Archive of Our Own

Jimin drops a six-pack of Hite on the counter and waits for Yoongi to acknowledge him.

Yoongi doesn't look up. He's bent over an inventory ledger, pencil scratching against paper, reading glasses sliding down his nose. The lights above the counter flicker once, twice, and Yoongi ignores that too.

"You know those come in bigger packs," Yoongi says finally, still writing. "More economical."

"Maybe I like coming back."

Yoongi's pencil stops. He looks up over the rim of his glasses, and Jimin feels it in his stomach, that flat heavy stare. Yoongi's hair is longer than it used to be, silver threaded through the black at his temples. He's wearing a faded grey t-shirt and there's a smudge of something, dust or dirt, across his collarbone where the neck has stretched out.

"You've been back three times this week," Yoongi says. "It's Thursday."

"I'm a thirsty guy."

Yoongi snorts. He pulls the ledger aside, scans the six-pack, punches numbers into the ancient register. The thing has to be thirty years old, all mechanical buttons and a cash drawer that sticks. Jimin remembers it from when he was a kid, remembers the old owner cursing at it the same way.

"8,400 won."

Jimin hands over a ten thousand note. Their fingers brush during the exchange and Yoongi's hand is cold, dry, callused in a way it wasn't ten years ago.

Jimin remembers those hands. Remembers the weight of them on his shoulder when he was nineteen and falling apart. Yoongi's voice low and steady, saying something that rewired Jimin's entire brain. He still hears it sometimes, late at night. Still measures himself against it.

That was ten years ago. Jimin became a cop because of that night. Moved to Seoul, built a career, became someone worth something. And now he's back in this town he swore he'd never see again, buying beer from the man who saved his life without even trying.

Yoongi hands him his change. "Your dad doing okay?"

"Same as yesterday. Same as last week."

"Hoseok says he saw the home care nurse leaving this morning."

"Yeah, she comes Tuesdays and Thursdays." Jimin pockets the change. "Why, you checking up on me?"

"Small town. People talk."

"People always talked."

Yoongi's jaw tightens for a second, then releases. He takes off his reading glasses, folds them, sets them on the counter next to the register. Behind him, through the doorway to the back room, Tang is curled on a stack of cardboard boxes.

"Tang's getting fat," Jimin says.

"He’s fine."

"You're feeding him too much."

"This from the guy who killed a goldfish by loving it to death?"

Jimin's face heats. "I was nine."

"Cried for three days. Your mom had to buy you a new one and pretend it was the same fish."

"She told you that?"

"She told everyone. It was the funniest thing that happened in this town all year." Yoongi leans back against the shelf behind him, arms crossed. His bad shoulder sits lower than the other one, always has since the surgery. Jimin knows not to mention it. "Don't you have work tomorrow, kid?"

"Don't you?"

"I own the place. I work when I want."

"Must be nice."

Yoongi shrugs. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest for a second, and Jimin makes himself look away, look at the rack of snacks by the door, at the calendar on the wall with a picture of some mountain, at anything except the soft worn fabric stretched over Yoongi's body.

"Go home, Jimin-ah."

It's the first time tonight Yoongi has used his name. He'd been "you" and "kid" up until now, and hearing "Jimin-ah" lands somewhere under his ribs.

"Same time tomorrow?" Jimin asks, grabbing his beer.

"You need a hobby."

"I have one."

He leaves before Yoongi can respond.

The house smells the same as it did when Jimin was a kid. Soy sauce and sesame oil and something underneath that he's never been able to name, something that belongs specifically to this building, these walls, the years soaked into the wood.

His father is in the living room when Jimin gets back, parked in front of the television in the wheelchair Jimin bought with three months of savings. The stroke took the left side of his body and most of his speech. He can say yes and no and Jimin's name, if he concentrates. Everything else comes out garbled, frustrated, trapped behind a mouth that won't cooperate.

"I'm home," Jimin says, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

His father doesn't turn around. The television is playing some drama rerun, the kind with dramatic music and women crying in the rain.

Jimin puts the beer in the fridge. Checks the containers he prepped yesterday, makes sure there's enough food to get through the week. The nurse left a note about his father's blood pressure being slightly elevated. He reads it, commits the numbers to memory, throws it away.

"Did you eat?"

A grunt. That means yes.

"The nurse said your blood pressure was up."

Another grunt. This one means he doesn't want to talk about it.

Jimin leans against the kitchen counter and looks at the back of his father's head. The hair is thinner than it used to be, grey where it was black, and his father's neck has that soft folded look that old men get. He's sixty-three. He looks older.

There was a time when Jimin hated him. Not the clean, simple hate of a child who didn't get what he wanted, but something deeper, something that grew roots in the years after his mother died. His father had crawled into a bottle and stayed there. Jimin had learned to cook his own rice, wash his own clothes, forge his own permission slips. He had learned that adults could fail you and that love was not enough to make someone stay present.

He doesn't hate his father anymore. He's not sure what he feels instead. Something tired, maybe. Something that looks at this old man in his wheelchair and thinks: you were supposed to be bigger than this.

"I'm going to shower," Jimin says. "Call if you need me."

His father raises one hand, a gesture that could mean anything. Jimin takes it as acknowledgment.

The bathroom is small, barely enough room to turn around. The water pressure is terrible and the tiles are cracked in the corner near the drain. Jimin stands under the lukewarm spray and thinks about Yoongi's hands on the register, Yoongi's voice saying “go home, Jimin-ah”, Yoongi's bad shoulder sitting lower than the other one.

He thinks about being nineteen, sitting in that convenience store at two in the morning with ramyeon steam rising into his face, and Yoongi across from him not saying anything for a long time. Just letting Jimin eat. Just being there.

Jimin had been picked up for being in the wrong place with the wrong people. A robbery he hadn't participated in but hadn't stopped either. He'd been drunk, scared, too young to understand how close he was to ruining his life. The other guys had scattered when the cops showed up. Jimin had been too slow.

Yoongi could have processed him. Could have let the system chew him up and spit him out with a record that would follow him forever. Instead, Yoongi had looked at his file, looked at his face, and said “I knew your mother. She wouldn't want this for you.”

And then he'd taken Jimin to the store, the same one he runs now, bought him food, sat with him while he ate. Told him he was worth more than this town thought he was.

Jimin had believed him. Had to, because no one else was saying it.

The water runs cold. Jimin turns it off, dries himself with a towel that's seen better days, and goes to bed in the room he grew up in. The ceiling still has the glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck up there when he was seven. Most of them have fallen off over the years. The ones that remain are barely visible, their glow long faded.

His phone buzzes. Taehyung.

coffee tomorrow? jin-hyung keeps asking when you're coming by. i think he misses having someone to bully

Jimin types back: after my shift. 4?

perfect. i'll save you the good seat

there's a good seat?

no. but now you'll wonder

Jimin snorts, drops the phone on his chest. Ten years apart and Taehyung still texts like they're in high school, like distance and time are things that happen to other people. Some friendships are like that.

He closes his eyes. Sleep comes slower than it should, his mind circling back to things he'd rather not examine. The store. The register. Yoongi's hands and the grey in his hair and the way his voice had dropped at the end there, softer than it needed to be.

Jimin turns over and buries his face in the pillow.

Seokjin's cafe is called “The Roast” and it has been called “The Roast” for twelve years, despite the sign outside being sun-faded to the point of illegibility. The locals know what it is. The tourists figure it out eventually.

Jimin pushes through the door at 4:20, still in his uniform because he didn't have time to change. Jungkook had needed a ride home after their shift, and Jungkook talks a lot when he's trapped in a car with someone.

Taehyung is already at their usual table, the one by the window with the wobbly leg. He's got his laptop open and his headphones around his neck and he's wearing a sweater with holes in it that probably costs more because of the holes. Taehyung has always been like that, finding ways to make poverty aesthetic while never actually being poor.

"You're late," Taehyung says without looking up.

"You're unemployed. Time is a construct for you."

"I'm a freelance creative consultant."

"You make TikToks."

"They're reels, and I'll have you know my last one got half a million views."

Jimin slides into the seat across from him. The cafe is quiet this time of day, just a couple sharing a slice of cake near the back and an old man reading a newspaper by the door. Seokjin is behind the counter, rearranging pastries in the display case, tilting his head slightly toward their table.

"The usual?" He calls over.

"Please."

"Taehyung-ah, you want another one?"

Taehyung holds up his mostly empty cup. "Hit me."

Seokjin has been running this place long enough that he doesn't have to think about where anything is. He grabs a cup, starts the machine, wipes his hands on his apron, all while watching them from the corner of his eye. He's older than Yoongi by a year, and they've been friends since high school. Jimin knows this because everyone in Sokcho knows this. It's that kind of town.

"You look tired," Seokjin says, setting down Jimin's americano. "The job or the dad?"

"Both."

"And the other thing?"

Jimin blinks. "What other thing?"

Seokjin's mouth curves into something that's trying very hard to look innocent. "Oh, nothing. Just heard you've been buying a lot of beer lately. Very specific store. Very specific hours."

"I hate this town."

"No you don't." Seokjin ruffles Jimin's hair like he's still a kid, which is annoying, and goes back to the counter.

Taehyung is grinning at him. It's the grin Jimin remembers from middle school, from high school, from every terrible decision they ever made together. It's the grin that says “I know something and I'm going to enjoy watching you squirm”.

"So," Taehyung says. "Yoongi-hyung."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You've been back for three weeks. You've gone to his store almost every day. You're not subtle."

"I'm buying things. It's a store. That's what stores are for."

"You're buying beer. You barely drink."

This is true. Jimin has four six-packs in his fridge and he's maybe opened two of them.

"Maybe I'm developing a habit."

"Maybe you're developing something else."

Jimin wraps his hands around his coffee cup. The warmth seeps into his palms, grounding him. "It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that. It's been like that since you were nineteen." Taehyung's voice softens, losing some of its teasing edge. "I was there, remember? I watched you fall for him in real time. It was painful."

"I didn't fall for him. I just..."

"Had a spiritual awakening at two in the morning in a convenience store? Sure."

Jimin doesn't have a response to that. Taehyung isn't wrong.

"Look," Taehyung says, closing his laptop. "I'm not saying it's a bad idea. Yoongi-hyung is a catch. Grumpy, emotionally constipated, probably hasn't been on a date in three years, but a catch."

"Three years?"

"Maybe four. Jin-hyung would know better."

Jimin files this information away. It shouldn't matter. It does.

"The point is," Taehyung continues, "you're not a kid anymore. You're a cop. You came back to take care of your dad, which is, like, the most mature thing I've ever seen anyone do. You're not the same person who cried over a goldfish."

"Why does everyone remember the goldfish?"

"Because it was hilarious." Taehyung reaches across the table and flicks Jimin's forehead. "What I'm saying is, if you want him, go get him. Stop buying beer you don't drink and actually make a move."

"He still sees me as a kid."

"Then change his mind."

It sounds so simple when Taehyung says it. Like Jimin can just walk up to Yoongi and announce his intentions and Yoongi will suddenly stop seeing the drunk teenager he scraped off the street a decade ago.

"What if I can't?"

"Then at least you'll know." Taehyung shrugs. "Right now you're just circling. That's worse."

The door to the cafe opens. Jimin looks up automatically, the way you do in a small town when someone enters a room, and his stomach drops.

Yoongi walks in.

He's wearing the same faded grey t-shirt from last night, or maybe a different one that looks exactly the same. His hair is pushed back from his face and he's got his phone in one hand, scrolling through something without watching where he's going.

"Yoongi-yah!" Seokjin calls from behind the counter. "The usual?"

Yoongi grunts an affirmative. He hasn't looked up yet. Hasn't noticed Jimin sitting by the window with his uniform still on and his heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Taehyung kicks Jimin under the table. Do something, his expression says.

Jimin doesn't do anything. He watches Yoongi move to the counter, watches him pull out his wallet, watches his fingers tap against the wood while he waits.

And then Yoongi turns, coffee in hand, and sees him.

For a second neither of them moves. Yoongi's eyes drop to the uniform, linger there, then come back up to Jimin's face. His mouth presses into a line that could mean anything.

"You're everywhere," Yoongi says.

"Small town."

"Hmm." Yoongi's gaze flicks to Taehyung, then back to Jimin. "Taehyung-ah."

"Hyung," Taehyung says, grinning wider. "Want to join us?"

No, Jimin thinks. Yes. Both at the same time.

Yoongi hesitates. Jimin can see him calculating, weighing options. Then he pulls out the chair next to Taehyung and sits down.

"Ten minutes," he says. "I've got a delivery coming."

Seokjin is already moving behind the counter, reaching for a plate before Yoongi is fully seated. He brings over something wrapped in wax paper, sets it down without comment. Yoongi unwraps it, a sandwich cut in two, and starts eating like he forgot he was hungry until just now.

"You skip lunch again?" Seokjin asks.

Yoongi doesn't answer, which is an answer.

Taehyung picks up his coffee and starts complaining about a client, some video project with fifteen revisions and counting. Jimin should contribute, should say something, but his voice feels stuck somewhere below his throat. Yoongi is right there. Close enough that Jimin can see the crumbs on his fingers, the slow way he chews, the line of his jaw working. At the store there's the counter between them, the register, the transaction. Here Jimin is just a guy at a table with nothing to buy.

Yoongi glances up at Taehyung, says "Tell them no," and takes another bite.

"I can't tell them no, they're paying me."

"Then charge more."

"That's not how it works."

"Should be."

Seokjin laughs from behind the counter. "This from the man who gives half the neighborhood store credit."

Yoongi shrugs, keeps eating.

Taehyung's phone buzzes. He checks it, types something back, checks it again. Yoongi finishes half the sandwich and wraps the rest back up.

"For later," he says, catching Seokjin's look. "I'm not wasting it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

Jimin's coffee is cold. He drinks it anyway, just to have something to do with his mouth. Yoongi's phone lights up on the table and he glances at it, frowns, pushes back his chair.

"Delivery's early." He stands, pockets his phone. "Thanks for the sandwich."

"Thursday," Seokjin says. "Dinner."

"I know."

Yoongi lifts his hand in Taehyung's direction, already turning toward the door. He passes Jimin's chair and slows.

"Drink some water," he says. "You look like shit."

The door closes behind him. Through the window Jimin watches him cross the street, sandwich in hand, until he rounds the corner.

"Well," Taehyung says. "That was something."

"I talked."

"When?"

Jimin doesn't answer. At the store he knows what he's doing. He's a customer, Yoongi's behind the register, there's a rhythm to it. Here he's got nothing.

"You need a reason to be around him," Taehyung says. "Something that isn't buying beer every night and hoping he notices."

Jimin picks at the edge of his coffee cup. The cardboard is soft where condensation has soaked through.

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

"So he texts me again last night," Jungkook says, "asking about the fit. Like, the fit of the uniform. Whether it's loose or tight. And I'm like, hyung, it's a uniform, it fits how it fits, you know?"

Jimin keeps his eyes on the road. The afternoon light is starting to go orange at the edges, the way it does this time of year when summer's over but the days haven't gotten short yet. Jungkook has been talking since they left the station.

"And then he asks if the pants are comfortable. The pants, hyung. Why does he care about the pants?"

"Maybe he wants to know if he can move in them."

"For a reel? What kind of reel requires mobility?"

"The kind Taehyung makes."

Jungkook slumps in the passenger seat, arms crossed. He's got his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the edge of a tattoo visible on his forearm before it disappears under the fabric. He's supposed to keep them covered on duty but the shift is over and Jungkook never follows rules longer than he has to.

"He could just buy his own," Jungkook mutters. "They sell them online. Costume ones."

"But then he wouldn't have an excuse to text you."

Jungkook's head whips toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jimin bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "Nothing."

"Hyung."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said something. You implied something. That's worse."

"I implied nothing. I made an observation about texting frequency."

Jungkook is quiet for a second. Jimin can feel him staring, trying to figure out if he's being made fun of. He is, but Jimin has years of practice keeping a straight face.

"He's just like that," Jungkook says finally. "He texts everyone a lot. It's not specific to me."

"Sure."

"It's not."

"I believe you."

"You don't. I can hear it in your voice."

Jimin turns onto Jungkook's street. The houses here are older, small single-family places with gardens out front and laundry hanging on lines in the yards. Jungkook's parents have lived here for thirty years. Jimin remembers coming over as a kid, eating Jungkook's mom's cooking, sleeping on the floor of Jungkook's room when his own house was too loud with his father's drinking.

"This is me," Jungkook says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."

"Tell your mom I said hi."

"Tell her yourself. She keeps asking when you're coming for dinner." Jungkook opens the door, then pauses. "And don't say anything to Taehyung-hyung. About the texting thing. I mean it."

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise."

Jungkook gives him one more suspicious look, then gets out and heads up the front path. Jimin waits until he's inside before pulling away.

The smart thing to do would be to drive straight home. His father will need dinner soon, and Jimin should shower, should change out of this uniform that still smells like the station and the stale coffee Namjoon insists on making even though no one drinks it.

He doesn't drive straight home.

The route past Yeonmu Mart adds maybe five minutes to his commute. That's what Jimin tells himself. It's not out of his way. It's barely a detour. He just likes the street, the way the light hits the buildings, the view of the water if you look between the shops at the right angle.

He's not looking for Yoongi. He's not hoping to catch a glimpse through the window, maybe see him bent over that ledger again, glasses sliding down his nose.

Jimin is a liar and he knows it.

He almost misses it. Almost drives right past because he's watching the shop entrance and not the alley beside it. But something catches his eye, a figure standing in the narrow space between Yeonmu Mart and the building next door, head tilted back, looking up.

Jimin slows. Pulls over. The figure is Yoongi.

He's standing with his hands on his hips, neck craned toward the sky, and for a second Jimin thinks he's stargazing, which would be insane because it's not even dark yet. Then he hears it. A sound that's somewhere between a yowl and a cry, high and pitiful and coming from above.

Jimin gets out of the car.

Yoongi doesn't notice him at first. He's too busy staring up at the tree that grows in the narrow courtyard behind the shop, a scraggly thing with branches that stretch toward the neighboring rooftops. Maybe four meters up, where the trunk splits into thinner branches, a black shape clings to the bark.

Tang.

"How long has he been up there?" Jimin asks.

Yoongi turns. His face does something complicated when he sees Jimin, a flash of something that gets smoothed over before Jimin can name it.

"Twenty minutes. Maybe longer." Yoongi's voice is flat, annoyed. "He saw a bird. Had a moment of ambition. Now he's stuck."

"Have you tried calling him?"

"No, I've just been standing here for fun." Yoongi pulls a small bag from his pocket, shakes it. The sound of treats rattling. Tang yowls louder but doesn't move. "He's too scared to climb down. He barely made it up."

Jimin looks at the tree. It's not a difficult climb, if you're someone who can climb. Branches low enough to reach, thick enough to hold weight. A kid could do it.

He looks at Yoongi's shoulder. The one that sits lower than the other. Yoongi catches him looking and his mouth thins.

"I called Hoseok. He's watching the register but he's got a bad knee, can't climb either." Yoongi shoves the treat bag back in his pocket. "I was about to call the station. See if they could send someone."

"I'm someone."

"You're off duty."

"I'm here." Jimin is already taking off his uniform jacket, folding it over the low wall that separates the courtyard from the alley. "Hold this."

He doesn't wait for Yoongi to respond. The first branch is easy, a short jump and then pulling himself up by his arms. The bark is rough under his palms, textured in a way that gives good grip. Jimin finds his footing, reaches for the next branch, starts to climb.

Below him, Yoongi says nothing.

Tang sees him coming and yowls again, louder this time. His claws are dug into the branch and his eyes are wide, all pupil. Fat as he is, he looks small up here, a black smudge against the grey bark.

"Hey," Jimin says, keeping his voice soft. "Hey, you're okay. I'm coming."

Tang hisses. Jimin keeps climbing.

The branch Tang is on bends slightly under Jimin's weight when he gets close. He wraps one arm around the trunk to steady himself, reaches out with the other. Tang's fur is soft under his fingers, warm from the afternoon sun.

"Come on," Jimin murmurs. "Come here. You're fine."

Tang digs his claws in harder. Jimin has to pry him off the branch, one paw at a time, and by the time he's got the cat tucked against his chest, Tang is shaking and Jimin's forearms are covered in thin red scratches.

Climbing down is harder. Jimin can only use one arm, the other wrapped around Tang, and he has to feel for each branch with his feet. The bark scrapes against his uniform shirt, catches on the fabric. He's almost at the bottom, maybe two meters off the ground, when his foot slips.

It happens fast. His boot slides off the branch, his balance goes, and he grabs for the trunk but only scrapes down the length of it as he drops.

He lands on his feet but stumbles, goes down on one knee. Tang bolts from his arms the second they hit the ground, a black streak disappearing through the back door of the shop.

"Shit." Yoongi is beside him, hand hovering near Jimin's shoulder without touching. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Jimin pushes himself up. Something stings along his ribs, a hot line of pain that flares when he moves. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

Jimin looks down. The side of his shirt is torn, white fabric gone red where it's soaked through. He touches it and his fingers come away wet.

"It's just a scrape."

"It's not just a scrape. Come inside."

Yoongi's hand closes around his elbow, firm, steering him toward the back door of the shop. Jimin lets himself be led. The pain is sharper now that he's aware of it, a raw burning that spreads across his ribs with every breath.

The back room of Yeonmu Mart is cluttered with boxes and inventory, a desk pushed against one wall with papers stacked on it. They pass through quickly, into the shop proper, where Hoseok is behind the register.

"Did you get him?" Hoseok asks, then sees Jimin's shirt. "Oh, shit. What happened?"

"Tree won," Yoongi says. "I'm taking him upstairs. Watch the shop."

"Is he okay? Should I call someone?"

"He's fine. It's a scrape."

Hoseok looks like he wants to argue but doesn't. His eyes meet Jimin's and there's something in them, curiosity or concern or both. "There's a first aid kit under the counter if you need it."

"I've got one upstairs." Yoongi is already pulling Jimin toward a door at the back of the shop, one Jimin has never noticed before. "Thanks."

The door opens to a narrow staircase. Jimin follows Yoongi up, his hand pressed against his side where the blood is still seeping through. The stairs creak under their feet. At the top, another door, and then they're inside.

Yoongi's apartment.

It's smaller than Jimin expected. A single main room that serves as living room and kitchen, a door off to one side that probably leads to the bedroom, another that's a bathroom. The walls are painted a warm cream and there's a couch against one wall, a low table in front of it covered in books. A record player sits on a shelf next to a small collection of vinyl. The evening light comes through the window in golden slats, catching dust motes in the air.

It's simple. Lived in. It smells like coffee and something else, something clean, soap or laundry detergent.

"Sit," Yoongi says, pointing at the couch. "Take off your shirt."

Jimin sits. His fingers fumble with the buttons, clumsy with adrenaline, and he has to concentrate to get them undone. The shirt peels away from his skin where the blood has started to dry, and he winces.

Yoongi disappears into the bathroom, comes back with a plastic kit that he sets on the table. He sits down next to Jimin, close enough that their knees almost touch.

"Turn," he says. "Let me see."

Jimin turns, angling his body so Yoongi can see his side. The scrape runs from just below his ribs to his hip, angry and red, bark fragments still embedded in a few places. It's ugly but shallow. It'll heal.

Yoongi doesn't say anything for a moment. Jimin can feel him looking, can feel the weight of his attention on his bare skin.

"This is going to sting," Yoongi says finally, and then there's the cold shock of antiseptic, the sharp bite of it in the wound.

Jimin sucks in a breath but doesn't make a sound. Yoongi works carefully, dabbing at the scrape with gauze, picking out the bits of bark with tweezers. His hands are steady. Warm where they brush against Jimin's skin.

The room is very quiet. Outside, somewhere, a car passes. Inside, there's only the sound of Jimin's breathing, the small sounds of Yoongi working.

"You didn't have to do that," Yoongi says.

"He's your cat."

"He would have come down eventually."

"He was scared."

Yoongi doesn't respond. His fingers press a fresh piece of gauze to the wound, hold it there. The pressure is firm, careful.

Jimin stares at the shelf across from him, at a small framed photograph he can't quite make out from this angle. He's aware of every point of contact between his body and Yoongi's hands, the places where Yoongi's fingers rest against his skin. He's aware of the heat of Yoongi's body next to his, the sound of his breathing.

Yoongi's hand stills.

Jimin doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. He can feel Yoongi's palm flat against his side, over the gauze, and it's not moving. Yoongi isn't moving.

The moment stretches. Jimin's heart is loud in his ears, so loud he's sure Yoongi must hear it. He thinks about turning around, about looking at Yoongi's face, about saying something. He doesn't do any of those things. He sits there with his shirt off and Yoongi's hand on his skin and waits.

Then Yoongi pulls back.

"Done," he says. His voice is lower than before, or maybe Jimin is imagining it. "Keep it clean. Change the bandage tomorrow."

Jimin turns. Yoongi is already standing, already putting the first aid kit back together, his face angled away.

"Thanks," Jimin says.

"Don't climb any more trees."

"No promises."

Yoongi huffs, almost a laugh. He still won't look at Jimin directly, his attention fixed on closing the kit, on putting things away. Jimin reaches for his ruined shirt, pulls it on without buttoning it. The fabric sticks to the bandage.

"I should go," Jimin says. "My dad."

"Yeah."

Yoongi walks him to the door. They stand there for a second, Jimin in his torn bloody shirt, Yoongi with his hands at his sides. Neither of them moves to open it.

"Thanks for getting Tang down," Yoongi says.

"Anytime."

Jimin makes himself turn, makes himself walk down the stairs, through the shop where Hoseok waves at him, out into the evening air. His side throbs with every step. His skin still feels warm where Yoongi's hand rested.

He's halfway home before he realizes he left his jacket on the wall in the courtyard.

The text had come in around noon. An unknown number, six words: your jacket is at the shop. come by whenever. Jimin had saved it under Yoongi-hyung and spent the rest of his shift rereading it more than he'd ever admit to.

He's thinking about it now, pushing through the door of Yeonmu Mart after work with his uniform still on and his hair probably a mess from running his hands through it in the car. The shop is quiet, no other customers, and Yoongi is behind the counter doing something on his phone.

He looks up when Jimin walks in. His expression doesn't change.

"Jacket's in the back," he says, and disappears through the doorway before Jimin can respond.

Jimin stands there, feeling stupid. He'd spent all afternoon thinking about six words on a screen and Yoongi hadn't even said hello.

Yoongi comes back with the jacket folded over his arm, holds it out. Jimin takes it and the fabric is soft under his fingers, smells like detergent.

"You washed it," he says.

"It's a uniform." Yoongi is already walking toward the fridge. "Figured you'd need it clean."

He pulls out two cans of Hite, comes back and sets one in front of Jimin.

"For yesterday," he says. "The tree thing."

"You're thanking me with my own brand?"

"You've bought enough of it."

Jimin cracks the can open. The beer is cold and he drinks too fast, trying to look like he belongs here on this side of a conversation that has no register between them, no transaction to hide behind.

"How's the scrape?" Yoongi asks.

"Fine. Healing."

"You change the bandage?"

"This morning."

Yoongi nods. Takes a sip of his beer. The silence between them isn't uncomfortable exactly, but Jimin is aware of it, aware of yesterday, of Yoongi's apartment and the couch and hands that had gone still against his skin.

"Tang okay?" Jimin asks, because he has to say something.

"Hasn't gone near the window since. Think you traumatized him."

"I traumatized him? He's the one who climbed up there."

"And you're the one who pried him off a branch and fell out of a tree."

"I didn't fall. I slipped."

"You fell."

"It was a controlled descent."

"Is that what they teach you at the police academy?"

"It's what I'm choosing to call it."

Yoongi snorts. He leans back against the counter, tips his beer back, and Jimin finds something very interesting to look at on the far wall.

"Quiet tonight," Jimin says.

"Always is, this time of year. Tourists are gone."

"You miss them?"

"No."

"The money though."

"Locals spend money too. Just slower." Yoongi shrugs. "I'm not here to get rich."

Jimin wants to ask why he is here. Why he took over this shop, why he stayed in this town, what he does with his days besides stand behind this counter and sell beer to idiots who keep coming back. He doesn't ask. It feels too big for a Tuesday evening with half a beer between them.

"You working tomorrow?" Yoongi asks.

"Morning shift."

"Early start."

"Always is."

Yoongi looks at him for a moment, something in his face Jimin can't read. Then he straightens up, sets his beer on the counter.

"Go home, Jimin."

"I haven't finished my beer."

"Take it with you."

"That's illegal. Open container."

"You're a cop. Arrest yourself."

Jimin grins. He can't help it. Yoongi is standing there with his arms crossed and his face flat and he just made a joke, an actual joke, and Jimin is so gone for this man it's embarrassing.

He finishes his beer in one long swallow, sets the empty can on the counter. Picks up the jacket, holds it against his chest.

"Thanks for the jacket."

"Thanks for the cat."

Jimin should leave. He knows he should leave. Yoongi is close enough that Jimin can smell the beer on his breath, and neither of them has mentioned yesterday, the apartment, any of it.

"Same time tomorrow?" Jimin asks.

Yoongi's eyebrows lift. "You don't have enough beer?"

"Maybe I want the company."

The words hang there. Jimin's face goes hot and he looks down at the jacket in his hands because it's easier than looking at Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn't answer for a long moment. Then he picks up Jimin's empty can, tosses it in the recycling bin behind him.

"Get out of my shop," he says. But there's no bite in it. None at all.

Jimin goes.

The first time is an accident.

Jimin has been running the waterfront path since he got back, most evenings after his shift or before dinner depending on his schedule. It clears his head. The sea air, the rhythm of his feet on the pavement, the way the light goes soft and gold as the sun drops toward the water. He runs until his legs burn and his brain stops circling around his father, his job, the man who sells him beer he doesn't drink.

He's a kilometer out when he sees someone ahead of him, moving slower, shoulders hunched with effort. The build is familiar. The grey t-shirt is familiar. Jimin's stride falters and he almost trips over his own feet.

Yoongi is running. Or trying to. His form is off, favoring his right side, and he's breathing hard enough that Jimin can hear it as he catches up.

"Hyung," Jimin says, falling into pace beside him.

Yoongi glances over. His face is flushed, sweat darkening his hairline. "What."

"Didn't know you ran."

"I don't." Yoongi's breath is ragged. "I'm starting."

"Starting what, a heart attack?"

"Fuck off."

Jimin grins and keeps pace with him for another hundred meters until Yoongi slows to a walk, hands on his hips, chest heaving. They're at the point where the path curves around a rocky outcrop, the sea stretching out grey and endless to their left.

"How long have you been out here?" Jimin asks.

"Twenty minutes."

"And how far did you get?"

Yoongi shoots him a look that could curdle milk. "Far enough."

Jimin bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Yoongi's shirt is soaked through, clinging to his shoulders, and his face is the color of a tomato. He looks miserable and furious and Jimin has never wanted to kiss anyone more in his entire life.

"You should stretch," Jimin says instead. "Before you cramp up."

"I know how to stretch."

"Do you? Because you're standing there like—"

"I said fuck off."

Jimin raises his hands in surrender and jogs away, leaving Yoongi to suffer in peace.

The second time is three days later.

Jimin adjusts his route. He tells himself it's because the other path was getting boring, but he's never been good at lying to himself. He runs the waterfront again, same time, same direction, and sure enough there's Yoongi ahead of him, moving a little faster than before.

"You again," Yoongi says when Jimin catches up.

"Small town."

"You changed your route."

"I like the view."

Yoongi snorts but doesn't tell him to leave. They run together for a while, Jimin slowing his pace to match Yoongi's, the silence between them filled with the sound of their breathing and the waves against the rocks below. Yoongi is still struggling but less than before. His form is better. His breathing is more even.

"Why now?" Jimin asks eventually.

"Why now what?"

"The running. Why start now?"

Yoongi doesn't answer for a few strides. When he does, his voice is flat. "Doctor said I should. After the surgery. Build up the muscles around it. I kept putting it off."

"For three years?"

"I was busy."

"Running a convenience store."

"It's a lot of work."

"It's a lot of standing behind a counter."

Yoongi's elbow catches Jimin in the ribs, hard enough to make him stumble. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"You never do. I give it anyway."

They walk back together when Yoongi's legs give out, the sky turning pink and orange over the water. Jimin learns that Yoongi hates running, hates sweating, hates the way his lungs burn when he pushes too hard. He does it anyway because the alternative is his shoulder getting worse, the muscles atrophying, the pain coming back.

"That sucks," Jimin says.

"It is what it is."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true a lot."

The third time, Jimin brings water.

Two bottles, one for him and one for Yoongi, cold from his fridge at home. He doesn't make a big deal of it, just holds one out when they stop to catch their breath at the rocky outcrop.

Yoongi looks at the bottle, then at Jimin.

"What," Jimin says. "You looked like you were dying last time."

"I wasn't dying."

"You were wheezing."

"That's called breathing."

"That's called emphysema."

Yoongi takes the water. He drinks half of it in one go, throat working, and Jimin looks out at the sea because it's safer than looking at the line of Yoongi's neck, the way his adam's apple moves when he swallows.

"Thanks," Yoongi says, quieter.

"Don't mention it."

They stand there for a minute, watching the water. A fishing boat is heading back to harbor, its lights just starting to flicker on in the dimming evening.

"You ever think about getting a boat?" Jimin asks, and then immediately feels stupid. Where did that come from?

Yoongi looks at him sideways. "A boat."

"Yeah. Like a sailboat or something. Going out on the water."

"I hate water."

"You live by the sea."

"Doesn't mean I want to be on it." Yoongi caps the water bottle, tucks it under his arm. "Why, you want a boat?"

Jimin shrugs. He doesn't know why he brought it up. It's a stupid dream, something he's thought about since he was a kid watching the boats come in and out of the harbor. Building one himself, maybe. Learning to sail. Going somewhere that isn't here.

"Maybe someday," he says.

Yoongi doesn't laugh at him, which is something.

By the second week, they don't pretend it's coincidence anymore.

Jimin texts Yoongi before he heads out. running in 20. Yoongi texts back a single letter. k. They meet at the start of the waterfront path and run together, Yoongi slowly getting faster, Jimin deliberately holding back so they stay side by side.

Yoongi asks about his job. Jimin tells him about the drunk tourist Jungkook had to talk down from climbing the statue in the town square. Yoongi's mouth twitches but he doesn't laugh.

"That's not funny," he says.

"It's a little funny."

"He could have gotten hurt."

"He was wearing a cape."

"A what?"

"A cape. Like a superhero. He said he was going to fly."

Yoongi stops running. He bends over, hands on his knees, and for a second Jimin thinks he's having a medical emergency. Then he hears it: a wheeze that turns into a snort that turns into actual laughter, rough and unpracticed like Yoongi's body has forgotten how to do it.

Jimin stares. He's never heard Yoongi laugh like this. Not the dry huff, not the almost-smile. Real laughter, shaking his shoulders, making him gasp for air.

"It's not that funny," Jimin says, grinning so hard his face hurts.

"He was wearing a cape," Yoongi wheezes. "He thought he could fly."

"He was very drunk."

"God." Yoongi straightens up, wiping his eyes. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"I have more stories."

"I bet you do."

They walk back slower than usual that night, Jimin telling stories from the station, the weird calls and the stupid disputes and the time Namjoon accidentally locked himself in the supply closet for two hours because the handle was broken. Yoongi listens, asks questions, occasionally offers dry commentary that makes Jimin laugh in return.

It feels easy. It feels like something.

Three weeks in, Yoongi can run the full path without stopping.

It's not fast and it's not pretty, but he makes it to the end and back, and when they reach the spot where they usually split off he's barely winded. The sun has already set, the sky going dark blue at the edges, and the streetlights along the waterfront are flickering on one by one.

"Not bad," Jimin says.

"Fuck you, that was impressive."

"It was adequate."

"I ran four kilometers."

"I run six."

"You're also ten years younger than me."

"Eight."

"Same thing." Yoongi stretches his arms over his head, his shirt riding up to show a strip of pale stomach. Jimin looks at the streetlight. The water. The interesting pattern of the pavement.

"You want a beer?" Yoongi asks. "Shop's still open."

Jimin blinks. "Yeah. Okay."

They walk to the shop together. Hoseok is behind the counter, closing up, and he raises his eyebrows when they walk in together, both sweaty and red-faced.

"Good run?" he asks.

"Fine," Yoongi says.

"Great," Jimin says at the same time.

Hoseok's eyebrows climb higher. "I'll leave you to it, then. Register's done, I'm heading out."

He leaves with a wave and a look at Yoongi that Jimin can't quite read. Yoongi ignores it, goes to the fridge, pulls out two beers.

They drink them sitting on the plastic chairs outside the shop, the night air cool against Jimin's damp skin. Yoongi tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, and Jimin watches him in profile. The slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the silver catching the streetlight at his temples.

"What are you looking at," Yoongi says without opening his eyes.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Jimin takes a long sip of his beer and doesn't answer.

Jimin texts Yoongi at five. running in 20?

His father has the news on too loud in the other room, volume cranked up because he won't admit his hearing is going, and Jimin checks his phone twice before giving up and texting again. you alive?

Still nothing. Three weeks of running together and Yoongi has never not answered, even when he's tired, even when he's in one of his moods. The silence nags at Jimin while he laces up his shoes and heads out alone.

The waterfront path feels longer without someone to pace himself against. Jimin makes it to the rocky outcrop and stands there for a minute looking at the water, at the spot where Yoongi usually bends over wheezing while Jimin pretends not to watch. He turns back before he's even winded.

Hoseok is behind the counter when Jimin pushes through the door, still in his running clothes. He looks up and his hands go still on the register.

"Yoongi-hyung upstairs?" Jimin asks.

"Yeah." Hoseok hesitates, something uncomfortable crossing his face. "It's a bad day"

"Is he sick?"

Hoseok doesn't answer, which is an answer in itself.

Jimin nods and heads for the back.

The stairs creak under his feet. He knocks on the door at the top and waits, and for a long moment there's nothing, just silence from inside. Then footsteps. The door opens.

Yoongi looks exhausted. His eyes are red-rimmed and behind him Jimin can see the whiskey bottle on the coffee table, the glass beside it, the lamp casting everything in dim yellow light.

"Jimin." His voice is rough, scraped. "Go home."

"No."

Yoongi blinks.

"You've been up here drinking by yourself all day and you look like hell. I'm not going anywhere."

"I didn't ask."

"I don't care."

They stand there looking at each other. Tang appears from somewhere inside the apartment and threads between Yoongi's ankles, meowing once before wandering back inside.

Yoongi sighs. He steps back from the door.

The apartment is quiet, just the lamp and the bottle on the coffee table. Jimin follows him in and sits on the far end of the couch, not sure what to say. His eyes drift to the shelf by the record player, to a framed photograph he couldn't make out last time. Two men in police uniforms, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera. Yoongi looks younger in the picture. Donghyun looks alive.

"He coached my soccer league," Jimin says. "Summer I was twelve. He couldn't kick for shit but he made us all feel like champions."

Yoongi settles onto the other end, picks up his whiskey. "That sounds like him."

"He did this announcer thing. Narrated everything like we were on TV. I scored one goal the whole summer and he screamed so loud I thought he was going to pass out."

Something in Yoongi's face loosens. "He was loud."

"Yeah."

Tang jumps onto the couch between them and starts kneading the cushion, claws catching on the fabric. Jimin reaches over to scratch behind his ears and Tang leans into it, purring.

"Three years," Yoongi says. He's looking at the photograph, at Donghyun's frozen grin. "I keep thinking it's supposed to get easier."

Three years. Today. Jimin hadn't realized, hadn't been keeping track of the date, but now the pieces fall into place. The unanswered texts. Hoseok's face at the counter. Yoongi alone up here with a bottle of whiskey and a photograph he's probably looked at a hundred times today.

"Does it?" Jimin asks. "Get easier?"

"Some days. Other days I wake up and I can't get out of bed for two hours because I'm thinking about all the things I should have done different."

Jimin doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say that Yoongi hasn't already heard, hasn't already told himself, hasn't already rejected because it doesn't touch the part of him that's still standing in that doorway watching his partner die.

"I should have come back," Jimin says. "When it happened. I heard about it and I thought about you and I just... stayed in Seoul. Told myself it wasn't my place. That we hadn't talked in years, that you had people here, that you didn't need some kid you helped once showing up out of nowhere.”

Yoongi looks at him.

"I've thought about it a lot. All the excuses I made. None of them were good enough."

"We weren't close," Yoongi says. "You didn't owe me anything.”

"That's not the point." Jimin shrugs. "You saved my life when I was nineteen. You sat with me in your store at two in the morning and told me I was worth something and I believed you. I built everything on that. And when you needed someone, I stayed away because I was scared.”

The apartment is quiet. Tang has stopped purring, curled up now with his nose tucked under his tail.

"I didn't know," Yoongi says slowly. "That it mattered that much. What I said."

"It mattered."

"You would have figured it out on your own."

"No." Jimin shakes his head. "I wouldn't have. I was going down fast and you pulled me out. You're the reason I'm a cop. You're the reason I'm anything."

Yoongi sets his glass down on the table. His hand is steady but his jaw is tight, and Jimin can see him working through something, fighting with it.

"You're not a kid anymore," Yoongi says.

"No."

"When did that happen?"

"Somewhere between Seoul and coming back here to wipe my dad's ass and feed him soup." Jimin almost smiles. "Growing up isn't that complicated. You just keep surviving until one day you realize you're an adult and no one warned you it would feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Tired. Mostly tired."

Yoongi laughs, a short rough sound that surprises both of them. "Yeah. That's about right."

They sit there for a while, not talking. The lamp flickers once and steadies. Outside the window the sky has gone dark, the streetlights blinking on along the waterfront. Jimin should go home, should check on his father, should do any of the responsible things he's supposed to do. He doesn't move.

"You can go," Yoongi says eventually. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. And I'm not leaving."

"Jimin."

"Shut up, hyung."

Yoongi looks at him. Jimin looks back, steady, not backing down. After a moment Yoongi shakes his head, sighs, and leans back into the couch cushions.

"Stubborn brat," he mutters.

"Learned from the best."

They stay like that, side by side on the couch with Tang asleep between them, until the whiskey bottle is empty and Yoongi's eyes have finally started to close. Jimin doesn't wake him. He pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over Yoongi's legs, and Tang opens his eyes to look at him before closing them again.

Jimin lets himself out quietly. The stairs creak on the way down and he pauses, listening, but there's no sound from above.

He walks home in the dark, hands in his pockets, thinking about doorways and bullets and the things people carry with them. Thinking about Yoongi alone in that apartment for three years, drinking whiskey on the anniversary of the worst day of his life. Thinking about how easy it is to let someone disappear into their grief because you don't know what to say.

He texts Yoongi from his front porch. same time tomorrow?

The reply comes an hour later, while Jimin is lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

k.

It's enough.

Jimin brings it up three days before, on their evening run.

"So," he says, matching Yoongi's pace along the waterfront. "Taehyung's putting together a thing for my birthday. Beach barbecue. Nothing big."

Yoongi glances at him. "Your birthday."

"October thirteenth. I'll be thirty." Jimin keeps his eyes on the path ahead, on the way the last of the daylight is fading over the water. "You should come. Bring Hoseok-hyung if he wants."

"Who else is going?"

"Tae, Jungkookie. Jin-hyung. Namjoon-hyung."

Yoongi doesn't answer right away. They run in silence for another hundred meters, feet hitting the pavement in almost-unison.

"I'll think about it," he says finally.

Jimin doesn't push. He's learned that much.

The weather holds. October thirteenth dawns clear and cool, the kind of autumn day that feels like a gift, and by late afternoon Jimin is hauling a cooler across the sand while Taehyung yells instructions from somewhere behind him.

"More to the left! No, my left!"

"Your left is the ocean!"

"Then go toward the ocean!"

Jimin drops the cooler where he's standing and flips Taehyung off. Taehyung blows him a kiss and goes back to setting up the portable grill with Seokjin, who's already complaining about the wind direction.

Jungkook arrives with chairs and a bluetooth speaker, and Namjoon shows up ten minutes later with more meat than seven people could possibly eat. They arrange themselves in a loose circle near the dunes, the grill upwind, the cooler in the middle where everyone can reach it.

Jimin keeps glancing at the path that leads down from the road.

"He'll come," Taehyung says, dropping into the chair next to him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've looked at the parking lot six times in the last four minutes."

"I'm admiring the sunset."

"The sun sets over the water. The parking lot is behind us."

Jimin throws a bottle cap at him.

Seokjin gets the grill going and starts laying out pork belly, the fat sizzling and popping as it hits the heat. The smell drifts across the beach, mixing with the salt air, and Jimin's stomach growls. He hadn't eaten much today, too keyed up to be hungry.

"Birthday boy gets first piece," Seokjin announces, waving his tongs.

"It's not even cooked yet."

"It will be. Patience."

"Don't let Jin-hyung burn them," Jungkook says.

"I don't burn things."

"You burned the samgyeopsal last Chuseok."

"That was a sacrifice to the grill gods."

"It was charcoal."

"Delicious, smoky charcoal.”

Namjoon laughs and cracks open a beer, and the conversation splits into smaller threads. Taehyung explaining his latest reel concept to a visibly confused Namjoon, Jungkook showing Seokjin something on his phone that makes him squint and shake his head.

Jimin is half-listening to Taehyung describe the algorithm when he sees movement on the path.

Yoongi. And behind him, Hoseok, carrying a plastic bag.

Jimin's chest does something stupid. He looks away before anyone can catch him staring, reaches for his beer, takes a long sip.

"Look who decided to show up," Seokjin calls. "I thought you were going to flake."

"I thought about it." Yoongi crosses the sand toward them, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. Hoseok waves and holds up the bag.

"We brought beer."

"We have beer," Taehyung says.

"We brought good beer."

Hoseok pulls out a six-pack of Hite and sets it in the cooler, and Jimin bites the inside of his cheek. It's the brand he always buys. The brand Yoongi has watched him buy for months.

"Happy birthday," Yoongi says, stopping in front of Jimin's chair.

"Thanks for coming."

"Hoseok made me."

"I did not," Hoseok says. "I suggested it. Strongly."

Yoongi rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. He drops into the empty chair on Jimin's other side, the one Jimin had definitely not been saving, and stretches his legs out in front of him.

"He's going to burn those," Yoongi says, nodding at Seokjin.

"I'm creating texture."

"You're creating carcinogens," Jungkook says.

Yoongi stands back up. "Move over. I'll do it."

"You can't just take over my grill."

"It's Taehyung's grill."

"It's everyone's grill," Taehyung says. "Grill socialism."

"That's not what socialism means," Namjoon starts, and then Taehyung is asking him to explain, and Seokjin is relinquishing the tongs with theatrical reluctance, and Yoongi is standing over the grill turning meat with the kind of focus he usually reserves for his inventory ledger.

Jimin watches him. The firelight catches the angles of his face, the silver at his temples. He's wearing a black sweater that looks soft, expensive maybe, something Jimin hasn't seen before. His bad shoulder still sits lower than the other but he moves easier now, weeks of running finally paying off.

"You're staring," Taehyung murmurs.

"I'm appreciating the chef."

"You're appreciating something."

Jimin elbows him and Taehyung cackles, loud enough that Jungkook looks over and raises his eyebrows. Across the grill, Yoongi glances up, meets Jimin's eyes for a second, and goes back to the meat.

The evening settles into an easy rhythm. Seokjin tells a story about a customer who tried to pay for coffee with a poem, and Namjoon one-ups him with a story about a guy who called the station to report his neighbor's wind chimes as a noise violation. Hoseok asks Jungkook about his tattoos and gets a twenty-minute explanation of the symbolism behind each one, complete with rolled-up sleeves and dramatic lighting from the phone flashlight.

"Kids these days," Seokjin sighs. "In my day we got drunk and made bad decisions. We didn't need meaning."

"You literally have a MapleStory mushroom on your ankle," Yoongi says without looking up from the grill.

"That was a bad decision. It proves my point."

Yoongi brings Jimin a plate. Three perfect pieces of pork belly, edges crispy, centers tender. Jimin looks at his plate, then at the platter Yoongi sets down for everyone else.

"You gave me the good ones."

"I gave you the ones that were ready."

"These are the best pieces."

"Then eat them before someone notices."

Jimin eats them. They're perfect.

The soju comes out after the food is mostly gone, passed around the circle, and Jimin loses track of how many shots he's had somewhere around the fourth one. The conversation gets looser, louder. Taehyung is trying to teach Namjoon a dance move and failing spectacularly. Jungkook has migrated closer to Taehyung and is filming the whole thing for reasons Jimin doesn't want to examine.

"I have to work tomorrow," Namjoon groans, checking his phone. "Early shift."

"I'll drive you," Seokjin says. "I'm sober enough."

"You had four beers."

"I have a high tolerance. It's genetics.”

"That's not how genetics works."

They gather their things, Seokjin collecting the leftover meat into containers, Namjoon folding up his chair. Hoseok stands, brushing sand off his jeans.

"Yoongi-hyung, you coming?"

Yoongi glances at Jimin. Just for a second. "I'll figure it out."

Hoseok's eyebrows lift, but he doesn't say anything. He squeezes into the backseat of Seokjin's car and waves through the window as they pull away.

Taehyung stretches, yawns. "We should pack up."

It takes fifteen minutes. Jimin and Jungkook carry the grill to Taehyung's car while Yoongi folds chairs. The cooler goes in last, shoved into the backseat.

"You good?" Taehyung asks Jimin, eyes flicking to Yoongi.

"Yeah. Go."

Taehyung grins but doesn't say anything. Jungkook drives them out of the lot, taillights disappearing up the road.

The beach is quiet. Just the waves, the wind, the distant glow of streetlights.

Yoongi is standing where the grill used to be, looking out at the water. The moon is up now, almost full, and Jimin can see him shiver.

"You're freezing," Jimin says, walking over.

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering."

"It's October."

Jimin pulls off his jacket and holds it out. Yoongi looks at it, looks at him.

"Hyung. Just take it."

Yoongi takes the jacket. He shrugs into it, zips it up, and his hands disappear into the pockets.

"Thanks," he says.

"You're welcome."

They stand there looking at the water. The waves come in, pull back. Jimin should say something. He doesn't know what.

"I wanted to come tonight," Yoongi says. "Hoba didn't have to convince me."

Jimin glances at him. Yoongi's profile is sharp in the moonlight, jaw tight, and his thumb is moving inside the jacket pocket. This small restless motion, back and forth, like he's rubbing the fabric. Jimin has never seen Yoongi fidget before.

"That night," Yoongi says. Quieter now. "You stayed with me."

"Yeah."

"I keep thinking about it." His thumb is still moving. "I keep thinking about you."

Jimin's chest goes tight. He doesn't say anything. He's afraid if he speaks he'll break whatever this is.

"I don't know what to do with it," Yoongi says. "I haven't…" He stops. Starts again. "It's been a long time since I wanted anything."

"And now?"

Yoongi turns to look at him. His eyes are dark and his mouth is a thin line and he looks terrified, Jimin realizes. Under all of it, under the gruffness and the distance, Yoongi is terrified.

"Now I don't know," Yoongi says. "I don't know how to do this anymore."

Jimin reaches out. Slowly, carefully, giving Yoongi time to pull away. He touches the collar of the jacket, his jacket, and his fingers brush the side of Yoongi's neck.

Yoongi doesn't pull away. He goes still, barely breathing, and Jimin can feel his pulse under his fingertips. Rapid. Unsteady.

"Hyung," Jimin says.

Yoongi's eyes drop to his mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.

"Can I kiss you?"

Yoongi doesn't answer. His hand comes out of the pocket and his fingers curl around Jimin's wrist, the one touching his neck, and he holds on like he needs something to anchor him.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

Jimin kisses him.

Yoongi's mouth is cold from the wind and he tastes like soju. He doesn't move at first, frozen, and Jimin has a second of panic before Yoongi's other hand comes up to his jaw and angles him closer and kisses him back.

It's slow. Careful. Like Yoongi is remembering how to do this, like he's testing whether it's real. His thumb brushes Jimin's cheekbone and Jimin shivers, presses closer, and the kiss deepens, Yoongi's fingers sliding into his hair, his teeth grazing Jimin's lower lip.

When they break apart Yoongi doesn't pull back. His forehead rests against Jimin's, his hand still cupping Jimin's jaw.

"Okay," Yoongi says. His voice is hoarse.

Jimin laughs, shaky. "You keep saying that."

"It's a good word."

"It's barely a word."

Yoongi's thumb traces Jimin's cheekbone, slow, and Jimin forgets what he was going to say.

"Come home with me," Yoongi says.

Jimin's car is in the lot. The drive to the shop takes five minutes and Jimin doesn't remember any of it afterward, just Yoongi's hand on his thigh, warm through his jeans, and the streetlights sliding past the windshield.

The stairs creak on the way up. Tang meows at them when they come in, a dark shape on the back of the couch, but Yoongi doesn't stop. He pulls Jimin through the door and kisses him against the wall, one hand fisted in Jimin's hoodie, the other fumbling behind him to push the door shut.

It doesn't latch. Jimin hears it swing back open, feels the draft from the hallway, doesn't care. Yoongi's mouth is on his and Yoongi's hands are shaking and this is actually happening.

"Bedroom," Jimin manages.

"Yeah."

They stumble down the hall, still kissing, and Jimin's shin connects with something hard. The coffee table, probably. He swears against Yoongi's mouth and Yoongi laughs, this short rough sound, and pulls him through the bedroom door.

The lamp is off. Jimin can barely see him, just shapes in the dark, and that won't work. He reaches for the nightstand and flicks on the lamp.

Yoongi flinches. "Don't."

"I want to see you."

"It's better in the dark."

"For who?"

Yoongi doesn't answer. He's standing at the edge of the bed, still wearing Jimin's jacket, and in the lamplight Jimin can see how red his face is. Not from the cold anymore.

"Hyung." Jimin steps closer, puts his hands on Yoongi's waist. "When was the last time you did this?"

Yoongi's jaw works. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah."

"Three years. Maybe longer. I don't… I stopped counting."

Three years. Jimin's brain stalls on that for a second, tries to imagine it. Three years of not being touched, not being held, not being anything but alone in this apartment with a cat and a bottle of whiskey.

"Okay," Jimin says. "We're going slow, then."

"I don't need you to."

"We're going slow."

He kisses Yoongi before he can argue. Slower this time, less teeth, more intention. Yoongi makes a frustrated sound against his mouth and Jimin swallows it, walks him backward until his knees hit the mattress and he sits down hard.

Jimin stands over him. Looks down at Yoongi looking up at him, and something twists low in his stomach at the image. Yoongi's mouth is wet and his hair is a mess and he's wearing Jimin's jacket and he looks wrecked already. They haven't even started.

"Take this off," Jimin says, tugging at the jacket.

Yoongi shrugs out of it. His hands are still shaking.

"And this." Jimin touches the hem of his sweater.

Yoongi hesitates. His fingers curl around the fabric but he doesn't pull it up, just sits there, something uncertain in his expression that Jimin hasn't seen before.

"Hyung."

"I'm not…" Yoongi stops. Starts again. "I don't look like I used to."

"Neither do I."

"You're thirty. You look fine."

"And you're thirty-seven and you look…" Jimin pauses, recalibrates, because Yoongi will deflect anything too sincere. "Like I've been jerking off thinking about you for the past month, so maybe let me be the judge."

Yoongi stares at him. "You—"

"Yeah."

"For a month?"

"Longer, probably." Jimin drops to his knees between Yoongi's legs. "Take off the sweater."

Yoongi takes off the sweater.

His chest is pale. Softer than Jimin expected, less defined, and his shoulders are broader without the clothes and there's the scar, the one on his bad shoulder, raised and pink against the white of his skin. Jimin reaches up and traces it with his fingertips and feels Yoongi tense.

"It's ugly," Yoongi says.

Jimin leans in and presses his mouth to it. Kisses the scarred skin, the surgery line, the place where they put him back together. Yoongi exhales above him, shaky, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of Jimin's head.

"You're an idiot," Yoongi says, but there's no heat in it.

"Probably." Jimin kisses down his chest. His stomach. The soft curve of his belly that Yoongi probably hates but Jimin wants to sink his teeth into. "Is this okay?"

"Yes. Obviously. Keep… yeah."

Jimin grins against his skin. Yoongi is already hard, straining against his jeans, and Jimin presses his palm against him just to hear the sound he makes. Low, punched out, like he couldn't stop it if he tried.

"Fuck," Yoongi breathes.

"That's the idea."

"Don't be… shit. Don't be cute about it."

"I'm always cute."

Yoongi's laugh turns into a groan when Jimin unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down. No underwear. Jimin raises his eyebrows.

"What?" Yoongi says defensively. "It's laundry day."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking I'm glad it's laundry day."

Jimin wraps his hand around Yoongi's cock and strokes, slow, watching his face. Yoongi's eyes flutter shut. His hips push up into Jimin's fist. He's biting his lip, trying to stay quiet, and Jimin doesn't like that at all.

"Let me hear you," Jimin says.

Yoongi shakes his head.

"Hyung."

"I can't just…" His voice cracks when Jimin twists his wrist. "I'm not… I don't make a lot of noise."

"You were pretty loud on the beach."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I don't know. It just…" Yoongi breaks off, gasping, when Jimin leans down and licks a stripe up the underside of his cock. "Jimin, fuck."

"There you go."

Jimin takes him into his mouth and Yoongi stops trying to be quiet. His hand fists in Jimin's hair and he makes sounds Jimin has never heard from him, high and broken, nothing like the controlled gruff voice Jimin is used to. It goes to Jimin's head faster than the soju did. He's hard in his jeans, aching, but he doesn't want to rush this. Wants to take Yoongi apart piece by piece.

He pulls off to kiss Yoongi's thighs, the crease of his hip, and Yoongi whines.

"Don't stop."

"I'm not stopping. Just taking my time."

"I don't want you to take your time."

"Tough." Jimin licks back up to the head and sucks, just the tip, and Yoongi's hips jerk. "You've had three years of nothing. I'm making up for it."

"That's… fuck. That's a lot of pressure."

Jimin laughs around him and Yoongi curses, hand tightening in his hair. He's close, Jimin can tell, can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breath is coming faster.

"Jimin. I'm gonna—"

Jimin pulls off.

"What the fuck."

"Not yet."

Yoongi stares at him, chest heaving. "I was right there."

"I know."

"You're a sadist."

"Maybe." Jimin climbs up his body, kisses him. Yoongi can probably taste himself on Jimin's mouth and the thought makes Jimin's cock throb. "I want you to come when I'm inside you."

Yoongi's whole body shudders. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"Where's your—"

"Drawer."

Jimin finds the lube. The condoms are shoved in the back behind old receipts and a phone charger that probably doesn't work anymore. He doesn't comment on any of it. Strips off his hoodie, his t-shirt, his jeans and underwear, slicks his fingers, and settles back between Yoongi's legs.

"Roll over?"

"No." Yoongi's voice is firm. "I want to see you."

"Okay."

Jimin pushes Yoongi's thighs apart and presses one finger in, slow, watching Yoongi's face. His brow furrows. His lips part. He looks like he's concentrating, like he's trying to remember how this goes.

"Okay?" Jimin asks.

"More."

"I just—"

"I know what I can take." Yoongi reaches up and grabs Jimin's arm, pulls him down. "Stop treating me like I'm fragile. I'm not going to break."

"You're very bossy for someone who hasn't had sex in three years."

"And you're very slow for someone who's supposedly been jerking off thinking about me."

Jimin laughs, surprised, and adds a second finger. Yoongi's snark dissolves into a moan. He pushes down onto Jimin's hand, fucking himself on his fingers, and Jimin watches, transfixed. Yoongi with his guard down. Yoongi wanting something and letting himself have it.

"God," Jimin says. "Look at you."

"Don't—"

"You're so hot, hyung. You have no idea."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Yoongi pulls him down and kisses him, sloppy and desperate, and Jimin adds a third finger and crooks them just right. Yoongi gasps into his mouth, back arching.

"There?" Jimin asks.

"Yeah. Fuck. Right there."

Jimin works that spot until Yoongi is shaking, until he's making sounds that barely sound human, until he's begging. Actually begging, words Jimin never thought he'd hear from Min Yoongi's mouth.

"Please. Jimin, please, I need—"

"I know." Jimin pulls his fingers out and Yoongi whines at the loss. "I know, I've got you."

He rolls on the condom, slicks himself up. His hands are shaking now too. He lines himself up and looks at Yoongi, spread out beneath him, flushed and panting and so fucking beautiful it makes Jimin's chest hurt.

"Ready?"

"If you ask me one more time I'm going to—"

Jimin pushes in.

Yoongi's mouth falls open. No sound comes out, just a silent gasp, and his nails dig into Jimin's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Jimin stops halfway, breathing through it, because Yoongi is tight and hot and perfect and if he moves right now this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.

"Fuck," Yoongi says, strangled. "Fuck, you're—"

"Yeah."

"Big. You're—"

"Thanks."

"Shut up." Yoongi's laugh is breathless. "Just… move. Please."

Jimin moves. Slow at first, careful, watching Yoongi's face for any sign of discomfort. There's none. Just pleasure, overwhelming and obvious, and Yoongi can't stay quiet anymore. Every thrust punches a sound out of him. He's loud, louder than Jimin expected, and it's doing something to Jimin's brain, making it hard to think about anything except more and harder and yes.

"You feel so good," Jimin says, and his voice doesn't sound like his own. "Hyung, you feel—"

"Faster."

Jimin goes faster. Finds the angle that makes Yoongi cry out and keeps it, keeps hitting that spot, and Yoongi is falling apart underneath him. Clawing at his back, wrapping his legs around Jimin's waist, pulling him deeper.

"Touch yourself," Jimin says. "I want to watch you come."

Yoongi's hand wraps around his cock. It only takes a few strokes before he's gone, coming with a shout, clenching around Jimin so hard that Jimin has to stop moving and just breathe through it.

"Holy shit," Jimin manages.

Yoongi is still shaking through the aftershocks when he says, "Keep going."

"What?"

"You didn't come. Keep going."

"You just—"

"I can take it."

Jimin stares at him. Yoongi looks wrecked, completely destroyed, come on his stomach and his eyes barely open. But he's clenching around Jimin deliberately now, pulling him in.

"Fuck," Jimin breathes, and starts moving again.

Yoongi makes a sound that's almost a sob. Oversensitive, probably, but he's not telling Jimin to stop. He's holding onto him, pulling him closer, and Jimin buries his face in Yoongi's neck and fucks him through it.

It doesn't take long. Jimin is too wound up, has been on the edge since the beach, and when he comes it hits him like a wave, whites out his vision for a second. He hears himself moan against Yoongi's skin, feels Yoongi's hand in his hair, holding him through it.

When he can think again, he's collapsed on top of Yoongi, both of them sweaty and sticky and gross.

"Get off me," Yoongi says without heat.

"Can't move."

"You're heavy."

"You're comfortable."

Yoongi snorts. His hand is still in Jimin's hair, though, stroking absently, so Jimin figures he can't be that annoyed.

Eventually Jimin rolls off. Deals with the condom. Comes back to find Yoongi exactly where he left him, arm thrown over his face, come drying on his stomach.

"Shower?" Jimin offers.

"Later."

"You've got—" Jimin gestures vaguely at Yoongi's stomach.

"I'm aware." Yoongi doesn't move. "Later."

Jimin grabs a t-shirt from the floor (his t-shirt, the one he was wearing, but whatever) and cleans Yoongi off as best he can. Yoongi lets him, doesn't protest, and something about that easy acceptance makes Jimin's chest feel too full.

He climbs back into bed. Yoongi rolls toward him immediately, fitting himself against Jimin's side, head on his chest. Not cuddling. Yoongi would deny that. Just... proximity.

"Hey," Jimin says.

"Hm."

"That was..."

"If you say 'that was nice' I'm kicking you out."

Jimin laughs. "I was going to say 'that was the best sex of my life' but okay."

Yoongi is quiet for a second. "Really?"

"Yeah." Jimin kisses the top of his head. "Really."

"Hm." Yoongi's arm tightens around Jimin's waist. "Yeah. Me too."

They're quiet after that. Tang appears in the doorway, takes one look at them, and leaves with an audible huff of disgust.

"He's judging us," Jimin says.

"He judges everyone. Don't take it personally."

Jimin pulls the blanket up over both of them. Yoongi is warm against his side, solid and real, and his breathing is already slowing toward sleep.

"Hey," Jimin says again, softer.

"Hm."

"Stay awake for one more second."

Yoongi lifts his head, squints at him. "What."

Jimin kisses him. Soft, close-mouthed, nothing like the desperate kisses from before. Just I'm here. I'm staying. This is real.

When he pulls back, Yoongi is looking at him with something unreadable in his expression.

"Okay," Yoongi says finally. "You can stay."

"I wasn't asking permission."

"I'm giving it anyway."

Yoongi puts his head back down on Jimin's chest and closes his eyes. His breathing evens out within minutes, and Jimin lies there in the dark, listening to him sleep, thinking about nothing at all.

Jimin wakes up to grey light through the window and a warm weight against his side. For a second he doesn't know where he is, brain still foggy with sleep, and then he feels Yoongi's breath against his collarbone and remembers.

Right. That happened.

Yoongi is still asleep, face slack, mouth slightly open. He looks younger like this. Less guarded. Jimin watches him for a minute, lets himself have this, and then carefully extracts himself from the tangle of limbs and blankets.

Yoongi makes a sound of protest but doesn't wake. Jimin finds his boxers on the floor and his hoodie hanging off the doorknob and pulls them on. The apartment is cold. October mornings are no joke this close to the water, and Yoongi's heating is apparently set to "barely functional."

The kitchen is small and clean and almost completely empty. Jimin opens the fridge and stares at the contents. There's half a carton of eggs, a jar of kimchi that looks homemade (probably from Seokjin), three bottles of beer, and something wrapped in foil that he's afraid to investigate.

He checks the cabinets. Rice in a container. Sesame oil. Soy sauce. Gochugaru. Salt.

Okay. He can work with this.

Jimin is not a great cook. He can make basic things, survival food, the kind of meals you throw together when you're too tired to think but too hungry to skip dinner. Since coming back to Sokcho he's been figuring it out as he goes. Some weeks are better than others.

He puts rice in the cooker and cracks eggs into a bowl and hopes for the best.

He's standing at the stove, poking at what is rapidly becoming more scrambled than fried, when cold hands slide under his shirt.

Jimin yelps and nearly drops the spatula. "What the fuck."

Yoongi's laugh is low and raspy against his shoulder blade. "Morning."

"Your hands are freezing."

"I know." Yoongi doesn't move them. Just presses his palms flat against Jimin's stomach and leaves them there, stealing warmth. "What are you doing to my eggs?"

"Making breakfast."

"It looks like a crime scene."

"It's fine. It's supposed to look like that."

"No egg in the history of cooking has ever been supposed to look like that."

Jimin turns off the burner and turns around. Yoongi is wearing an old t-shirt with a faded logo and sweats that are falling off his hips. His hair is sticking up on one side. His hands are still cold where they're resting on Jimin's waist.

"Hi," Jimin says.

"Hi."

"You're insulting my cooking."

"I'm making an observation."

"It's rude."

"It's accurate."

Jimin hooks his hands under Yoongi's thighs and lifts. Yoongi makes a startled sound and grabs onto his shoulders, and Jimin sets him down on the counter next to the ruined eggs.

"Show off," Yoongi mutters, but his ears are red.

Jimin steps between his legs and Yoongi's thighs bracket his hips, easy, like they've done this a hundred times. Like this is just what they do now. Jimin leans in and kisses him, morning breath and all, and Yoongi kisses back slow and lazy, his cold fingers sliding into Jimin's hair.

It's different from last night. Less urgent. They have time now. Nowhere to be, nothing to prove.

When Jimin pulls back, Yoongi's eyes are still half-closed. "The eggs are going to get cold."

"The eggs are already dead. I killed them."

"Tragic."

"I'll buy you breakfast."

"The cafe doesn't open until ten."

"Then we wait." Jimin kisses him again, just because he can. "Or you could cook."

"I could." Yoongi doesn't move to get off the counter. "But I'm comfortable."

"You're sitting on the counter."

"I'm comfortable on the counter."

They end up eating rice with kimchi and the eggs that Jimin murdered, sitting on the floor in the living room because Yoongi doesn't have a kitchen table. Tang weaves between them, begging for scraps, and Yoongi feeds him a piece of egg even though he definitely shouldn't.

"He's going to expect that every time now," Jimin says.

"He already expects everything. He's a cat."

Tang meows, as if agreeing, and Jimin laughs. The sound bounces off the walls of the small apartment and Yoongi looks at him, something soft in his expression that he'd probably deny if Jimin pointed it out.

"What?" Jimin asks.

"Nothing." Yoongi looks back down at his rice. "You should come over for dinner sometime. I'll actually cook."

"You cook?"

"Better than you."

"That's a low bar."

"I know."

Jimin grins. "Okay. When?"

"I don't know. Whenever." Yoongi shrugs, trying for casual and not quite landing. "You're around all the time anyway. Might as well feed you."

"I'm not around all the time."

"You came to buy beer every other day before we even started running. Then you sat outside on those chairs every night after."

"You kept handing me beer. What was I supposed to do, say no?"

"Yes."

"You didn't want me to say no."

Yoongi's ears go red. He shoves rice into his mouth and doesn't answer, which is an answer.

Jimin reaches over and steals a piece of kimchi from Yoongi's bowl. Yoongi scowls at him but doesn't stop him.

Jimin's phone buzzes. He checks it and his stomach drops. It's almost ten.

"Shit," he says. "I have to go."

"Your dad?"

"Yeah. No nurse on Sundays." Jimin stands, looking around for the rest of his clothes. His jeans are in the bedroom somewhere. "I should have set an alarm, I didn't think—"

"Hey." Yoongi's voice is calm. "It's fine. Go."

"I don't want to just leave."

"Jimin." Yoongi stands too, collecting their empty bowls. "Go take care of your dad. I'm not going anywhere."

Jimin stops. Looks at him.

Yoongi meets his eyes. "I mean it. Go."

Jimin crosses the room and kisses him, hard and quick. Yoongi makes a surprised sound against his mouth and then kisses back, his free hand coming up to cup Jimin's jaw.

"I'll see you later," Jimin says when he pulls back.

"You will."

He finds his jeans. His shoes by the door. Tang meows at him as he leaves, and Yoongi is standing in the kitchen doorway with the bowls still in his hands, watching him go.

Jimin takes the stairs two at a time. The morning air is cold and he's grinning like an idiot as he walks to his car, still parked in the lot from last night.

His phone buzzes when he's halfway home.

Yoongi's name on the screen. Jimin pulls over to check it, even though he shouldn't, even though his dad is waiting.

same time tonight?

Jimin stares at the message. Thinks about the anniversary, about texting Yoongi from his front porch, about the ‘k’ that came an hour later. How different everything is now.

He types back:

yeah. same time.

The reply comes immediately.

bring food. real food. not whatever you were attempting this morning.

Jimin laughs out loud in his parked car, alone, like an idiot.

jjajangmyeon?

acceptable.

you're so romantic, hyung.

i'm practical. romance is your department.

fine. jjajangmyeon AND flowers.

don't you dare.

too late. already planning it.

jimin.

red roses. a dozen. maybe two dozen.

i will lock the door.

i'll just knock until you let me in.

i hate you.

no you don't.

The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Jimin waits, still smiling.

no. i don't.

Jimin reads it twice. Three times. Saves the screenshot like he's sixteen years old, like this is the first time anyone has ever said anything like this to him.

He pulls back onto the road. His dad is awake when he gets home, parked in front of the TV with the volume too loud, and Jimin spends the next hour helping him with breakfast and clean clothes and his morning pills.

But the whole time, his phone is warm in his pocket, and he keeps thinking about tonight.

Jjajangmyeon. Maybe flowers, just to see Yoongi's face. The stairs that creak on the way up. Tang meowing at the door. Yoongi pretending to be annoyed and failing completely.

Same time tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

Jimin doesn't know what to call this thing between them. Doesn't know if it needs a name yet.

He's just thinking about tonight.