Chapter Text
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
-
The tide does not ask permission to change the shore—it simply comes, breaking what was, so something new can grow.
-
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Tick.
Jungkook’s gaze flicks to the clock for what feels like the hundredth time in the past ten minutes, as if sheer willpower could force the hands to speed up. He shifts in his wheelchair, the movement jerky, impatient, and immediately checks the time again.
Tick.
“Fuck this shit,” he mutters under his breath, fingers twitching near the controllers. It’s stuck again. Of course it is. All that money spent on the “best model” the vendor had promised, with its sleek design and cutting-edge technology, and it still doesn’t work when it’s needed.
Jungkook presses the buttons again, harder this time, then slams his hand against the armrest when nothing happens. His frustration boils over, and he grips the chair’s edge tightly, shoving it forward with a violent jerk.
For one horrifying second, the world tilts. The floor rushes toward him, his heart slams into his throat, and his knuckles turn white as he catches himself. Barely.
Goddammit.
The humiliation burns through him like acid, hot and choking. What if the guy walked in now ? Saw him, the almighty Alpha, sprawled across the floor like some defeated animal ? His stomach twists at the thought.
No. Can’t let that happen.
Won’t let that happen.
He forces his gaze away from the clock and out the window. The floor-to-ceiling glass offers a panorama of the city below, its buildings bathed in the golden light of the dying sun, and in the distance, snow-covered mountains stand like silent sentinels, the sharp, clean line of a ski slope cutting through the pristine white.
The memory hits him like a punch to the chest.
It always does.
Crystal clear, unrelenting.
The slope beneath his board, the wind roaring in his ears. The whispers from the crowd : Young Alpha Jungkook. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. And he’d believed it. Eaten it up. He’d pushed harder, faster, blind to anything but the praise.
Reckless.
Stupid.
Arrogant.
Because Alphas weren’t supposed to be cautious, and they weren’t supposed to falter.
He can still feel it. The exact moment it all went wrong.
The board skimming over a patch of ice, just enough to throw him off balance. The sudden, sickening realisation that there was no saving it. And then the fall.
His chest tightens.
The crunch of bone. The silence in his head as the world outside screamed. The pain—and worse, the absence of it. The cold, horrifying absence that told him nothing would ever be the same.
The doorbell rings.
Here we go.
Jungkook rolls to the door, jaw tight. His parents had promised—sworn even—that this would be their last attempt. One more caretaker, one more shot at “fixing” him. He knows how this ends : sympathy, hesitation, frustration.
They try, they falter, they leave.
No one stays.
He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that feels too heavy for his chest, as if even the act of drawing air has become a chore. He’s determined to make this one the last.
He yanks the door open. And freezes.
What he expects is some wide-eyed Omega, dazzled by the pristine luxury of his home, the kind of person whose awe would quickly sour into pity the moment they saw him. Instead, what walks through the door is... not that.
The guy doesn’t even blink. He strides in like he owns the place, like he’s walked through a thousand doors just like this one and seen it all before, and Jungkook’s wealth is as ordinary as dust on a shelf.
No bow, no hesitation. Just dry confidence.
“You’re late,” Jungkook snaps, his voice clipped and cold, and falling into old habits.
The Omega hums and glances at his wrist as if checking a watch that isn’t there. “Oh yeah. Guess I am.” He shrugs. “My bad.”
That’s it ? No apology ? No grovelling ?
“This wasn’t my idea,” Jungkook bites out. “ And let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t ask for anyone to take care of me.”
The guy gives him a slow, deliberate once-over, and Jungkook’s blood starts to simmer. He doesn’t like to be looked at, not anymore, not the way he once thrived on, and certainly not by eyes that gleam with cutting wit and something else that crawls under his skin and festers there.
“Of course you didn’t,” he says, his tone smooth, almost lazy, like the whole thing’s some kind of joke. “What self-respecting Alpha would ?”
At that, Jungkook bites into his lip. The urge to slam the door in his face is almost overwhelming. Goddess, he needs him gone.
Now.
Yesterday, if possible.
But The Moon stopped answering his prayers long ago—back when he stopped believing she cared. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe his faith died first, in that hospital bed, tangled in sweat-damp sheets under her indifferent glow. He’d screamed, cried, begged, her silver light mocking him as the sterile bite of neutraliser filled the room, mingling with the suffocating stench of despair.
Either way, she doesn’t listen anymore.
All he gets now is the Omega cocking his head, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves, and delivering an outrageous, “The entrance is impressive, but I’d like to see the rest, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“We wouldn’t still be here if you knew how to read a watch.”
The guy’s brows lift, and a second later, the corner of his lips curl into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Oh, yeah. Because it’s so hard for you to wait here in your palace of privilege. Must be exhausting.”
“Care to elaborate ?”
“All this space… The view, the world at your feet…” He glances around the pristine, perfectly arranged room with a low whistle. “And yet, here you are, so inconvenienced by someone making you wait five extra minutes. I can see why you’re upset. Really.”
“I know when someone’s making fun of me. I’m handicapped, not stupid.”
The Omega chuckles before he tips his chin up like he’s weighing the words. Then, with the audacity of those who’ve never known fear, he salutes.
Asshole.
“Duly noted. I’ll try to keep the ‘stupid’ out of our interactions.”
For a moment, Jungkook can only stare. He’s furious—exposed, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time. The sheer audacity of it. The way the man stands here, immune to the storm he’s barely holding back… It’s maddening.
And, if he’s honest, a little impressive. No one talks to him like this. No one. Not before the accident, and certainly not after.
The guy doesn’t notice… or, more likely, doesn’t care. He strolls into the living room, heading straight for the coffee table. His gaze flickers briefly to Jungkook, still frozen in the entrance like an idiot, before it lands on the thick medical file that’s been sitting there since yesterday. The one his parents had shoved at him with an all-too-familiar mix of desperation and insistence.
He hasn’t touched it. Hasn’t even come close.
The Omega picks up the binder, flipping it open with a slight frown as he sinks into the sofa, one leg crossing over the other like he’s settling in for a long, leisurely read.
“What the hell are you doing ?”
“Working.”
Maybe Jungkook should’ve let it go. Maybe he should’ve savoured the break from the tension instead of spitting out the sharp remark that’s already rising in his throat. But he can’t help it, can’t stop the irritation building with every scan of the page, every slight nod of the Omega’s head as he breezes through his records… through his life.
He almost regrets it the second it’s out.
Almost.
“Must be nice for someone like you, huh ? Sitting there, pretending you’re important, flipping through my sad little life so you can forget your own. Is that how you get your kicks ?”
“Well, well, well,” the guy drawls, his tone light but sharp enough to cut, not even sparing him a glance. Fuck. Jungkook can already feel the sting coming. “A bit of a fallen star, aren’t we ? Snowboarding champion. Golden boy of South Korea. And now...” He trails off, his gaze flicking to the wheelchair with pointed deliberation, and an icy smirk. “If this is how I get my kicks, you sure make it easy.”
“What—Who the hell do you think you are ?”
“You mean besides the guy your parents hired to deal with you, Alpha ?”
Jungkook bristles. He feels it, betraying him at the worst moment, the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “It’s Jungkook. Not just ‘Alpha’.”
“Wonderful. He has a name.” The Omega shifts, holding out his hand briefly as if it’s an afterthought. “Mine’s Jimin. And no, I’m not impressed.”
“Excuse me ?”
“You’re excused,” Jimin replies breezily, back to the file. “So let’s see... spinal injuries, limited mobility, weakened muscle strength in the lower body... oh, and a truly sparkling personality. Fascinating. Seems like you are, indeed, in need of my help.”
He closes the thing with a snap that echoes too loudly in the room, louder even in Jungkook’s mind. “Lucky you, your parents have the money. I’m a very sought-after man, after all.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Jungkook’s voice drops lower, his tone aiming for lethal.
It lands nowhere close, considering what comes next.
“I don’t have to.” Jimin finally looks up, and his expression is sharp, and his voice is syrupy sweet in a way that somehow feels worse than outright disdain. That is to say, condescending. “I’ve met enough spoiled Alphas to know the type.”
Great. Perfect. Fantastical. Pick any adjective you want. Of course, Jungkook’s parents would hire a fucking Omega rights activist. It’s the cherry on top of the absolute shit cake that is his life right now.
Exactly what he did not need.
“You’re mad at the world because things didn’t go your way. And now you’re stuck here, throwing tantrums because people won’t let you wallow in peace. I get it. Poor Jungkook.”
The words hit harder than Jungkook would like to admit, and maybe, harder than that. Because—dammit—they’re too true not to hurt.
"And trust me, I might’ve softened the blow—maybe—if your first words weren’t about how late I was. I’d bet my life you were even praying I’d roll in a good fifteen minutes past the hour, just so you could have a reason to bite my head off. Heaven forbid it crossed that pretty brain of yours that a ‘fragile thing’ like me might’ve been caught up in the transport strike. Oh, but of course not. His Majesty doesn’t bother with something as mundane as the news, does he ?"
“I’m not—”
“Please,” Jimin cuts him off with a lazy drawl as he stands. He moves to the window, his back to Jungkook, staring out at the glittering city skyline. “Spare me the theatrics. You’re not what ? Pissed off ? Depressed ? Trust me, I’ve seen it all before. You can’t scare me off with the brooding act.” He turns his head slightly, just enough to catch Jungkook’s eye with a pointed look. “You want me gone ? Try harder. But for now, I’m staying, and we’re doing this my way.”
“What is it with you ?” Jungkook mutters, but it’s more to himself than to anybody else.
“Nothing. I just don’t get paid enough to deal with your mood swings. And I definitely don’t get paid to pretend you’re some tragic figure... So, are we going to talk about the job, or are you just going to sit there scowling at me like I’ve kicked your puppy ? Your call.”
Goddess, this guy is insufferable. Maybe Jungkook will be the one to run away first after all—grab a bag of nothing and wheel his miserable self out in a week.
For now, though, he just wheels himself into the living room and closer to the beige bouclé sofa that’s apparently all the rage these days, and for once, the trend isn’t hideous, he’ll give it that. His tongue presses into his cheek, part habit, part effort to tamp down his irritation. “Fine,” he bites out, “let’s talk. Here’s how this works : I don’t need much. Don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary, don’t get in my way, and if you could leave, that’d be ideal.”
Jimin turns with a satisfied smile and sinks back into the cushions. “Wow, thrilling plan. You’ve really put some thought into this.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leans forward, propping his chin on his hand. “But I’ve got some rules too, since apparently this is the Wild West and we’re all making demands. One : I don’t do pity. You want to wallow, do it on your own time. Two : I’m not your slave. So if you’re looking for someone to kiss your feet, find another Omega. And three…” His smile sharpens.
“You can either let me do my job, or I’ll make your life a living hell.”
The words hang in the air like a gauntlet flung at his feet. If they’d been born a few centuries earlier, maybe it would’ve physically landed on his face. Jungkook can’t believe this is happening. Any of it. Him—him—being spoken to like some unruly pup. By a guy he’s known for less than ten minutes.
“Are you... threatening me ?”
Jimin’s smile widens even more, and this time, there’s teeth. “I’m promising you.”
It’s humiliating.
How it leaves him speechless. How he actually, genuinely, doesn’t have a single retort. It tastes like losing, and it tastes like hell.
“This is going to be a nightmare.”
“For you ?” Jimin shrugs. “Probably.”
There are a million things he should be saying. A million more he should be doing. He’s Alpha—no, he’s Alpha Jeon Jungkook. Wealthy beyond imagination. Famous like no other. A lineage so pristine it would make anyone else blush with envy. Once, there was no alternative : people either wanted to be him or be with him. He could’ve been an Olympic champion, if…
His gaze drops to the wheelchair, to the legs that no longer feel like his own. The thought cuts through him, sharp and cruel, and it silences the flood of prideful justifications before they can fully form.
What’s the point ? He’s nothing anymore.
“Let’s get this over with. If you’re so determined to do your job, I’ll show you around.”
He wheels himself toward the kitchen without waiting for a response, his movements jerky and stiff, every motion a glaring reminder of what he’s lost—and everything he’s ashamed of.
It’s sleek and modern, just like the rest of his penthouse, all glossy black surfaces and stainless steel appliances, and an air of perfection that feels more like a showroom than a home.
“Nice setup,” Jimin says, strolling in behind him with a lazy, assessing glance. “Tell me, does anyone actually eat here, or is it just to impress your visitors ?”
Jungkook narrows his eyes. “I eat.”
“Do you ?” Jimin asks, already moving to the fridge and pulling it open without so much as a glance for permission. Of course. Just one more thing on the growing list of things Jungkook will apparently need to tolerate.
The inside is meticulously arranged, true, but a closer look is enough to notice the unmistakable air of neglect : half-empty bottles, wilting vegetables, and a few items shoved so far into the back they might as well be fossils.
Jimin pulls out a prepackaged salad, checks the expiration date, and clicks his tongue. “Expired,” he announces, sliding it back. He grabs a carton of milk next. “Also expired. Let me guess… your parents stocked this up for you ? Because I’m not seeing any signs of actual consumption here.”
“I told you, I eat just fine.”
Jimin shuts the fridge with an audible click, then turns to grab an apple from the counter that he rolls between his fingers, inspecting it like a jeweller appraising a stone, before taking a decisive bite once he’s apparently deemed it non-lethal. “Define ‘fine’ for me. Three balanced meals a day ? Proper portions ? Enough protein to sustain muscle function ?”
“What’s this, an interrogation ?”
Jimin leans casually against the counter, arms crossed, voice maddeningly steady. “No. This is me figuring out how much damage control I’m dealing with. If you’re lying to your parents about your well-being, that’s between you and them. If you’re lying to me ?” He takes another bite of the apple, chewing thoughtfully, and somehow, it feels like he’s chewing Jungkook’s nerves instead. Maybe he is. “Different story.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Oh, of course not,” Jimin quips, tossing the apple core neatly into the trash. “Do you cook, or is your microwave doing all the heavy lifting ?”
“...I don’t cook. Not... Not anymore.”
“Figures. Do you eat out, then ? Delivery ? Or are we surviving solely on bitterness and passive-aggression ?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to ; his silence says enough.
“Ah. Delivery, then. Fast food ? Pizza ? Maybe the occasional sushi roll when you’re feeling classy ?”
“I said I—”
“And I said I don’t believe you.”
“Are you always this obnoxious ?”
“Only when it’s necessary.” Jimin’s faint smile doesn’t falter as he presses on. “Sleep habits ?”
“What about them ?”
“Are you sleeping, or are you staying up until the crack of dawn scrolling on your phone and pretending that’s normal ?”
“That’s not your business.”
“It absolutely is. If you’re running on four hours of sleep a night and starting your day on coffee and rage, that’s my business. If you’re skipping meals because you can’t be bothered, that’s my business too.” Jimin’s tone shifts, softening just enough to catch Jungkook off guard, the faintest thread of understanding weaving through his words. “You don’t have to like me, but you do have to face the truth. You can keep pushing people away, keep pretending you don’t need anyone, but that’s not strength. That’s fear.”
Jungkook almost wants to laugh at that, because what ? He’s been shelling out money for therapists for over seven months now, sitting through sterile sessions since the day he learned he’d never recover, and yet, somehow, it’s this ridiculous blond-haired guy, storming in with zero tact and a mountain of attitude, who manages to throw the truest words he’s heard right in his face, and for free, no less.
But then Jimin adds, almost too casually, “Though I hear I’m not exactly hard to like.”
There’s a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—a smile, faint but real—and it sends a prickle of heat crawling up the back of Jungkook’s neck.
Did he imagine that ?
Surely, he must have.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of hell and torture that Jungkook could’ve sworn were three hours, or more likely, three days, but his phone is unrelenting : thirty minutes, on the dot. For something that should’ve taken them half that time. Sure, his place is big, but it’s not endless. Yet somehow, they’d stretched it out : through the garage packed with cars he hasn’t driven in what feels like a lifetime, the roof garden he’d nearly forgotten existed, and every single unnecessary aisle and hallway.
He rolls through it all, his anger—the blinding, righteous anger for earlier—long burned out, replaced by something heavier, quieter, and infinitely more frustrating.
They exit yet another bathroom, and Jungkook mourns the day he’d envisioned for himself… silence, solitude, and an easily intimidated Omega he could scare off in less than an hour. Hell, he’d have even taken pity and awe at this point if it meant avoiding this.
This… unflappable, sharp-tongued whirlwind in a leather jacket and high-heeled boots, strolling through his penthouse as if it were some second-rate museum exhibit, taking in the luxury with an air of almost-boredom, tossing criticism faster than Jungkook can even process it. About everything.
How the fuck did this happen ?
Jungkook’s hands tighten on the armrests of his wheelchair. He needs to call his parents—that’s it. He’ll call them and demand answers. What were they thinking ? How, exactly, did they imagine this—him—would be the solution to anything ?
The thought flickers and dies as Jimin stops in front of one of the modern art pieces his decorator had insisted on. It’s abstract, all awkward angles and polished steel, jutting out like an overconfident monument to nothing.
Jimin tilts his head, an ironic smile stretching across his face—a face Jungkook already hates seeing smile like that, and again, it’s only been thirty minutes.
“Well, well, well. Art in the shape of a corporate bailout. How... appropriate.” He gestures vaguely at the piece. “Really sets the mood for the rest of the place.”
Jungkook halts mid-roll, glaring up at him. It’s not that he likes the piece—he doesn’t, in fact, he barely notices it most days, and it’s not even about the fact that it costs millions of won. It’s just that this is the last drop. The guy is too much. Loud and brash and unapologetic, with nothing, absolutely nothing, that seems to find grace in his eyes.
“If you hate it so much,” he snaps, “there’s a hotel across the street. Maybe that’s more your style.” His tone drops, biting and cold, each word aimed to shut him up for good. “I’d be more than happy to pay.”
Jimin stops too, turns to face him, and for the first time, Jungkook notices the faint shift in the air.
It takes him a beat too long to realise what’s happening. Something’s different. There’s a strange pull, a sudden awareness prickling at the edges of his mind, stirring his wolf from its restless slumber.
Then, and only then, it hits him.
The scent.
It shouldn’t be possible, not under normal circumstances. The entire penthouse is equipped with scent neutralisers—the kind his doctors had once promised would “aid in recovery,” only to pivot when recovery proved to be nothing more than a pipe dream. Now, it was all about “mental peace.” Over time, Jungkook had grown so accustomed to the scentless air that he’d forgotten the neutralisers were even there.
But now… now there’s something.
Something slipping through.
Jimin steps closer, and with him, the scent grows stronger. It’s raw, unyielding, and it clings—an overwhelming tide threatening to drown everything else.
And it’s deliberate.
Jungkook knows it is. The bastard is forcing it, intentionally letting it bloom, spilling into the air until it saturates the system—daring him to notice.
The Omega keeps moving, closing the space between them until he’s there, right there, centimetres away. His hands plant firmly on the armrests of the wheelchair, his presence looming, close enough that Jungkook can feel his breath ghosting against his ear.
“Oh no, Alpha,” he murmurs, his voice low, smooth as velvet, smooth as a lover’s skin beneath winter sunlight and smoother still. “I wouldn’t want to miss a single thing here.”
Jungkook goes rigid. His heart slams against his ribcage and his breath catches in his throat as the tension tightens around him like a vice.
One : Why is he so close ? He didn’t need to lean in like this, didn’t need to touch his wheelchair, didn’t need to whisper against the shell of his ear.
Two : He smells good. Too good. Now it’s unmistakable.
It’s wild and it’s infinite, and it whispers of freedom with every wave that crashes over him. It’s the water and storm and the untamed sea. It’s Ocean.
It’s golden and it’s rich, and it clings like a secret you can’t forget. It’s ancient trees and air heavy with memory. It’s Amber.
Salt and fury. Warmth and sunsets. It’s the ache of distant horizons and the burn of stars collapsing in silence.
Ocean breeze and amber.
It floods his lungs and his mind, and everything in between, and it wraps itself around Jungkook until there’s nothing else left. It’s intoxicating. And before Jungkook can stop himself, he inhales deeply. He doesn’t want to. But he does.
Three : Fuck. He hadn’t bothered to really look earlier, too busy sulking and glaring to notice, but now, with Jimin’s face so close, there’s no ignoring it : the guy is gorgeous. Not in the polished, model-perfect way Jungkook is used to. No, this is different. Dangerous.
Jimin is all sharp lines and silk edges, pale skin catching the last rays of sunlight with an effortless grace, and jawline sculpted like marble… but it’s more than that. It’s his eyes, intense and magnetic, burning with a heat that matches his scent, and the lazy cascade of his blond locks, falling so carelessly yet perfectly along his neck, and it’s those lips, plump and almost too full, looking like they’ve been kissed raw.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Jungkook’s fingers dig into the armrests, until his nails scratch deep into the leather and his knuckles turn paler than the flush crawling up his neck, threatening to claim every visible part of him.
But it’s futile, really, because there’s no way Jimin doesn’t know, no universe where he could overlook the power thrumming beneath his touch, the effortless allure he radiates. It’s in the way he moves and in the weight of his gaze.
Jungkook can feel it, thick and heavy in the air between them, can barely suppress his own scent—the molten desire that seeps into it.
The Omega’s fingers curl under his chin, tilting his face upward just enough before his eyes flicker down to Jungkook’s lips for a second, and rise again to meet his gaze.
“Cat got your tongue ?”
It’s teasing, it’s just this side of cruel, and it’s a purr… but it’s also a mockery. Jungkook knows that. He knows, and still, it’s not enough to stop the way his cock stirs in response. He’s furious. Not at Jimin, but at himself and at his body for betraying him. One stupid breath of his scent, one fleeting touch, and he’s acting like a puppy in rut ? This is ridiculous.
A cruel joke, that’s what it is.
“I—” Jungkook starts, and shit, his voice cracks. He clears his throat, straightening in an attempt to regain even a shred of composure that’s more miserable than anything. “I don’t—”
A scoff escapes Jimin, soft but devastating in its finality. He straightens too, pulling back with an air of indifference, as if nothing had happened at all, and, without waiting, positions himself behind Jungkook’s wheelchair, his hands settling on the handles the way things settle when they’re meant to stay.
“Shall we continue ?”
Jungkook stumbles over his words, spinning weak protests as the wheelchair lurches forward. “I—hey, wait ! I didn’t say—”
“Relax, Alpha,” Jimin drawls. “I don’t bite.”
And then, because apparently he can’t help himself, because his lips are already curling into a wicked smile, and the air between them is thick enough to drown in, he leans in and murmurs, “Unless you want me to.”
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
“This. Uh, here.”
Jungkook mutters the word, gesturing toward the bedroom with a quick jerk of his head. “Here you go. Your room. While you’re... here.”
For the first time since he stepped into the penthouse, Jimin falls silent.
No snarky comeback. No sly remarks. Nothing.
The quiet is jarring, and Jungkook doesn’t realise how much he’s been bracing himself for whatever Jimin might say until the absence of it makes his chest feel too tight. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair as the Omega steps inside.
Something changes.
Maybe it’s Jimin’s posture that softens, or the sharpness in his expression melting away as he takes in the room. It’s subtle, but it’s there, like a layer of armour slipping just a little.
Jungkook isn’t looking at the room. He’s looking at him.
When the Omega turns back, there’s something gentler in his gaze, and Jungkook doesn’t know how to handle it. If the cocky, confident Jimin was impossible to tolerate, this softer version feels even less manageable, somehow.
Especially when he bites his lower lip, as if on the verge of crying—or worse, blushing—and it twists something in Jungkook’s stomach in the most painful, disorienting way.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s almost swallowed by the air between them.
The sound is so unexpected that Jungkook blinks, unsure if he even heard it right.
Fuck. He must have messed up somehow. Messed up bad.
“What’s wrong ? If… If you don’t like it, we can move you to another room. Whichever one you want. Not mine, obviously—there’s medical stuff in there, and it stinks of me, and you’d probably hate it—”
“Jungkook,” Jimin interrupts, and when Jungkook looks up, he’s smiling. A smile full of the Moon’s grace and shyness, and it’s so far removed from the smug smirks and teasing grins Jungkook’s already gotten used to that it throws him off completely. “It’s nice. The people I usually take care of… they don’t bother with things like this.”
“...Like what ? Giving you... a room ?”
Jimin huffs softly, almost a laugh, but it’s more bitter than anything else. “No. Preparing it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean ? You think I’m going to put you in some dirty, unlivable place or something ?” Jungkook scowls, his brows knitting together as he glances around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time.
Whatever Jimin is seeing, Jungkook doesn’t.
The bed isn’t even properly made… just barely smoothed out after his clumsy attempt earlier that morning. He’d insisted on doing it himself when the maid offered the day before, and it shows in every crooked fold of the sheets. The towels he’d laid out are a mess, one practically sliding off the side of the chair he’d set them on. There’s a bottle of water on the nightstand, a small pile of snacks he thought the new caretaker might like—not that he cared what Jimin liked, obviously, and, most annoyingly, a vase of flowers sitting by the window. His parents had brought them over a few days ago, and Jungkook had thought they’d look nice here. He forgot about them until just now.
“I mean, preparing it themselves.”
“Oh. It’s... nothing.” Jungkook clears his throat. “Don’t make it a big deal.”
Jimin steps closer to the bed, brushing his fingers over the edge of the wrinkled blanket. “I mean it. It’s thoughtful. I—I wasn’t expecting that...”
Jungkook isn’t sure how to respond. None of the previous caretakers ever gave a second thought to the little things, the half-tucked sheets, the chocolate biscuits, the dying flowers… What they cared about, if they even bothered caring, was the flat, the luxury, and what made their eyes light up.
Park Jimin, apparently, likes messy towels more than expensive furniture.
“You’re pretty cute when you’re not an entire asshole,” he adds, and there’s definitely a teasing note slipping back into his tone.
Jungkook grumbles something unintelligible as he makes sure to keep his gaze fixed in the floor, because that’s the worst part… the ease with which the Omega switches from sweet to sharp and from soft to biting. He hates it, hates it, hates it, and doesn’t know how to fight it, so he mutters, “Whatever,” after a moment. “I’ll let you unpack. I’ll be in the living room.”
Jimin giggles at that, the sound light and warm, and far too—fuck, not that.
“Alright. I’ll come after.”
Jungkook nods, already turning to leave when the Omega calls out again.
“Oh, by the way. You should call me Hyung.”
“...Why the hell would I do that ?”
“Because I’m older, obviously. Also… Hyung does sound sexy, don’t you think ?”
Jungkook stares at him for a second before he rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the violent twist in his stomach. “You’re older ?” he blurts, and the disbelief is clear in his voice. He’d assumed the opposite—the fullness of Jimin’s skin, the teasing attitude, the energy, almost boyish. None of it screamed “older” to him.
There’s no way he’s calling him Hyung, though. It sounds far too dangerous now, far too suggestive, and entirely the Omega’s fault.
“Yep.” Jimin winks, too pleased with himself. “I know, I age like fine wine.”
“…You’re a pain in the ass.”
Behind him, the Omega’s laugh rings out, loud and even louder, sticking to the air like glue.
As Jungkook makes his way down the hall, his mind spins with thoughts he doesn’t want to entertain but does anyway.
Hyung—Sexy—Older-Looks so young—how the fuck is he older ? Sheets—The sheets—Next time, he’ll make them better.
He exhales slowly, trying—and failing—to shake off the heat crawling up his neck and the warmth sinking in like an ember refusing to burn out.
Not that it matters.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆