just inside the doorway, clutching a small paper bag and a sketchbook like a shield, oversized hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands.

"He's here!" Jimin's voice rang out from the kitchen.
Namjoon looked up from the couch with a half-smile, adjusting his glasses. "You made it, kid."

"Hey, hyung," Jungkook said, bowing slightly. His ears were already pink.
Jimin came flying around the corner, socked feet nearly sliding. "Did you bring them?"
Jungkook held out the paper bag. "Red bean buns."

"My favorite." Jimin grinned, taking the bag. "You're officially allowed to stay."

The apartment was cramped, clean in places, chaotic in others. Books stacked sideways on the floor. Vinyls leaning against a sagging shelf. Jackets hanging from doorknobs. It felt alive.
Jungkook followed Jimin into the main room and saw him—
Yoongi.

He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, wearing a loose grey sweatshirt and joggers, hair swept off his forehead. A black notebook lay open in his lap, one earbud in.
He looked up when Jungkook entered.
Their eyes met for exactly half a second.

“You're the vocal student, the one who called me ancient,” Yoongi said. Not a question.

Jungkook nodded. “First year.”

“You look twelve.”

Jungkook blinked. “I’m nineteen.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Exactly.”

🧊
The hours passed in slow, golden slowness. The windows fogged from the warmth of the stovetop. The heater made its usual low clicking sound.
Jungkook sat on the floor beside the coffee table, sketchbook in his lap, pretending to doodle while the others played some chaotic board game involving fake currency and betrayal.

Across from him, Yoongi sipped hot tea and watched silently, contributing nothing but dry commentary.
Every now and then, their eyes met.

Yoongi didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away, either.

“You always draw?” Yoongi asked quietly when Jimin and Taehyung ran off to bicker in the kitchen.

Jungkook shrugged. “When things feel too loud.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “And now?”

“Still loud.”

A pause. Yoongi leaned over slightly, looking at the page.
Jungkook’s breath hitched.
It was a loose sketch of the room — the window, the table, and a blurry suggestion of the people sitting around it. Except one figure was clearer than the rest.
Yoongi blinked.

“That me?”

Jungkook flushed red. “No.”

“Liar.”

Yoongi leaned back again, quiet. But a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jungkook didn’t know what to do with that.

🎶

“You said you sing,” Yoongi said casually a week later.
It was nearly 10 p.m. in Namjoon’s home studio — mismatched foam padding on the walls, old mics, an unused keyboard under the desk.

Jungkook nodded. “Vocal major.”

“Let me hear something.”

“Now?”

“Before I change my mind.”
Jungkook hesitated, then stepped up to the mic. His hand trembled as he adjusted it.

Yoongi watched him from the couch, arms folded. His expression unreadable.
Jungkook closed his eyes and started humming — soft at first. A jazz riff. One he’d been building quietly since high school.

Then came the lyrics.
“I don’t know where this ends / But I know how it began / You looked at me like I was something / Then said you never did again…”

The silence after was sharp.
Yoongi stared.

“You wrote that?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitched like he might say something. Then didn’t.

“Get some sleep,” he said, standing. “You’re gonna need it.”

🌨 The First Snow

That winter, the first snow fell during a group dinner.
Jungkook stood on the balcony while the others argued over dumplings inside.
He watched snowflakes catch in the glow of a streetlamp below.
Then he heard a voice behind him.

“You like the cold?”
He turned. Yoongi was holding two mugs.

“Don’t like heat,” Jungkook said.

Yoongi handed him one of the mugs. Their fingers brushed — brief, electric.

“You talk more when no one’s watching,” Yoongi said.

“You listen more when no one’s talking,” Jungkook replied.

For the first time, Yoongi smiled — really smiled.

And that was when Jungkook felt it.
The beginning of something.
Quiet.

But dangerous.

Chapter Text

🛋

Jungkook spent nearly every weekend at Namjoon’s apartment now.
His dorm was cold, his roommate loud, and the tiny sink always backed up.

But Namjoon’s place smelled like tangerines and ramen and music — and more than that, it felt like belonging.
By now, Bam would nuzzle at Yoongi’s knee for scraps, and Jimin would bring extra socks just for Jungkook to wear.

“You live here now?” Taehyung teased, tossing him a hoodie one night.

“He pays in red bean buns,” Jimin added.

Yoongi, from the couch, without looking up: “He sings for his rent.”
That was the thing.

Jungkook didn’t talk much.
But when he sang, everyone stopped talking.
Especially Yoongi.

🎶

They stayed up late sometimes, just the two of them.
Yoongi’s studio was dark except for a warm desk lamp and the glow of waveforms on a screen.
Jungkook sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook in his lap, waiting for cues while Yoongi layered guitar or re-recorded a single line ten different ways.

“Try it softer,” Yoongi would say. “Not timid — just… like you’re remembering something painful without naming it.”
Jungkook would nod. Close his eyes. Sing like that.

Yoongi never said it, but some nights he wouldn’t record at all.
He’d just sit and listen.

One night, after two mugs of hot tea and a bad take, Yoongi asked, “Do you ever write about things that haven’t happened yet?”
Jungkook looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Like… feelings you think you’ll have someday. You just feel them early.”
Jungkook hesitated. “I do that all the time.”

“What kinds of things?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Love. Regret. Losing people.”

“You think about that at nineteen?”

“Only when you’re in the room,” Jungkook said, too softly.

Yoongi didn’t answer.

But he looked at him for a long time.

🖤
The night it nearly happened, it rained.
Hard. The city sounded blurred. The balcony steamed with fog.

Jungkook wore one of Yoongi’s old hoodies, sleeves too long, the drawstrings chewed up.

They sat on the couch. Close — closer than they should’ve been.
A movie played on mute in the background. Bam snored quietly at their feet.

Jungkook was warm, maybe from the wine, maybe from Yoongi’s thigh pressing gently into his.
Yoongi turned to say something — Jungkook never remembered what.

All he remembered was the look in his eyes.

And how easy it was to lean in.

They didn’t kiss.

Not that night.

Yoongi looked away too fast.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“I’m not tired.”

“Then go lie down anyway.”

Jungkook did.

And spent the whole night replaying that moment like a song he couldn’t finish writing.

🥀

Things changed in spring.

Not all at once. Slowly. In pieces.
Yoongi got busier.

More projects, longer hours, emails with industry execs. His name started popping up in articles.

“Proud of you, hyung,” Jungkook said one night after dinner.

“Don’t be,” Yoongi replied. “I haven’t earned it yet.”
And something in his voice sounded tired in a way Jungkook didn’t know how to soothe.

He sketched Yoongi that night. Not smiling. Not looking at him. Just sitting at the desk, forehead in his hand.

He labeled it: “The Version of You That You Hide From Yourself.”

🌌
On Jungkook’s nineteenth birthday, they all stayed up late again.
He was a little drunk. Maybe. Just enough.
Yoongi handed him a small wrapped notebook. Black leather.

“So you stop drawing on napkins,” he said.

“Hyung…”

“It’s not a big deal.”

But it was.
Jungkook used it for lyrics and sketches.
And on the very last page, with trembling hands, he wrote:

“I think I love you. But I’m afraid if I say it, you’ll disappear.”

Chapter Text

🌧 The Night It Happened

The first kiss wasn’t shy.
It was inevitable.

Jungkook had known it for weeks — the way Yoongi looked at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, the way he touched his lower back when he walked past him in the kitchen, the way he called him kid with a voice that didn’t match the word.

So when it happened, on the floor of Namjoon's apartment with a single blanket, both tipsy from the now dead party, quiet jazz humming through the speakers, Jungkook didn’t pull back.
He leaned in like he was always meant to.
Yoongi kissed like someone drowning — like he didn’t know if this would be the last time.

Jungkook kissed like someone who had waited forever.
They didn’t speak much.
There were hands, breath, open mouths and stifled whimpers. Jungkook’s shirt was pushed up, jeans tugged off, Yoongi’s fingers everywhere at once.
It didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like safety. Like honesty.

"you're gonna wreck me, you know that?"

☀️ Scene Two – The Next Morning

Yoongi was already dressed.
Hoodie on. Mug in hand. Staring out the window.
Jungkook sat up slowly, the blanket falling off his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

A pause.

“Last night…” Jungkook hesitated again, not wanting to here the same words Yoongi said, that it wasn't a mistake, that Jungkook giving his heart on a silver platter was not a mistake.

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t—”

“We should keep it between us,” Yoongi said quickly.

Jungkook froze. “What?”

“Just for now. I don’t want it to get… messy.”

“Messy,” Jungkook repeated.

“You know how it is.”

Jungkook didn’t reply.

He reached for his shirt silently.

🕰

After that night, Yoongi didn’t touch him again.
Not by accident. Not on purpose.

He still looked at him sometimes — too long, too soft — but whenever Jungkook met his eyes, Yoongi would look away.

The texts slowed.

The studio invitations stopped.
Jungkook kept showing up anyway. Sat in the background. Brought extra coffee. Waited for something to be said.

Nothing was.

Then one night, Yoongi showed up late to a dinner with the others — same black hoodie, same untied laces — and sat beside Jimin, too quiet.

Namjoon asked casually, “You been busy?”

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah. Seeing someone.”

“Oh?” Taehyung perked up. “Anyone we know?”

Yoongi hesitated. Then:

“Taesun.”

Jungkook didn’t hear the rest.
His fork was in his hand.
His food was untouched.

He excused himself before dessert. Said something about a class in the morning.
Nobody stopped him.

🌒

The first time he ignored a text from Yoongi, it took an hour of staring at it.

The second time, it took five seconds.

The third, he blocked his number.

Not out of anger.
Out of self-defense.

Jungkook started singing less.

Sketching more.

Quiet at dinners. Quiet when the others laughed about something Taesun said. Quiet when Jimin mentioned Yoongi’s newest track.

And Yoongi?
Yoongi was quiet too. But in a different way.

Like someone who had chosen the silence.
Like someone who didn’t even realize he’d left anything behind.

That month, Jungkook wrote a new song.
Just three lines.
He never recorded it.

Just wrote it down and closed the notebook:
“You kissed me like I mattered / Then moved on like I didn’t / I stayed behind anyway.”

Chapter Text

🕯 The Infiltration (2 months after Yoongi & Taesun start dating)

Taesun wasn’t loud.
That was the worst part.

He wasn’t a villain with a sneer and a knife. He was soft-spoken, charming, affectionate with perfect timing. He brought wine to group dinners, remembered Jimin’s favorite side dish, laughed at Taehyung’s weirdest jokes.

And when Jungkook spoke, he smiled at him — the way someone smiles at static on a TV.

It started small.
“Kook, you’re quiet today,” Taesun said once with a kind laugh. “Are you okay, or just brooding for aesthetic?”
Everyone chuckled.

Jungkook smiled politely. Said nothing.

Later that night, Taesun pulled Yoongi aside — just loud enough.

“I’m worried about him. He’s… intense sometimes. Kinda possessive, maybe? I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.”
Yoongi nodded. Said nothing.

That silence became routine.

🩸

“I offered to help him with his solo stuff,” Taesun told Jimin one night. “But he shut me down. I think he’s overwhelmed.”

“Jungkook doesn’t like help,” Yoongi muttered.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t like me,” Taesun added with a soft, embarrassed laugh. “But I’m really trying, you know?”
Jimin’s mouth twisted. “He’s been kind of off lately.”

“Exactly.”

The way Taesun said exactly made it feel like a conclusion, not an observation.

A week later, Namjoon asked Jungkook if everything was okay.
Jungkook blinked. “Yeah.”

“You’ve just seemed… different.”

Jungkook wanted to say, I sleep with music on now so I don’t dream about being forgotten.
But instead he said, “Just tired.”

🎭

They started talking around him.
Not to him.

Taesun became the glue — always planning, always curating, always leaning into Yoongi with little touches that burned when Jungkook looked too long.

“You should speak up more, Kook,” Taesun said once during game night. “We miss your voice.”

Jungkook looked up. “You mean the one you told Yoongi was too possessive?”
The silence was thick.

Taesun laughed it off. “Yikes, did I say that? Damn. My mouth gets ahead of me.”

No one said anything.
Jungkook stood up and left early.
No one followed.

🎂

His 20th birthday came on a Friday.

He didn’t say anything.

He’d bought a cake himself — quiet, small, from a corner bakery. It was tied with red ribbon, boxed neatly, placed in the fridge behind a bottle of sparkling champagne - a pricey one Jungkook had decided to splurge on as a treat for his hyungs.

He didn’t want celebration. He just wanted… to be remembered.

That night, the group met at Namjoon’s.
Jungkook came late. No one noticed.

Jimin was showing Taesun a choreography video. Yoongi was reading a draft lyric with headphones in.

Taehyung said, “Oh! You made it.”
That was it.

“Jungkook,” Hoseok said quietly after a while, handing him a beer.

“Thanks, hyung.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”
Hours passed. People filtered out.

Hoseok went to grab water from the fridge.
Saw the box.
Pulled it out.
On the ribbon was a small handwritten note:

“Thank you for this year. I’m trying.”
Inside — a cake with nine candles.

Vanilla and chestnut. Jungkook’s favorite.

Hoseok stood frozen, staring at the label.
A timestamp.
Earlier that morning.
He turned slowly — Jungkook was already gone.

🧠

Hoseok sat on the balcony alone, the box still in his lap.
Behind him, Yoongi and Taesun were talking softly.

Taesun was laughing again. That too-perfect, low laugh that always sounded like the punchline was someone else’s pain.
Hoseok looked down at the candle wax melted against the box.
Then up at the sky.

“What are we doing?” he whispered.
No one answered.

Chapter Text

🌫

The sun came up grey.
Hoseok stared at the untouched cake box on the table.

Nine candles. Still boxed.

Still tied with the same red ribbon.

The note was folded under the corner now. Creased from where he’d held it all night:

“Thank you for this year. I’m trying.”
No one had asked what it meant. No one had noticed it was Jungkook’s handwriting.

Hoseok paced the kitchen, barefoot, jaw tight.
Jimin shuffled in first, rubbing his eyes.

“Yo, Hobi. You good?”

“Where’s Jungkook?”

“I think he left early?”

“You think?”

Namjoon came next, hoodie pulled halfway over his head. “What's going on?”
Hoseok turned. “What day is it?”

Namjoon blinked. “Uh, Saturday?”

“No. I mean yesterday.”
Jimin’s brow furrowed. “Friday. Why?”

“It was Jungkook’s birthday.”

Silence.

Like a vacuum sealed the room.

Taehyung stopped halfway through the hallway and froze.
“What…?”
Hoseok held up the box.

“He brought this. Left it in the fridge. Didn’t say a word.”
He pulled the ribbon off, opened the lid.

The cake was simple. Hand-piped letters:

"Be kind to each other. Thank you for another year.”

“He thanked us,” Hoseok hissed. “For a year where we forgot him.”

🔥

“Okay—wait,” Jimin said quickly. “Maybe he didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“He didn’t say anything because he knew you’d already forgotten,” Hoseok snapped.
Jimin flinched.

“Hobi—”

“No. We let this happen. We let him disappear in front of us.”

Taesun emerged from the bathroom, towel around his neck. “What’s going on?”
Hoseok turned to him.

“You,” he said flatly.

Taesun blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve been making comments for months. Undermining him. Isolating him. Smiling like you’re doing us a favor.”

“That’s not fair,” Taesun said, raising his hands. “I’ve tried so hard to connect with him. But he’s cold. Withdrawn. He won’t let anyone in.”

“He was never like that before you,” Hoseok growled.

“Maybe he’s just always been that way and you didn’t notice.”

“Don’t—” Hoseok stepped closer. “Don’t twist this into some poor you narrative. You’re not the victim here.”

The others were quiet.

Jimin looked like he was trying to find air.
Namjoon ran a hand through his hair, eyes closing slowly.
Taehyung looked visibly sick.

Taesun turned to Yoongi. “Are you just going to let him talk to me like that?”
Yoongi, arms folded, leaned against the wall.

“Did you know it was his birthday?” Hoseok asked him.
Yoongi’s silence was enough of an answer.
“Thought so,” Hoseok said, voice cracking.

💔
Hoseok dropped the cake back on the counter.

“You all let him disappear,” he said. “He was in the room. Every time. And not one of you saw how much he was trying. Not one of you remembered the kid who never missed a birthday. The one who waited up for you when you were drunk, who made playlists when you were sad, who sketched you all in secret because that’s how he said I love you.”

Jimin covered his mouth.
Taehyung sat down slowly, staring at his hands.

Yoongi didn’t move.

“I don’t care if it’s awkward now,” Hoseok added. “I’m reaching out. Today. Right now.”
Namjoon nodded numbly.

“Me too,” Taehyung said.

“What are we even going to say?” Jimin whispered.

“Start with I’m sorry,” Hoseok said. “Then wait. And don’t expect him to reply.”

📨
- Kook, I’m so sorry.
- You didn’t deserve that.
- Happy birthday. We miss you.
-You can be mad. Just please say something.
- Come back. Please.

Jungkook didn’t reply.
He read them all.
Then turned off notifications.

🖤
Three days passed.
Namjoon had left his door unlocked, as always.
No one was home when Jungkook stepped inside.
He didn’t text. Didn’t knock. Just walked quietly down the hall, the way his body still remembered.

His sketchbook was still under the couch.
He bent down to get it—

And froze.
Voices.
From the door, slightly ajar.

“I’m just saying,” Taesun’s voice, careless, “it was a mistake. You said it yourself.”
Yoongi’s voice followed.
Tired. Resigned.

“Yeah. It never meant anything. He was just a kid anyway.”
Jungkook stood completely still.
His fingers tightened around the sketchbook.
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t breathe.
He turned.
And walked out.
No door slam. No sound.
Just one final exit.

Chapter Text

🌫

The sketchbook sat on his bed. Black leather.
The page with Yoongi’s name in graphite was already torn out.

Jungkook didn’t throw it away.
He folded it once. Twice. Slipped it into the pocket of his carry-on bag.
Not to keep it.

Just to remind himself why.

He didn’t leave a note.

He didn’t owe one.

📱
yoongi (1)
namjoon hyung (3)
jiminie 🐣 (7)
taehyung 💜 (1)
hoseok hyung (4)

He didn’t open any of them.

He turned off the number the day after the airport.

Opened a new one.

New number. New SIM. New language in the air.

🛫
The airport was empty enough to feel like a dream.
6:10 a.m. boarding gate. Hoodie up. Mask on. Black backpack.

He wore no jewelry, no branded clothes, nothing that said I’m him.
The sunrise cracked over the city just as they called his row.

Jungkook didn’t look back.
Because no one was looking for him in person.
Only in regret.

Hoseok texted his mom first.
Mrs. Jeon, we’re really worried. Has he been in touch?

She replied quickly:
He’s safe. He’s thinking. I promise he’s okay.

Please tell him we’re sorry.

He knows.

Namjoon tried calling next.
No answer.

Two weeks passed.
Yoongi stopped trying.

Taehyung left him voice notes at 2 a.m., softly crying into the mic.
Jimin begged for “just five minutes, Kook. Please. Yell at me. Just don’t disappear.”
Jungkook didn't care.
He was rebuilding.

a few days later, he settled into his new apartment, lounging on the black leather couch, room temperature beer in his hand when his phone vibrated against the table.

Jimin 🐣 calling.
Jungkook stared at the screen.

He hadn’t answered a single call in weeks.
But this time, his thumb moved.
He pressed accept — and didn’t speak.
Silence for a few seconds.

Then:
“Kook?”
Jimin’s voice was small. Breathless.

“Please don’t hang up. Please. Just—listen, okay?”
Jungkook stayed quiet.
The line buzzed softly.

“I should’ve noticed,” Jimin whispered. “You were slipping away and I saw it, I did, I just… I didn’t know what to say.”
A pause.

“No. That’s not true. I didn’t want to admit it. It was easier to pretend everything was fine.”
A shaky breath.

“You always took care of us. You remembered everything — birthdays, injuries, when Taehyung’s grandma passed, when Yoongi missed a meal, when my voice cracked and I wanted to quit… You were always there. And we weren’t.”
Another breath, and then he cracked.

“I wasn’t.”
Jungkook closed his eyes.

The walls in this borrowed apartment were bare.
No photos. No sound. Just Jimin’s voice, trying not to break.

“Taesun made it easy to ignore you,” Jimin said. “That’s what’s killing me. He didn’t even try that hard. We just… let it happen. I let him act like you were too sensitive, too intense, too much. And you still stayed. You still—”
His voice broke.

“You brought a cake. You brought a fucking cake.”
Jungkook felt his throat tighten.

But he still said nothing.

“I’m not asking you to come back,” Jimin whispered. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just… I want you to know that someone sees you now. And if you ever—ever—want to scream at me, hit me, ignore me forever, that’s fine. Just… know that I still love you.”

Another pause.

“I’ve always loved you, Jungkookie. I just got too used to thinking you’d never leave.”
The silence that followed was gentle.

Jimin didn’t hang up.

He stayed on the line, crying softly.

Jungkook stared at the wall and let the sound happen.

After a while, Jimin said, “Okay. I’ll go now. Thank you for picking up.”
A pause.
Then:

“Happy late birthday, Kook.”

The line disconnected.

Jungkook set the phone down.
He didn’t cry.
But he looked at the ceiling for a long, long time.
And wondered if maybe — maybe — there was still a door he hadn’t closed.
He picked up his keys.
Just to get his sketchbook.
That’s all.

☎️
His phone rang once that week.
Private number.
He picked up, already knowing.

“Hi, baby.”
His mother’s voice was warm, even across countries.

“Hi, eomma.”

“How’s the new place?”

“Quiet. Good.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah. I like the noodles here.”

Silence.
Then:
“They’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

“They called me. They’re hurting.”

“I’m not ready to forgive them.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t think I ever will.”

“That’s okay too.”

A pause.
Then softer:
“Just… be sure you’re closing the door for yourself, not to prove a point to them.”

“I’m not trying to hurt them,” Jungkook whispered.

“I know.”

“I just need to live somewhere where I don’t have to look over my shoulder.”

“Then do that. And do it fully.”

A breath.

“You are not what they failed to see.”
Jungkook closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he said.
“I love you more.”

🎧
The stage was tiny.
Bar lights overhead.

Three others with instruments.
He took the mic in both hands.
Hoodie up. Cap low.
His voice cracked once on the second verse.

Nobody noticed.
The crowd clapped politely.

After the set, someone asked the name of the singer.
“He doesn’t show his face,” the drummer said.
“Just call him K.EON.”
“What’s that stand for?”
The drummer shrugged.

“Nobody knows. It’s not his real name anyway.”

🖤

That night, Jungkook walked home through unfamiliar streets.
The city smelled different.

Less smoke. Less history.
He bought a can of peach soda.
Sat alone on a bench.

And watched strangers walk by without recognizing him.
In his pocket, he still carried the folded paper with Yoongi’s name on it.

One night, he’d burn it.
Just not yet.

Not until the songs stopped hurting.

Chapter Text

You’ve been listening to that faceless guy again, haven’t you?”

Jimin was half-joking when he said it.
But Yoongi didn’t laugh.

He just stared at the audio waveform on his laptop, looped at exactly 2:16 — where the singer’s voice cracked, soft and deliberate.
K.EON.
No name. No face.
But that voice…

It had been haunting Yoongi for months.
Jimin dropped a flyer on the desk beside him.

“GRAYLOFT. Tonight. Small gig. He’s performing. Live.”
Yoongi’s eyes snapped to the text.

“K.EON?”
Jimin nodded. “One-night set. No streaming. No encore. No cameras.”

Yoongi’s hands shook as he reached for the flyer.

“You think it’s him, don’t you?”

“I don’t think,” Yoongi whispered. “I know.”

🏙
The venue was smaller than Yoongi expected - but everything K.EON would have chosen.

Old warehouse bones. Brick walls. Exposed steel beams.
The crowd wasn’t large — maybe 60 people — but the space was charged. Like everyone knew something important was about to happen.
The stage was dimly lit. One spotlight.

A mic. A stool. A black guitar on a stand.

Yoongi took a seat near the back. Hoodie up. Hands in his jacket pockets.
The sound tech adjusted the levels.
A low bass thump hummed through the walls.

Then the lights dimmed.

🌘
He walked onstage quietly.

Hoodie up. Cap low. Face in shadow.

Even the way he held the mic stand was unfamiliar — confident, coiled, calm.

He sat on the stool. Adjusted the mic slightly.
The room was dead silent.

Then:
“This is a song I wrote about the moment I stopped waiting to be chosen.”
The voice was quiet.
Then he began to sing.

🎵
“I stood in a room full of people who said my name wrong /
And loved them anyway…”
“I lit a candle no one saw /
Left a cake no one touched…”
“I was a memory before I disappeared.”

Yoongi felt it in his chest — hard.

The way you feel a name you haven’t heard in years, whispered like a prayer.
The timbre.
The cracks in the final syllables.
The way his falsetto didn’t chase perfection — just honesty.

It was Jungkook.

His body knew before his brain did.

He gripped the edge of the table.

Couldn’t move.
The voice hit harder than any memory.

It wasn’t soft anymore. It was sharp. Controlled. Purposeful.

🧠
The chorus came again — same words, but louder this time.

“I stood in a room full of people who said my name wrong…”

Yoongi heard the echo: He’s just a kid anyway.
His throat went dry.

This wasn’t just guilt.
This was witnessing what he lost.

He wasn’t watching a ghost.
He was watching everything Jungkook became after he stopped waiting to be loved.
The set ended with no name. No bow.

K.EON stood.
Gave a small nod.
Walked offstage.
The crowd clapped, some cheered — but Yoongi just sat there.

Completely still.

🥀
He waited near the side exit, half unsure why.
But no one came out.

Only a locked door, and a quiet: “Artists Only.”
Yoongi ran a hand over his mouth, eyes burning.

“It was him,” he whispered.
Jimin stood beside him now. Quiet.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s him.”

Yoongi blinked. “You knew.”

Jimin nodded. “I wasn’t sure. But after that call…”

“You talked to him?”

“Once. He didn’t say much.”

A beat.

“You shouldn’t have said it.”
Yoongi didn’t ask what.
He knew exactly which words Jimin meant.

The ones that turned a memory into a ghost.

Chapter Text

🌒 Scene One

“You saw him?” Jimin asked, breathless.

“He didn’t look at me,” Yoongi said. “Not once.”

“That was the point.”

The alley behind the venue smelled like cold steel and cigarettes. The loading door was locked. No sign of Jungkook.

“We should’ve come sooner.”
Yoongi didn’t answer.

He was staring at the sticker on the door:
ARTIST AREA — STAFF ONLY
Beneath it, scribbled in ink:
K.EON WUZ HERE (sorta).

“He’s in the wind now,” Jimin muttered.

“Not for long.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we owe him everything. And I’m done running from that.”

🧠
POV shift: Hoseok (6 months ago)
Setting: Namjoon’s apartment

It started when Taesun tried to pit Jimin and Taehyung against each other.

“Tae thinks you’re arrogant,” he said casually one night. “He said you try too hard to be everyone’s favorite.”
Jimin blinked. “He what?”

Two days later, Taehyung asked Namjoon:

“Did Jimin tell you I only made it into the label because of my face?”

Namjoon stared at him. “Why would he say that?”
“Taesun told me.”

Hoseok noticed it first — the pattern.
Quiet seeds of distrust.

Taesun was always the one to “just mention it.”
“I don’t want to cause drama, but…”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but…”

And somehow, everyone left the conversation a little more suspicious.
It broke when Taesun said something about Hoseok himself.

“You know Hobi hyung talks shit about your work ethic, right?” he told Yoongi.

Hoseok walked in halfway through the sentence.

“No, he doesn’t,” he said calmly. “Because I’m right here. And if you want to say something, you can say it to me.”
The room froze.
Taesun opened his mouth.

Jimin beat him to it.

“You’ve been doing this for months.”

Taehyung: “How many of us have you turned against each other?”

Namjoon: “How many lies have we believed because it was easier than admitting we let Jungkook go?”

🔥

Taesun’s mask didn’t break.

He smiled, slow and cold.

“You’re all just mad because you lost your golden boy.”

Hoseok stepped forward.
“We didn’t lose him. You made us look away long enough for him to think we never wanted him in the first place.”

“Did you?” Taesun tilted his head. “Want him?”

“More than we ever knew.”

Yoongi entered last.
He looked at Taesun for a long, empty moment.

Then said only:
“Get out.”

“Yoongi—”

“I said. Get. Out.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I already regret you.”

🎤

“We know now,” Namjoon said quietly.

The group sat in Yoongi’s studio for the first time in over a year.

Hoseok. Taehyung. Jimin. Namjoon. Jin.

The seat across from them was empty.

The one that used to be Jungkook’s.

“He’s alive. He’s thriving. He’s better than we deserved,” Yoongi said.

“But that doesn’t mean we don’t try.”

“Try what?” Taehyung asked. “To explain? To say sorry?”

“To earn a conversation,” Jimin said.

“Even if he never picks up?”

“Especially then.”

🎧

Jimin pulled out a flyer.
K.EON’s band had one more show listed on a corkboard downtown.

A tiny jazz bar. One-off open mic.

“You think he’ll perform again?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Yoongi stood.

“We’re going anyway.”

Outside the window, Seoul moved on like nothing happened.

But inside, for the first time in years—
They were all moving in the same direction.

Chapter Text

🎹

The venue was small.
Intimate. Dark velvet walls, low stage, wood tables candlelit with little glass domes.

It wasn’t loud. No one was drunk. People came here to listen.

Jungkook sat backstage, tuning his guitar.
His hoodie was zipped, cap low.

On the inside of his wrist, a lyric was written in pen:

“I won’t write you into my pain anymore.”

Mina sat beside him, tying her hair back.

“You good?”
Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

“This new song—‘Echo Room’?”

“Mm.”

“You’ve been… quieter than usual.”

Jungkook gave a soft smile. “Trying to stay that way.”

🌌

The lights dimmed.

The host said, “Next up — one of our own. No face. No socials. But a voice you won’t forget. Give it up for K.EON.”

Polite clapping.

Jungkook stepped up.

The guitar strap slid into place like a second spine.

He looked down.

Not at the crowd.

Never at the crowd.

“This one’s new,” he said softly into the mic. “It’s not about them anymore. It’s about me.”

Then he started to play.
🎵 The Song – "Echo Room"
“You spoke, and the room echoed your words /
So I stopped speaking /
Just to hear myself again…”
“You loved me into a corner /
Said you didn’t mean to /
Then blamed the shape of the walls…”
“But I’ve started painting windows /
Even if they’re just pretend.”

Yoongi’s breath left him like a punch.

He hadn’t seen Jungkook walk out.
But hearing him like this—

It felt like standing inside the version of himself he tried to bury.
Jungkook kept his head low.

Didn’t scan the room.
But his hands were tight on the neck of the guitar.
And his voice cracked—

Once.
Mina noticed.

She’d seen him sing through fevers, heartbreak, sore throats.
He never cracked.

She looked toward the crowd, suddenly alert.

👀

In the fourth row, she saw them.

Jimin. Yoongi. Namjoon. Taehyung. Hoseok. Jin.

She didn’t know their names.

But she saw the way Jungkook’s fingers trembled when he adjusted the mic stand.

And she knew.
After the song ended, Jungkook gave a nod.
Didn’t stay for applause.
He turned and left the stage.

Mina followed him through the curtain.

“Jungkook.”

He didn’t answer.

“Jungkook—who are they?”
He pulled his hoodie tighter.

“They don’t matter.”

“You’re shaking.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Was that… your old group?”
A pause.

Jungkook nodded once.
“Are they the ones who—”

“Yes.”

“Did you know they were coming?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to get them thrown out?”
He blinked at her.

A beat. Then he smiled.

“Not yet.”

🧠

Back in the greenroom, Mina texted the others:
they’re here. crowd left side. energy bad. don’t let them near him.

Jae replied:
u want me to handle it?

Mina:
no. not yet. let’s see what they do.

She looked at Jungkook again.

“What happens if they reach out?”
He stared at the floor.

“They’ll try to say they’re sorry.”

“And?”

“And I won’t believe it. Not right away.”

A pause.

“But part of me still wants to.”

“Then maybe don’t close the door. Yet.”
Jungkook nodded.

“I left the door unlocked,” he whispered.
“They just never checked if it opened from the inside.”

Chapter Text

🌑

The show had ended, the room was emptying.

But they didn’t move.

Yoongi stood in the half-lit corner of the venue, gripping the edge of a table like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
Jimin sat beside him, silent, eyes tracking the curtain like he was waiting for a ghost to come through it.

“He’s not coming back out,” Namjoon said finally.

“We have to try,” Jimin whispered. “We’re here. That has to mean something.”

Yoongi took one step toward the backstage hallway.

That’s when she appeared.
Mina.
Small. Calm.

But something in her presence made them all stop.

“You’re not going back there,” she said simply.
Yoongi blinked.

“We just want to talk—”

“He doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”
Mina folded her arms. “I know him better than you do now.”
Her voice didn’t rise.
But it cut.

“He’s not ready for a conversation. He’s not ready for apologies. And if you think this is your moment of grand redemption? It’s not.”

Hoseok stepped forward. “We’re not here to ambush him.”

“But you are here,” Mina said. “After two years. After silence. After everything.”

“We were wrong,” Namjoon said. “We let someone else erase him and we didn’t stop it.”
Mina didn’t blink.

“That’s true.”

“So how do we fix it?”

A pause.

She tilted her head.

“Start by not assuming he wants you to.”
🖤

POV shift: Jungkook

He could hear them.
Not the words. Just the tension in the air outside the curtain.
He sat on the floor, hoodie half-off, fingers digging into the carpet.

Jae sat beside him.

“They’re still there.”

“I know.”

“You want to go out?”

“No.”

“You want me to make them leave?”
Jungkook was silent.
Mina entered a moment later.

“They want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. I told them that.”
Jungkook finally looked up.

“Did they believe you?”

“The blonde one cried.”
Jungkook’s throat clenched. Jimin.
Mina crouched beside him.

“What would you do,” she asked gently, “if they meant it?”

🧷

He didn’t answer at first.
Then:

“I’d probably say nothing.”

“Because you’re not ready?”

“Because if I say anything, I’ll say too much.”
Mina studied him.

“What if they’ve changed?”

“Then let them stay changed. Without me.”

A long pause.

Then Mina said, “He looked at you like he forgot how to breathe.”
Jungkook flinched.

“You saw that?”
“Everyone did.”

Jungkook leaned his head back against the wall.

“I spent two years rebuilding what they broke. I'm not going to let them walk in and knock it over.”

“Good.”
She stood.

“But if you do ever want to speak — you’ll have to decide whether you’re protecting yourself… or punishing them.”

🌫
As the venue cleared, Jungkook stepped out through the back door.
Hoodie up.

Mina and Jae flanking him casually, protective without words.

Yoongi saw him.

Just for a second.

Jungkook didn’t look back.

But he didn’t look away, either.
A flicker of eye contact.

A breath.

Then Jungkook was gone again.

Chapter Text

📦

The message arrived on a Tuesday.

No text.
Just a link.

Jimin opened it first.

It was an address.
Yoongi’s heart stopped when he saw the sender:

No Name.

But he knew.

They all did.

🖼

The building was tucked between two alley cafés.

No sign out front.

Just a door.

When they entered, soft lights flickered on.

White walls.

Dozens of sketches. Hung carefully. Framed in black. No titles.

Jungkook wasn’t there.

But his memory was.
His pencil strokes.
His past.

They moved silently.

One drawing showed Taehyung at a birthday party — smiling, frosting on his nose.

Another: Jimin curled up asleep with Bam, hoodie half-zipped, one headphone in.

Hoseok on a park bench, backlit by the sun.

Namjoon, asleep in the studio, books scattered.

Jin cooking in the kitchen with his strawberry apron on - the one Jungkook gave him as a gift.
And then they saw him.

Yoongi.
Multiple pieces.
In profile. Laughing.
Crying into his hands.

A sketch from behind — hoodie up, hands in his pockets, walking away.

One drawing made Yoongi stop completely.

It was the two of them.
On the floor of Namjoon’s apartment.
Blanket. Headphones. Hands almost touching.
Below the sketch, in the tiniest handwriting, was one line:
“The night I thought I could stay.”

📖

On a pedestal near the far wall sat a single leather book.
Opened.

Pages fanned gently in the warm air.

They flipped slowly.

Drawings of the group.

Lyrics in margins.

Little pieces of Jungkook's soul — things he never said.

The birthday cake.

Bam asleep under a studio chair.

The note Hoseok left on his dorm desk: “You’re doing great, Kook.”

A dried petal from the park where they once sat in spring.

At the very back was a final page.

Almost blank.
A penciled outline — soft, faint. Unshaded.
It was Yoongi.
Sitting cross-legged, sketchbook in his lap, head tilted slightly.
Below it was a line:
“I’m not sure if I want to finish this yet.”

🌙
Yoongi stepped back.
His chest hurt.

But not in the way it used to.
It hurt like something unfreezing.

“What do we do?” Jimin whispered.

“Nothing,” Yoongi said.

“Nothing?”

“This is the answer.”

“What if he never draws us again?”
Yoongi looked at the page.

“Then we become the kind of people who’d deserve it if he did.”

🕯

Outside, the sun had dipped behind the skyline.
As they stepped back into the street, Mina was leaning against the brick wall nearby.
She gave them a small nod.

“He knows you came.”

“Will he…?” Namjoon started.
Mina shrugged.

“He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just… healing. In his own time.”

“And us?” Jimin asked.

“You were the hurt. Maybe now, you get to be part of the healing.”

They walked away quietly.
Behind them, the door stayed open.
Not locked.
Just… waiting.

Chapter Text

📦

Jimin was halfway through folding laundry when the doorbell rang.
A plain envelope.

No return name. Just an address in Busan.
Inside: a single folded sheet.
A sketch.
Finished.

Yoongi — fully drawn now.
Sitting on a balcony. Sun on his face. Eyes closed. Peaceful.
Beneath the corner of the page, small printed text in pencil:

“Bring them.”
Followed by a full address.

Jimin’s hands trembled.

He didn’t call.

He just packed a bag.

🚙

The road to the coast felt like holding your breath.
No one spoke much.

Namjoon watched the trees go by.

Hoseok kept checking the map.

Taehyung clutched the sketch the entire ride.

Yoongi sat in the back, silent, fingers twitching.

“What if he doesn’t want us there?”

“He sent it,” Jimin said.

“Yeah, but…”

“He finished the sketch. That means something.”

🏠

The house was small. Clean. A low wall lined with garden stones and wind chimes.
When they pulled up, the front gate was already open.

Jimin walked up first.
He raised his hand to knock—

But the door opened before he touched it.

Jungkook stood there. In the flesh.
No mask. No cap. No hoodie.
Just a loose cream shirt, arms inked, piercings glittering under the sun.
His hair was longer. Softer.
His eyes — steady.

No one said anything.
Jimin didn’t need to.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Jungkook, pulling him close like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

Jungkook froze—
Then hugged him back.
Tight. No hesitation.

Taehyung was next. Then Hoseok. Then Namjoon. And Jin
Each one pulled him in like something sacred.

Jungkook’s eyes were wet when he stepped back—
But he didn’t cry.

Yoongi stayed at the bottom step.
His hands curled at his sides.
His mouth opened—then closed.

Jungkook looked at him.
Not cold. Not angry.
Just calm.
Then he stepped back.
And opened the door wider.

“Come in,” he said.
That was all.
No confrontation.
No breakdown.
Just a door, opened with intention.

The others were inside now.

Jimin had set down the sketch.
Taehyung was laughing — quiet, unsure.
Hoseok was walking the hallway, fingers trailing old photo frames.

But Yoongi…
Stayed on the steps.

Jungkook watched him.
Neither said a word for a while.

Then Jungkook asked, softly:

“Why didn’t you follow me?”
Yoongi’s breath hitched.

“I thought I didn’t deserve to.”
Jungkook nodded slowly.

“You didn’t.”
The words were gentle.

“But I still wanted you to.”

💔

“I didn’t mean it,” Yoongi whispered. “That night. Those words. I was… I was terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of how much I needed you. Of how young you were. Of the fact that I already loved you and didn’t think I had the right.”
Jungkook’s throat tightened.

“So you erased me?”
Yoongi looked up — eyes rimmed red.

“I erased myself first. I just didn’t realize I was pulling you under with me.”
The tears came quietly.
Not dramatic.
Just real.

“I drew you so many times,” Jungkook whispered. “Trying to remember who I was before you looked away.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t draw to remember. I draw to let go.”

A pause.

“But I haven’t let go of you yet.”

Yoongi stepped forward.
Just one step.

“Can I hold you?”
Jungkook nodded.
Yoongi reached up — carefully, reverently — and cupped his cheek.

“I will never call you a mistake again,” he said. “Not even in fear. Not even in pain. Not even in passing.”
Jungkook leaned into his touch.
And kissed him.

It wasn’t fireworks.
It wasn’t soft music swelling.
It was breath and honesty.
A yes that took years to earn.

When they pulled apart, Jungkook rested his forehead against Yoongi’s.
“You can’t undo what happened.”

“I know.”

“But if you want to be here now… show me. Every day.”

“I will,” Yoongi whispered. “Even if you never say the words again. Even if it takes forever.”

“It won’t,” Jungkook said.

“Why not?”

“Because I just did.”

They walked inside together.
Not hand in hand.
But close.
And for the first time in years,
Jungkook didn’t feel like a ghost in someone else’s story.

He was home.