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The living room glows like a secret. Taehyung’s apartment is dressed for the occasion—fairy lights strung like constellations across the ceiling, casting soft halos over flushed cheeks and half-empty wine glasses. The music thrums low and sultry from a speaker tucked behind a potted monstera, bass vibrating faintly through the floorboards like a heartbeat. Someone’s spilled a little rosé on the coffee table, and the scent of citrus and alcohol hangs sweet in the air.
Jimin sinks deeper into the couch cushions, legs curled beneath him, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of something fizzy and pink. The drink tastes like strawberries and rebellion, and it’s just strong enough to make the room feel a little softer around the edges. Jin’s beside him, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, recounting some story about a disastrous blind date with the kind of theatrical flair that makes Jimin giggle into his drink.
From the kitchen, Taehyung’s laughter rings out—low and rich. It’s unmistakably him. Jimin hears the clink of ice, the pop of a freezer door, and then—
“Tae-Tae!” comes Hobi’s voice, high and scandalized, followed by a delighted shriek. “You’ve been hiding popsicles from us?!”
Jimin grins. Hobi’s voice is sunshine in a bottle—bright, familiar, impossible to ignore. The kind of sound that makes you want to laugh even if you didn’t hear the joke.
The windows are cracked open to the summer night, letting in a breeze that smells like jasmine and city heat. It lifts the sheer curtains in lazy waves, brushing cool fingers against Jimin’s skin.
He’s warm, but not uncomfortably so—just enough to feel golden, like he’s been dipped in honey and left to melt.
He glances across the room. Can’t help it.
Jeongguk’s perched on the arm of a chair, one foot braced against the floor, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He’s laughing at something Namjoon’s said, head tilted back, throat exposed, the curve of his jaw catching the light. Yoongi’s beside them, smirking into his drink, eyes half-lidded and amused. Jungkook’s hair is a little messy—soft curls falling into his eyes—and his shirt’s riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin above his waistband. Jimin’s eyes catch on it. Linger.
His stomach flips.
He looks away too fast, heart thudding like a warning. His cheeks burn, and he takes a sip of his drink to hide the way his lips twitch. Stupid. He feels stupid. Like a teenager with a crush, like he’s seventeen again and Jeongguk just walked into the room wearing that smile. It’s not even a special smile. It’s just his face. But it’s enough to make Jimin’s pulse trip over itself.
Jimin’s eyes flicker back to Jeongguk before he can stop himself. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way Jeongguk’s lips curve around the mouth of the bottle, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at something Namjoon says. It’s effortless, the way Jungkook exists in a room—like gravity bends a little toward him.
They’ve been dancing around each other for months now. It started with flirty texts—half-jokes, half-confessions, sent late at night when the world felt quieter and braver. Then came the lingering hugs that lasted a beat too long, the way their fingers would brush and neither of them would pull away. Inside jokes layered so thick that sometimes they’d laugh at something no one else understood, and the others would just roll their eyes and say, “Just kiss already.”
But they haven’t. Not yet.
Everyone sees it. Jin teases them mercilessly. Hobi gives them knowing looks. Even Yoongi, who rarely comments on anything emotional, once muttered, “You two are exhausting,” after watching them flirt their way through a group dinner.
Jimin’s convinced Jeongguk only sees him as a friend. A close one, sure. Maybe even a favorite. But not like that. Not in the way Jimin wants. Not in the way that makes his chest ache when Jeongguk smiles at someone else, or when he gets a text that makes him laugh and Jimin doesn’t know who it’s from.
And Jeongguk—well, Jeongguk thinks Jimin’s out of his league. Too pretty. Too magnetic. Too Jimin. He’s convinced that Jimin flirts with everyone, that the softness he gets isn’t special, even though it is. Even though Jimin saves a particular kind of smile just for him, the one that makes Jeongguk feel like he’s standing in sunlight.
So they orbit. Close enough to feel the heat, never close enough to burn.
Jimin shifts in his seat, trying to focus on Jin’s story again, but his mind keeps drifting. He feels stupid. Shy. Like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve and everyone can see it. The drink in his hand is warm now, forgotten. His skin buzzes with the kind of awareness that only comes from being near someone you want but can’t have.
In the kitchen, Taehyung’s still laughing, and Hobi’s threatening to eat all the popsicles out of spite. The night is alive with noise and light and warmth, but Jimin feels like he’s caught in a quiet pocket of it—watching Jeongguk from across the room, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Jeongguk’s watching him too.
Jin pauses mid-story, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches Jimin zone out for the third time in as many minutes. His voice trails off, and he leans in just a little, “You’re not even listening,” Jin says, not accusing, just amused.
Jimin blinks, startled, then laughs too quickly. “I am! You were talking about… the guy with the weird socks?”
Jin raises an eyebrow. “The guy with the ferret, Jimin.”
“Oh.” Jimin winces. “Right. Ferret socks.”
Jin sighs dramatically, flopping back against the couch like he’s been personally betrayed. “You’re hopeless. What’s going on with you?”
Jimin shrugs, swirling the melting ice in his glass. The condensation slicks his fingers, and he wipes them absently on his jeans. “Just tired, I guess.”
Jin doesn’t buy it. His gaze flicks across the room, lands on Jungkook—still laughing with Namjoon and Yoongi, head tilted, eyes bright. Then back to Jimin, who’s now very pointedly looking at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“Mm-hmm,” Jin hums. “So. Jeongguk.”
Jimin nearly chokes on his drink. “What about him?”
Jin smirks. “You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Jimin says, too fast, too breezy. He sets his glass down with a soft clink and reaches for a throw pillow, hugging it to his chest like a shield. “We’re just friends.”
Jin snorts. “Sure. Friends who text each other heart emojis and make everyone else feel like third wheels.”
Jimin rolls his eyes, cheeks warming. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being observant,” Jin counters. “You’ve been staring at him like he’s the last popsicle in the freezer.”
Jimin groans, burying his face in the pillow. The fabric smells faintly of Taehyung’s laundry detergent—lavender and something musky. “Can we not?”
Jin watches him for a beat longer, then sighs, defeated. “Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”
Jimin peeks out from behind the pillow, eyes soft. “Thank you.”
“But just so you know,” Jin adds, voice low and conspiratorial, “he looks at you the same way.”
Jimin’s breath catches, but he forces a laugh, light and dismissive. “You’re imagining things.”
Jin shrugs, letting it go. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just right and you’re both cowards.”
He stands, stretching, and heads toward the kitchen, leaving Jimin alone
with the pillow and the echo of his words. The music shifts—something slower now, with a lazy beat and a voice that drips like honey. Jimin’s heart thuds against his ribs, too loud in his chest.
Across the room, Jeongguk glances over. Just for a second. Just long enough for their eyes to meet.
Jimin looks away first.
Jimin’s still curled on the couch, pillow hugged to his chest, when the kitchen trio bursts back into the room like a gust of wind and sugar.
Taehyung’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation, bright and commanding: “Game time!”
He’s grinning, cheeks flushed from laughter and wine, curls bouncing as he strides forward with theatrical flair. Jin trails behind him, looking smug and slightly exasperated, while Hobi’s practically vibrating with excitement, popsicle in hand and a mischievous glint in his eye.
Before Jimin can react, Taehyung’s reaching for him. “Come on, Chim. No sulking allowed. It’s party law.”
Jimin laughs as Taehyung grabs his wrist and tugs him up, the warmth of his palm grounding and familiar. The pillow drops to the couch with a soft thump, and Jimin stumbles after him, heart thudding with anticipation and nerves.
Taehyung leads them straight to the others—Jeongguk, Namjoon, and Yoongi—who are still lounging near the far end of the room. Jeongguk’s sitting cross-legged now, bottle abandoned beside him, his gaze flicking up as Jimin approaches. Their eyes meet for a heartbeat. Jimin looks away first, again.
Taehyung brandishes an empty wine bottle like a trophy. “Truth or dare!” he announces, voice rich with drama. “We’re doing this. No objections.”
Namjoon chuckles, adjusting his glasses. “This feels dangerous.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “This feels stupid.”
Jeongguk grins, already intrigued. “This feels fun.”
Hobi claps his hands. “Exactly! It’s what the night’s all about.”
No one really objects. There’s a shared understanding in the room, a kind of unspoken agreement that tonight is for letting go—for laughter, for risk, for the kind of memories that feel golden in hindsight.
Jin sighs, already resigned. “Fine. But if I end up confessing something embarrassing, I’m blaming all of you.”
Taehyung’s already pushing the coffee table aside, the legs scraping softly against the carpet. The fairy lights overhead sway slightly with the movement, casting shifting shadows across the floor.
The rug beneath them is plush and warm, patterned with faded florals that catch the light in soft bursts of color.
They settle into a circle, legs folded, knees brushing. The bottle sits in the center like a promise. Jimin ends up between Hobi and Jin, across from Jeongguk, who’s leaning back on his hands, rings glinting in the low light. His shirt’s rumpled, collar slightly askew, and Jimin can’t help but notice the way his collarbones catch the glow.
The air feels thick with something unspoken. The music fades into the background, replaced by the rustle of clothes, the clink of glasses being set down, the soft buzz of anticipation.
The bottle spins, catching the light as it whirls across the carpet, and lands on Namjoon.
Taehyung grins like a cat with cream. “Truth or dare, Joonie?”
Namjoon adjusts his glasses with mock solemnity. “Truth.”
Taehyung leans in, eyes gleaming. “Have you ever had a crush on someone in this room?”
Namjoon groans, tipping his head back. “We’re starting there?”
Jin cackles. “Answer the question, coward.”
Namjoon sighs dramatically, then glances around the circle. “Fine. Yes.”
Everyone erupts—Hobi shrieks, Yoongi snorts into his drink, and Jimin nearly chokes on laughter. Jeongguk’s eyes go wide, and Taehyung clutches his chest like he’s been personally scandalized.
“Who?!” Hobi demands.
Namjoon just smirks. “That wasn’t part of the question.”
The next spin lands on Yoongi, who chooses dare with a resigned sigh. Jin dares him to do his best impression of Taehyung, and Yoongi obliges with a surprisingly accurate rendition of Taehyung’s dramatic hair flips and exaggerated gasps. Taehyung is both offended and delighted.
Then it’s Hobi’s turn, and he picks truth. Jin asks him what his most ridiculous turn-on is, and Hobi, without missing a beat, says, “Forearms. Like, veiny ones.”
Jeongguk, ever the performer, grins and rolls up his sleeve with exaggerated flair. “Like this?” he says, flexing his arm and twisting it just enough for the veins to pop beneath his skin, a delicate map of ridges and shadows.
Hobi gasps, clutching his chest. “I’m deceased.”
The circle erupts into laughter, but Jimin’s breath catches. He tries to play it cool, sipping his drink, but his eyes betray him—drawn helplessly to the curve of Jeongguk’s wrist, the way the veins stand out against the smooth skin, the way his fingers curl around the bottle like he’s holding something fragile.
It’s stupid. It’s just an arm. But Jimin feels heat bloom low in his stomach, slow and insistent.
Beside him, Jin shifts slightly, voice low and teasing. “You’re staring.”
Jimin jerks his gaze away, cheeks flushing. “No I’m not.”
Jin hums, unconvinced. “You’ve got that look. The one that says ‘I want to lick his biceps.’”
Jimin chokes on his drink. “What?!”
Jin shrugs, smug. “I don’t make the rules.”
Jimin glares at him, but the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching into a reluctant smile. He nudges Jin’s knee with his own, and Jin just winks, victorious.
The game rolls on, and when Jimin’s turn comes, he picks truth, hoping for something harmless.
Hobi leans forward, eyes gleaming. “What’s your go-to flirting move?”Jimin hesitates, fingers tightening around his glass. “I don’t know,” he says, trying for casual. “Eye contact?”
Jin snorts. “You weaponize eye contact.”
Jimin laughs, but his heart’s thudding now, loud and insistent. He glances across the circle—just a flicker, just a moment—and meets Jeongguk’s gaze.
It’s like stepping into warm water. Jeongguk’s eyes are dark and steady, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, lips parted slightly like he’s caught mid-thought. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.
Jimin’s breath stutters. His skin feels too tight, too hot. He holds the gaze for a beat longer than he should, then drops his eyes to the carpet, pretending to adjust his drink.
Jin’s elbow nudges him again, subtle and smug.
Jimin doesn’t look up. He can still feel Jeongguk’s gaze on him, like a touch.
The bottle spins again, Jin’s fingers flicking it with practiced mischief. It whirls across the carpet, catching the light in dizzy flashes, and lands squarely on Jimin.
Jin grins like a cat who’s just knocked over a vase. “Truth or dare?”
Jimin hesitates, already wary. “…Dare.”
Jin’s eyes gleam. “Seven minutes in heaven.”
The room erupts—groans, laughter, a few scandalized gasps. Jimin’s stomach drops.
“With whoever the bottle lands on next,” Jin adds, already reaching for the bottle again.
“No—wait—” Jimin starts, but it’s too late.
The bottle spins. Slower this time. Like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
It ticks past Hobi. Past Yoongi. Past Namjoon.
And stops.
Jeongguk.
Jimin freezes. His heart stutters. The room goes quiet for a beat, like the universe itself is holding its breath.
Hobi breaks the silence with a delighted gasp. “Oh this is going to be good.”
Taehyung whistles low. “Fate has spoken.”
Jimin wants to be swallowed into the floor. Or launched into space. Or turned into a decorative pillow. Anything but this.
Jeongguk blinks, then smiles—soft, a little crooked. “Well,” he says, voice calm and warm, “I have to respect the rules of the game.”
Jimin groans. “We don’t have to—”
“You picked dare,” Jin reminds him, smug.
Jimin glares. “I hate you.”
Jin beams. “You love me.”
Taehyung’s already on his feet, grabbing Jimin’s wrist. “Come on, Chim. Closet time.”
“I’m not ready,” Jimin mutters, but he’s being pulled toward the hallway, past the kitchen, toward the narrow storage closet that smells faintly of lemon cleaner and dust.
Jeongguk follows, quiet and steady, hands in his pockets. His expression is unreadable, but his ears are pink.
“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters.
Taehyung grins, unbothered. “It’s a brilliant idea.”
The storage closet looms ahead—narrow, dimly lit, the kind of space meant for brooms and secrets. Taehyung swings the door open with a flourish, revealing shelves stacked with folded cloths, a mop leaning against the wall, a half-empty bottle of lemon-scented cleaner. The air inside is warm and faintly dusty, tinged with the sharp tang of bleach and the soft musk of old wood.
Jimin hesitates at the threshold.
Then Jeongguk appears beside him, quiet and steady, hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes meet Jimin’s for a beat—dark, unreadable, but not unkind.
Taehyung doesn’t wait. He gives Jimin a gentle shove, and Jimin stumbles forward, catching himself against Jeongguk’s chest with a soft oof. Jeongguk’s hands come up instinctively, steadying him, warm against his arms.
The door clicks shut behind them, and the world narrows to the scent of lemon cleaner and the quiet sound of their breathing. Cloths hang limp from hooks. A broom leans against the wall like it’s trying not to intrude. The space is small—too small—and Jimin’s shoulder is already pressed against Jeongguk’s chest, his balance thrown by Taehyung’s gentle shove.
Outside, Jin’s voice is muffled but unmistakable: “Seven minutes! No cheating!”
Taehyung adds, “Try not to fall in love!”
Jimin exhales slowly. “They’re the worst.”
Jeongguk’s laugh is soft, almost shy. “They’re having fun.”
Jimin shifts, trying to find space that doesn’t exist. His hip brushes Jungkook’s. Their knees knock. The air feels thick, warm, tinged with dust and bleach and something else—something quieter, more intimate. Jeongguk’s cologne lingers in the air, clean and woodsy, like rain on cedar.
Jimin’s heart is pounding. He’s sure Jeongguk can hear it.
After a beat, he says, voice low, “You don’t have to stay in here the whole time. If you’re uncomfortable.”
Jeongguk’s reply is quiet, steady. “I don’t mind. I like being near you.”
Jimin swallows. “Oh.”
Silence stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s full—of breath, of closeness, of the way their bodies keep brushing in the dark. Jimin’s fingers graze Jeongguk’s wrist as he shifts again, and he feels the tremor that runs through him.
“You’re warm,” Jeongguk murmurs.
Jimin huffs a soft laugh. “It’s the closet. Or nerves.”
Jeongguk’s voice dips. “Is it me?”
Jimin hesitates. “Maybe.”
Jeongguk turns slightly, and Jimin feels it—feels the way their chests nearly touch, the way Jeongguk’s gaze finds his in the dim light. “You always look at me like that?”
Jimin blinks. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying not to.”
Jimin’s breath catches. “I didn’t know you noticed.”
“I notice everything about you.”
The words hang there, trembling. Jimin’s fingers curl against the door behind him, grounding himself.
“I thought you didn’t—” he starts, then stops.
Jeongguk tilts his head. “Didn’t what?”
“Want me like that.”
Jeongguk’s smile is soft, almost sad. “I’ve wanted you quietly. I didn’t know if you’d want me back.”
Jimin’s throat tightens. “I do.”
Their eyes meet again, and this time the silence is louder than any teasing voice outside the door. Jimin feels the weight of it—the closeness, the possibility, the ache of wanting and not knowing what comes next.
Jeongguk’s hand brushes his, tentative. “Can I?”
Jimin nods, barely.
Their fingers touch, and it’s nothing. And it’s everything.
Jeongguk leans in.
It’s slow at first—like he’s giving Jimin time to pull away, time to change his mind. But Jimin doesn’t move. Can’t. His heart is thudding so hard it feels like it’s shaking the walls of the closet. His breath stutters, lips parting just slightly as Jeongguk’s face inches closer.
Then their lips touch.
Soft. Barely there. A brush of warmth and hesitation.
Jimin exhales shakily against Jeongguk’s mouth, and Jeongguk breathes him in like he’s been starving. The kiss deepens—slow still, but fuller now, more certain. Jimin’s hand finds Jeongguk’s shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding himself in the heat of him.
Jeongguk tilts his head, lips parting, and Jimin follows instinctively. Their mouths open, breath mingling, and then—
Tongues meet.
It’s gentle at first, exploratory. A slow slide, a soft press. But the moment stretches, and the tension that’s been simmering for months spills over. The kiss turns desperate. Headier. Jimin gasps into it, and Jeongguk swallows the sound like it’s sacred.
Their bodies shift, bumping into shelves and hanging cloths. Jimin’s back hits the door with a soft thud, and Jeongguk presses closer, one hand braced beside Jimin’s head, the other curling around his waist. Their chests are flush now, breaths stuttering, lips slick and swollen.
Jimin moans softly into Jungkook’s mouth, and Jeongguk responds with a low, broken sound that makes Jimin’s knees threaten to give. Their tongues intertwine again—slow, then faster, like they’re chasing something they’ve been denied for too long.
The air is thick with heat and the scent of dust and skin. Jimin’s fingers slide up Jeongguk’s neck, into his hair, tugging gently. Jeongguk groans, hips shifting forward just slightly, and Jimin feels it—feels everything.
They break apart for a breath, foreheads touching, lips barely inches apart. Jimin’s eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.
Jungkook’s voice is wrecked. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
Jimin swallows, chest heaving. “Me too.”
Their foreheads are still touching, breath mingling in the dark, when Jeongguk leans in again—this time with more urgency. His lips find Jimin’s, and the kiss is no longer tentative. It’s open, wet, hungry. Jimin gasps into it, fingers tightening in Jungkook’s hair, and Jeongguk’s groans, low and guttural, like the sound’s been buried in his chest for months.
Jimin’s back hits the closet door again, the wood cool against his spine. Jeongguk follows, crowding into him, one hand braced beside Jimin’s head, the other sliding down his side, slow and deliberate. Their bodies are flush now, heat radiating between them, breaths stuttering and lips slick.
Jeongguk’s thigh nudges forward, pressing between Jimin’s legs.
Jimin freezes for a heartbeat, breath caught, unsure.
Jeongguk’s voice is low, wrecked. “It’s okay. Just—feel me.”
Jimin’s hips shift, tentative. The pressure is subtle at first, the friction barely there. But then he moves again, slower this time, and the pleasure sparks—low and warm, curling through his stomach like smoke.
He grinds down, and Jeongguk groans, head dropping to Jimin’s shoulder. “Fuck.”
Jimin keens softly, the sound escaping before he can stop it. His jeans are tight, the fabric rough against his skin, and he can feel the hardness in Jeongguk’s pants too—hot and insistent, pressing against his thigh.
Their rhythm builds, slow and desperate. Jimin’s movements grow bolder, hips rolling, chasing the friction. Jeongguk’s hands grip his waist, guiding him, grounding him. Their mouths find each other again, kissing between gasps and moans, tongues sliding, teeth grazing.
Jimin’s breath stutters. “Jeongguk—”
“I know,” Jeongguk pants. “I know.”
The closet is stifling now, thick with heat and the scent of sweat and skin. Cloths sway above them, forgotten. The mop rattles faintly with each movement. Jimin’s fingers clutch at Jeongguk’s shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.
Their bodies grind together, the friction dizzying, the pleasure sharp and fast. Jimin’s thighs tremble, his moans growing louder, breathier. Jeongguk’s mouth finds his neck, lips dragging over the skin, teeth grazing just enough to make Jimin gasp.
“Been wanting this,” Jungkook murmurs against his throat. “So fucking long.”
Jimin’s head falls back against the door, lips parted, eyes fluttering. “Me too,” he breathes. “God, me too.”
Their rhythm falters, then picks up again—more desperate, more raw. Every brush of denim, every press of muscle, every sound they make is soaked in longing. Jimin’s body is burning, aching, unraveling.
And Jeongguk is right there with him, moaning softly, guiding him, holding him like he’s afraid to let go.
Jimin’s breath is coming in short, broken gasps, hips still rolling against Jeongguk’s thigh, chasing friction like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Jeongguk’s mouth is on his neck, lips hot and open, teeth grazing skin. His hands slide beneath Jimin’s shirt, palms broad and calloused, dragging slowly over smooth skin.
Jimin shudders, a soft moan escaping him as Jeongguk’s fingers near his nipple, brushing just above his ribs—
SLAM.
The closet door yanks open with a violent jolt, light flooding in like a slap.
They tumble out in a tangle of limbs and heat, Jimin landing half on Jeongguk, half on the hallway floor, shirt rucked up, lips swollen, hair a mess. Jeongguk’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, one hand still under Jimin’s shirt, frozen mid-motion.
The room goes silent.
Then—
“Oh my god,” Hobi wheezes, clutching his stomach.
Taehyung gasps, scandalized and delighted. “You were really making the most of those seven minutes!”
Jin just smirks, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “I knew it. I knew it.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives them is so knowing it might as well be a dissertation.
Namjoon coughs into his drink, clearly trying not to laugh. “You okay there?”
Jimin scrambles upright, tugging his shirt down, face flaming. “We were just—just talking!”
Jeongguk sits up beside him, ears red, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Talking.”
Taehyung snorts. “With your tongues?”
Jimin groans, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Hobi fans himself dramatically. “I feel like I need a cigarette and I wasn’t even in the closet."
Jin pats Jimin’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Jeongguk laughs, low and breathless, and Jimin peeks at him through his fingers. Their eyes meet, and despite the embarrassment, despite the teasing, there’s something soft there. Something real.
Jimin smiles, shy and crooked.
Jeongguk smiles back.
The party resumes around them—music rising, drinks refilled, laughter echoing—but Jimin feels changed. Flushed and undone, yes. But also lighter. Braver.
And maybe, just maybe, he’ll be the one to kiss Jeongguk next time.