Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jimin has always been the one who feels deeply. 

No.

Felt deeply.

Past tense.

Relationships have been complicated in ways that even Jimin thinks for himself that love is not something that he will ever have in this lifetime. Or in any lifetime if he’s being honest. 

That’s exactly why he agreed to a deal.

Being Min Yoongi’s fuck buddy.

It’s plain simple. 

“As much as I want to do it now, I have a patient waiting for me.” Jimin whispers, his head hanging backwards as Yoongi leaves kisses on his neck.

Yoongi groans softly, one hand braced beside Jimin’s head, the other resting low on his waist. He inhales, taking a sniff of Jimin’s scent. Well, Jimin has been on suppressants but sometimes Yoongi just loves to pretend. 

“Just one more minute,” Yoongi murmurs against his skin.

Jimin exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. He doesn’t push him away. Doesn’t tell him to stop.

Because the truth is, he likes it.

He likes this.

The quiet, stolen moments. The way Yoongi touches him like he’s not just convenient. The way he doesn’t rush.

It’s dangerous. Yes, but Jimin lets it happen anyway.

Yoongi’s lips trail up to his jaw, pausing there, their breaths mixing in the small, dimly lit on-call room. The fluorescent light above them flickers faintly, the hum blending with the distant chaos of the hospital floors below.

“Yoongi,” Jimin mutters, softer now, almost reluctant, “I really have to go.”

Yoongi huffs, forehead dropping briefly against Jimin’s shoulder before he pulls back just enough to look at him. His hair is slightly disheveled, lips parted, eyes heavy in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“Fine,” he says, though it doesn’t sound convincing. “But you owe me.”

Jimin lets out a quiet scoff, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi raises a brow. “Then what are we gonna do with my angry cock?”

Jimin doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he gently pushes Yoongi back, just enough to create space between them. He straightens, running a hand through his hair, grounding himself, slipping back into something more composed—something safer.

He grabs his doctor’s coat from the chair, slipping it on with practiced ease. Fingers smooth out the wrinkles, tugging at the sleeves, adjusting the collar. By the time he’s done, there’s barely any trace left of what just happened.

Except for the faint flush on his neck.

Except for the way his lips still feel warm.

Jimin reaches for the door, pausing for half a second—not turning back, but not fully leaving either.

“Don’t be late,” Yoongi says from behind him, voice quieter now.

Jimin hums in acknowledgment, then walks out.

The hallway is bright and busy and alive. It always is.

“Good morning, Dr. Park!” Says that one nurse who recently assisted his patient during recovery

“Morning, doc!” Says the other nurse that he recognizes from the peds floor.

“Doctor Park, I’ve already put Mrs. Ju on NPO and she’s been made aware of the procedure for tonight.” Says one of his 4th year residents. 

Jimin slips into it effortlessly, nodding, smiling, responding with ease. He’s calm, collected, dependable—the kind of attending everyone trusts and the kind they like.

“Got it, I’ll check on her later,” he replies, already walking past, his steps steady and unhurried.

No one would ever guess where he just came from.

No one would ever guess what he was just doing.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.

By the time he reaches the ER, the atmosphere shifts—faster, louder, more urgent. Nurses moving quickly, stretchers being prepped, voices overlapping in controlled chaos.

Jimin spots Taehyung by the station, leaning back slightly with a chart in hand.

“Hey,” Jimin greets, slipping beside him. “Multiple trauma?”

Taehyung nods, pushing himself upright. “Two cars crashed into each other. EMT said possible head injuries.” He glances toward the ambulance bay, anticipation clear in his posture. “Where have you been?”

“Upstairs,” Jimin answers easily. “You?”

Taehyung snorts. “I haven’t left the ER. Fun.” His tone drips with sarcasm. “Bunch of stomach flu cases. Nothing here is surgical so I will get the first one that comes through that door—I need it.”

Jimin chuckles under his breath. “You’re still gonna call me for a neuro consult though.”

“Obviously,” Taehyung shoots back. “I don’t do brains but I’m not stupid.”

There’s a brief pause before Taehyung narrows his eyes slightly, leaning just a little closer.

“Hm.”

Jimin glances at him. “What?”

“You kinda smell like the on-call room,” Taehyung says, one brow arching in suspicion.

Jimin doesn’t miss a beat.

“Maybe because I was in the on-call room.”

Taehyung stares at him for a second longer, clearly not convinced. “Yeah, but—”

Before he can finish, the ambulance doors burst open.

“Trauma incoming!” a voice calls out.

Everything shifts instantly just as it should.

Taehyung’s attention snaps forward, all previous curiosity gone. “Finally,” he mutters, already moving.

Jimin follows right behind him, expression sharpening, mind switching gears completely.

Because whatever happened upstairs, it stays upstairs.

“Let’s go,” Jimin says, already pulling on gloves.

***

“Suction here, please,” Jimin says calmly, not even looking up as he extends his hand.

The resident beside him reacts a second too slow—but still catches up, placing the suction tip precisely where Jimin needs it. Jimin adjusts slightly, steady, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world despite the ticking clock and the exposed brain beneath the surgical lights.

“Doctor Choi,” Jimin continues, voice even, almost conversational, “walk me through the process of evacuating a hematoma.”

There’s a brief pause.

Not hesitation, just the resident organizing his thoughts.

Then the 5th year surgical resident Choi begins.

“We first identify the location and extent of the bleed through imaging,” he says, voice slightly muffled behind his mask but steady. “Then we perform a craniotomy to access the affected area, carefully opening the skull flap. Once exposed, we locate the hematoma and begin evacuation using suction, making sure to control active bleeding—”

Jimin hums softly. “And?”

“We irrigate the area, ensure hemostasis, and monitor for any signs of increased intracranial pressure,” Choi continues. “Then we close in layers after confirming there’s no ongoing bleed.”

Jimin finally glances at him, just for a second.

“Good,” he says. “You didn’t miss anything.”

There’s a subtle shift in the air. Maybe relief or probably pride.

“But,” Jimin adds, eyes returning to the surgical field, “knowing it and doing it are two very different things, Choi. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jimin works in silence for a few moments, precise and efficient, letting Choi observe every movement.

“The next time you impress me,” Jimin says suddenly, like it’s nothing, “I’ll let you take the lead.”

Choi blinks. “Sir?”

“On a case,” Jimin clarifies, tone casual. “Under supervision.”

There’s an awfully prolonged second of pause,

Then, “Thank you, Dr. Park.”

Jimin doesn’t respond to that—just continues, finishing the procedure with the same steady hands, the same quiet authority.

One thing to know about Doctor Park is that he has always loved teaching. He loved learning everything he could just to take his time teaching it to someone else. Maybe it’s what he can call his purpose.

At least at this part—being a doctor and a teacher, he never messes anything up.

At least with this, there are books to read about and protocols to follow. There is a way of discerning what is right and what is wrong. 

Just after the surgery, the OR doors swing open with a soft hiss.

The doctor pulls his cap down as he steps out, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. The hallway feels cooler, quieter compared to the intensity inside.

Across from him, another set of doors opens almost at the same time.

Yoongi steps out, already sighing loudly, his posture loose but his eyes still sharp from hours of focus.

They spot each other almost instantly. And Jimin doesn’t miss the way Yoongi raises a brow to acknowledge his presence.  

As if moving in instinct, Jimin jerks his chin slightly. “Brain bleed.”

Yoongi exhales. “Hip replacement.”

There’s silence but their steps somehow match each other’s. They’re walking side by side until they reach the changing areas.

Then they both glance up at the OR board mounted on the wall, scanning the schedule out of habit.

Jimin traces the lines quickly though he already knows his schedule for the day. 

Yoongi leans in just a bit closer, double checking his schedule too.

“Three hours,” Yoongi mutters.

Jimin hums.

Neither of them says anything for a second longer than necessary… then they move.

Not toward the lounge. Not toward the cafeteria either. 

The on-call rooms are quieter anyway. More private. More equipped of what they want to do next.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Silence settles, thick but awfully familiar.

Jimin leans back against it, exhaling slowly, the tension of the surgery finally catching up to him. His shoulders drop just a fraction, his head tilting back.

Yoongi watches him for a moment.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I am tired,” Jimin replies, eyes still closed. “Just give me a minute.”

There’s a pause.

Then Yoongi steps closer, not touching yet—just close enough that Jimin can feel the shift in the air.

“We’ve got time,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jimin lets out a quiet breath, eyes opening just enough to meet his.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Just enough time to forget everything else again. It’s not tender. It’s not slow.

It never is.

Yoongi closes the distance first, hand coming up to cup the side of Jimin’s neck as he kisses him—firm, immediate, like they’ve both already decided how this ends. Jimin exhales into it, one hand gripping Yoongi’s scrub top, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

There’s no hesitation.

There hasn’t been, not since the first time.

A month ago, it was supposed to be a one-time thing. A bad day, a worse breakup, and Yoongi is just… there. Easy. Familiar in a way that didn’t demand anything from him.

Just this. Just sex.

Now, it’s become something they fall into without thinking— something convenient, something that works.

Well at least for the two of them, this is what works.

Jimin stumbles back slightly when Yoongi presses forward, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the narrow bed. He lets himself fall, breath catching as Yoongi follows, crowding him down onto the mattress.

Yoongi has always said that this mattress will probably paralyze Jimin one of these days. It just has to be the worst one in the market and the hospital decided this is what they should give their doctors to sleep on.

To be fair, sleeping on it is a whole different thing than sleeping with someone on it.

Their kiss breaks only for a second—just enough for air, for a quiet curse under Yoongi’s breath—before it resumes, messier now, rushed.

Time is ticking.

They both know it.

Everything about it is quick because that is usually what this is. It is something temporary for both of them. Something that can be done in minutes.

Hands that know where to go, how to move, what gets the reaction they want. No lingering, no dragging things out. Just heat, pressure, lust, the kind of closeness that burns fast and fades just as quickly.

Jimin turns his head slightly, catching his breath, eyes unfocused for a moment as the tension that’s been sitting in his chest all day finally starts to loosen.

The alpha’s cock drags unutterly well inside him, earning every quiet moan from his swollen mouth. His fingertips are digging on the other’s back, leaving some redness that will just fade away at the same time they walk out of the door.

It’s not about affection.

It’s not about love.

It’s relief.

Pure, simple relief.

A distraction from the chaos outside those walls. From the weight of decisions, the pressure, the endless responsibility.

From everything Jimin refuses to feel too deeply anymore.

Yoongi presses a final kiss against his jaw, slower this time, like a brief pause in the rush—something that almost lingers before it doesn’t.

Then it’s over. 

Yoongi comes in the condom and Jimin comes in between their tummies. 

Just like that.

Jimin lies there for a second longer, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling as he steadies his breathing.

“Three hours,” he mutters, voice a little hoarse.

Yoongi lets out a quiet huff beside him, sitting up, running a hand through his hair. “More like two and a half now.”

Jimin snorts softly.

They don’t talk about what just happened because they never do. They are well aware of the boundaries. They are well aware of where this relationship falls under.

Just sex.

Instead, Jimin pushes himself up, already reaching for his clothes again, fixing himself with the same precision as before. Every crease smoothed out, every button in place.

By the time he’s done, he looks like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just let himself unravel for a few minutes in a dim on-call room.

Yoongi watches him for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face—but it’s gone just as quickly.

“See you later, Dr. Park,” Yoongi says, tone back to neutral.

Jimin glances at him briefly.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Don’t mess up your next case.”

Yoongi scoffs. “You wish.”

And just like that, they step out of the room separately.

Back into the hospital.

Back into their roles.

Like it’s nothing more than stress relief.

Like it’s nothing at all.

***

Jimin has just finished an entire day of back-to-back surgeries.

He likes that.

He’s used to that.

There’s really nowhere else he wants to be other than an operating room—where everything is controlled, where everything makes sense, where emotions don’t get in the way of precision.

“I haven’t seen you all day,” Hoseok says, feet propped up on the armrest of the couch while the rest of his body lies flat across it like he owns the entire room.

Jimin huffs, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “I had a tumor resection—a nasty one, by the way. Wrapped around structures it shouldn’t even be near.” He pours himself coffee, the familiar scent grounding him. “Couple of craniotomies too. It was a long day. How about you?”

“The peds floor is flooded with severely sick kids and I’m sad about it,” Hoseok sighs, one hand resting on his stomach, thumb absentmindedly rubbing over the curve. “Probably just the hormones. I’m used to this.”

Jimin smiles faintly at that, leaning against the counter before taking a sip. The warmth settles in his chest, welcome and steady. “How’s your little pup?”

“Oh, god,” Hoseok lets out a soft laugh, shifting slightly. “She’s been moving like crazy. I swear she’s already got Taehyung’s energy.”

Jimin glances at his bump—noticeably bigger now, enough that Hoseok had long switched to looser scrubs. “Are you excited? Taehyung’s been talking about it a lot. Said he’ll definitely cry.”

“God, he is so dramatic,” Hoseok groans, though there’s no real annoyance in it. “I can never catch a break because of him.”

Jimin chuckles, finally settling into the single couch across from him, letting his body sink into it. His muscles ache in that dull, familiar way. His mind, though… his mind is quieter than usual after a day like this.

“It must be nice,” he says after a moment, almost absentmindedly, staring into his cup. “Building a family of your own with the love of your life.”

He doesn’t even know why he said that.

Maybe because he’s seen it happen.

Jimin and Taehyung went to med school together so he knows the alpha well enough to know that he’s the type to sleep with almost anyone. Taehyung was not one who did feelings. 

Intern year—Hoseok, bright and loud and impossibly alive even after thirty-hour shifts happened and Taehyung was drawn in like it was inevitable. 

The rest of them orbited in their own ways, Namjoon, Seokjin, Yoongi—all from different paths, somehow ending up in the same place as them.

Ever since their intern year, the six of them have been competing against each other. Stealing cases from one another, sleeping on any free bed in the ER, even eating each others’ leftovers.

Hoseok was always the constant one.

And Taehyung who once swore he will never do feelings… just fell.

Hoseok chuckles softly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s perfect,” he admits. “Not easy. Never easy. But… worth it. Every single part of it.”

Jimin hums, taking another sip.

“Does it scare you?” he asks.

“All the time,” Hoseok answers immediately. “Carrying a life? Bringing someone into this world? It’s terrifying.” His lips curl into a soft smile. “But I’m not doing it alone, so… it makes it a little less scary.”

There’s a quiet stretch between them.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

“Taehyung talks to her every night,” Hoseok adds, voice softer now. “He reads to her. Sometimes sings— arguably terribly.”

Jimin snorts. “I need video proof of that.”

“Absolutely not,” Hoseok laughs. “That’s blackmail material and he will never forgive me for giving you such power.

Before Jimin can respond, the lounge door swings open loudly.

Voices.

Footsteps.

Alpha presence—immediate and unmistakable.

Jimin rolls his eyes before he even looks up.

Taehyung and Yoongi walk in mid-conversation, both still in scrubs, both looking like they just stepped out of something intense.

“I’m telling you, if we didn’t get that bleed under control—” Taehyung cuts himself off the second he sees Hoseok.

Everything about him softens instantly.

“Hey, baby.” he says, already crossing the room.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

Taehyung sits on the armrest near Hoseok’s feet without hesitation, gently lifting one of them into his lap. “Long day?” he murmurs, hands already working, pressing into the arch with practiced ease.

Hoseok exhales, melting. “You have no idea.”

“Are you okay?” Taehyung asks, glancing briefly at his bump.

“Yeah,” Hoseok nods. “She’s just been active.”

Taehyung’s lips curve, soft and fond, his hand briefly resting over Hoseok’s stomach before going back to the massage.

Jimin looks away.

Not in discomfort—just… habit?

He doesn’t know when he started to do that. He just did. Whenever he sees Hoseok and Taehyung being sweet and in love, he looks away. He feels like he’s intruding. Like this isn’t something that he should watch.

Across the room, Yoongi drops into the chair beside him, close but not too close. Familiar distance.

“Hey,” Yoongi says.

Jimin glances at him briefly. “Hey.”

That’s it.

No one questions it.

No one looks twice.

They’re coworkers. Friends.

That’s all anyone needs to know.

Taehyung and Hoseok fall into their own quiet bubble—murmured conversation, soft touches, the kind of ease that only comes from something real, something built over time.

Jimin stares ahead, fingers loosely wrapped around his mug.

And somewhere, quietly, at the back of his mind, he wonders.

If he wasn’t like this.

If he wasn’t Park Jimin. 

If he wasn’t so… tired of trying, tired of feeling, tired of things falling apart,

Would something like that have found him too?

Would he have let it?

Or would he have ruined it before it even had the chance to grow?

Jimin takes another sip of his coffee, expression unreadable because he himself is confused.

***

“I didn’t know you’re here for the conference too.” Jimin raises a brow, picking up the neatly printed—almost painfully generic—pamphlet from the registration booth.

Yoongi shrugs, adjusting the lanyard around his neck. “Shocking, right?”

Jimin huffs out a quiet laugh, scanning the program. “Do you have a presentation? Or are you just here to listen?”

“I have one this afternoon,” Yoongi replies. “Case presentation. And… something I’ve been working on.”

Jimin glances at him, mildly curious now. “Oh?”

Yoongi only gives a small, almost secretive smile. “You’ll see.”

Jimin narrows his eyes slightly but doesn’t push. “I have one tomorrow morning. Neuro panel.”

“Of course you do,” Yoongi mutters. “Show-off.”

“Please,” Jimin scoffs. “I am sure you love it because you will surely realize that the doctor you are banging is a genius.”

He earns a chuckle from the alpha before he replies, “Hm, let’s see.”

They fall into step together as they head toward the main hall, the low hum of doctors and specialists filling the space. It’s different seeing each other outside the hospital—same dynamic, but… lighter. Less rushed. Maybe because the majority of the doctors in the hall don't know them the way their friends know them.

They end up sitting beside each other during the morning sessions, half-listening, half-whispering comments under their breath.

“That management plan is outdated,” Jimin murmurs at one point, flipping a page of the program like he’s already half-bored.

Yoongi leans slightly closer, shoulder brushing his. “You just don’t like it because it’s not surgical.”

“I don’t like it because it’s inefficient.”

“Oh my god, you are insufferable.”

“Then why are you sitting next to me?”

Yoongi lets out a quiet huff, eyes still trained on the speaker at the front. “That’s better than sitting with my rivals in med school.”

Jimin turns to him, brows lifting. “Rivals?”

“Yeah.”

Jimin snorts. “Are you delusional or something?”

Yoongi finally glances at him, unimpressed. “No, I don’t think you understand the extent of this rivalry.”

Jimin leans back slightly, clearly entertained now. “Oh, please enlighten me, Min.”

“One of them,” Yoongi starts flatly, “sutured my scrubs to a chair cushion.”

There’s a beat.

Then Jimin blinks.

And then, “What?”

“I sat down after a 28-hour shift,” Yoongi continues, completely serious. “Didn’t notice anything. Tried to stand up—couldn’t stand up rather. I though I was just that exhausted.”

Jimin’s lips twitch.

“Turns out,” Yoongi goes on, “my scrub pants were literally stitched into the chair.”

Jimin breaks.

A sharp laugh escapes him before he can stop it, head tipping forward as his shoulders start shaking.

“You’re kidding—” he manages, but Yoongi’s expression doesn’t change.

“I had to cut myself out of it,” Yoongi adds. “to the point that I ruined my favorite pair of scrubs. RIP to that.”

That does it.

Jimin’s laughter spills out, louder now, uncontrollable, drawing a few glances from nearby doctors. He tries to muffle it with his hand, but it only makes it worse.

“You—” he gasps, trying to breathe, “you’re telling me you just—sat there—stuck—”

“I was stuck,” Yoongi deadpans. “For a solid ten minutes.”

Jimin bends forward slightly, nearly doubling over, his laugh echoing just enough that someone a few seats ahead turns around with a sharp “Shh.”

Jimin presses his lips together immediately, trying to compose himself, but the moment he looks back at Yoongi, he loses it again.

Quieter this time, but still shaking.

“That’s—” he exhales, wiping at the corner of his eye, “that’s actually insane.”

Yoongi shrugs. “You think that’s bad? Another one replaced my surgical gloves with a size too small. Circulation nearly cut off mid-procedure.”

Jimin groans, still smiling. “Okay, that one’s just evil.”

“Exactly.”

Jimin leans back into his chair, still grinning, eyes lingering on Yoongi a second longer than necessary. “And you survived all that?”

“Barely,” Yoongi says dryly. “I can’t blame them. I’m a genius with a mohawk.”

Jimin shakes his head, a soft laugh still escaping him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You should really quiet your laughs down because that doctor on your left, the one with ridiculously big hair, has been staring at you and I’m afraid I can’t protect you from him.” Yoongi whispers, “I’m afraid his hair knows how to fist fight.”

The omega’s eyes widen, fighting for his life to actually stop himself from bursting out again. His hand lands on Yoongi’s thigh, squeezing it hard until Yoongi reacts violently from the pain.

Lunch comes around faster than expected.

And it’s… bad.

Not just bad—offensively bad for something labeled as a “buffet.”

Bad is even an understatement at this point.

Jimin stands there for a second, tray in hand, staring at the spread like it personally wronged him. “This is what we paid for?”

Yoongi glances over the trays, unimpressed. “Free buffet,” he corrects. “Big difference.”

“That doesn’t excuse this,” Jimin mutters, still eyeing the pasta that looks like it gave up halfway through cooking.

They end up grabbing food anyway—because they’re hungry, and because neither of them wants to go out in the middle of a packed schedule.

Jimin pokes at his plate once they’re seated. “This might be the worst food I’ve ever had.”

Yoongi snorts, already halfway through his first bite like he has lower standards. “You’ve clearly never eaten at the hospital cafeteria at 3 AM.”

“At least that has character,” Jimin says, nudging something around with his fork. “This is just… sad. This is what happens when people stop caring.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m just being honest. Imagine feeding top doctors something like… this.” He grimaces, poking his food once again with force.

Yoongi shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips.

They eat anyway—or at least try to.

Between bites, they fall into conversation like it’s second nature.

“I had a patient last year,” Yoongi says, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Compound fracture. Messy. But I tried something new with the fixation.”

Jimin tilts his head, instantly more engaged. “New how?”

“Modified plating system,” Yoongi explains, gesturing lightly with his fork. “Adjusted the alignment—made it more flexible so it doesn’t put too much stress on the surrounding tissue.”

Jimin’s brows pull together slightly, thinking it through. “Wouldn’t that risk instability?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” Yoongi admits. “But I reinforced the anchor points. It holds better than you’d expect.”

Jimin hums, interest clearly piqued now. “Hm, how about the recovery?”

“Faster,” Yoongi says. “Less inflammation too.”

Jimin glances at him, impressed despite himself. “Did it work long-term?”

Yoongi smirks slightly. “You’ll find out this afternoon.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile there. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re curious. I like it that way.” He grins, letting out a chuckle, “Let’s keep this curiosity going for a little while.”

“I really hate you sometimes.”

Yoongi shrugs, “At least you feel something for me aside from lust.”

There’s a brief pause as Jimin finally takes a bite of his food—then immediately regrets it.

“…This is worse than I thought.”

Yoongi laughs quietly. “Just eat the bread.”

Jimin does, begrudgingly. “If I get food poisoning, I’m blaming you.”

“You chose to eat it.”

“You encouraged me.”

“I told you to lower your expectations.”

Jimin shakes his head, but there’s no real irritation in it.

“Neuro’s been busy lately,” he says after a moment, shifting slightly in his seat. “Had a glioblastoma case yesterday. Aggressive. Barely resectable.”

Yoongi’s expression shifts—more focused now. “Margins?”

“Clean enough,” Jimin replies. “But you know how it is. It’s never really clean.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “Yeah.”

Jimin exhales, leaning back. “Family was hopeful. I didn’t have the heart to tell them…”

“You never do,” Yoongi says quietly.

Jimin glances at him briefly, then looks away. “It’s not my place to take that away from them.”

“It kind of is.”

The omega pauses to think, sighing, “Yeah but not like that.”

Yoongi studies him for a second but doesn’t push further.

Instead, he nudges Jimin’s tray slightly. “Eat.”

Jimin scoffs. “Bossy.”

“You’ll complain about being tired and hungry later.”

“I’m always tired and hungry.”

“Exactly.”

Jimin takes another bite—smaller this time—and sighs like it’s a personal sacrifice.

“You owe me good food after this,” he mutters.

Yoongi raises a brow. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jimin glances at him, expression dry. “Because I’m suffering.”

Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“A damn take out wouldn’t even hurt your bank account, Min Yoongi.” The omega says with an eye roll. But he knows for a fact that Yoongi will definitely buy him something good when all of these are done.

***

By the time Yoongi’s presentation comes up, the room is noticeably fuller.

Word must’ve gotten around.

Jimin shifts slightly in his seat, sitting a little straighter, arms crossing loosely over his chest as his gaze fixes on the front. The low hum of conversation fades when Yoongi steps up to the podium—calm, composed, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

And then Jimin watches. He really watches.

Yoongi doesn’t waste time on theatrics. No overdone introductions, no dragging context. He starts with the patient immediately—mid-20s, high-impact trauma, multiple fractures, significant soft tissue damage. The kind of case that usually comes with long recovery times, lingering complications, and a very real chance of never returning to full function.

Slides shift behind him—clean, organized. Imaging. Pre-op scans. Fracture lines that look almost unforgiving.

“Traditional fixation methods,” Yoongi says, voice steady and even, “often prioritize rigidity over adaptability. While effective in stabilizing the bone, they can increase stress on surrounding tissue and delay functional recovery.”

Jimin’s brows knit slightly.

He leans forward just a fraction.

Yoongi moves on, introducing his approach—modified plating, dynamic alignment, redistribution of stress across the structure. The diagrams that follow are precise, almost elegant in how simple they make it look.

“This method allows controlled flexibility,” Yoongi continues, gesturing briefly to the screen. “Reducing localized strain while maintaining overall stability.”

Before-and-after images flash.

The healing progression, alignment, and then the rehabilitation data.

“Post-operative recovery time was reduced by nearly fifty percent,” Yoongi says.

There’s a subtle shift in the room at that.

Jimin’s eyes narrow slightly—not in doubt, but in focus.

Yoongi doesn’t rush it. He walks them through the timeline—early mobilization, reduced inflammation, fewer complications than expected.

“And with consistent, structured physical therapy,” Yoongi adds, “the patient demonstrated accelerated functional recovery.”

Another slide appears.

A video this time.

A young man, moving—carefully at first, then with more confidence. Walking. Jogging.

Then a clip of him on a court, basketball, running, jumping, playing.

Jimin exhales quietly, almost without realizing it.

“I’ve continued to monitor his progress,” Yoongi says. “And as of now, he’s returned to full activity with no significant limitations.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then, more quietly, “With disciplined rehabilitation, I’m confident this method has strong long-term viability.”

Silence lingers for just a second longer than usual—not awkward, but heavy with thought.

Then Yoongi straightens slightly.

“This isn’t just about one case,” he adds. “It’s about expanding how we approach recovery. Especially in high-demand patients like athletes, individuals who rely on full mobility.”

His gaze sweeps briefly across the room.

“This is the future of sports medicine.”

There’s no arrogance in his voice just certainty.

He opens the floor for questions.

They come quickly.

Concerns about long-term durability. Risk of micro-instability. Applicability across different fracture types.

Yoongi answers all of them calmly and directly.

Backed by data.

Jimin watches the entire exchange, arms still crossed—but his posture has shifted, more engaged now, more intent.

By the time it ends, there’s a small round of applause.

Jimin doesn’t clap immediately.

He just watches Yoongi for a second longer—taking him in in a way he doesn’t usually allow himself to.

Then, slowly, he brings his hands together.

And claps.

***

“You didn’t tell me it was that good,” Jimin says later as they step out of the conference hall.

Yoongi glances at him, one brow slightly raised. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Try me next time,” Jimin mutters, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips.

They don’t linger much longer.

Conferences are exhausting in a different way—too many people, too much talking, too much pretending to be interested in everything.

By the time they get back to the hotel, it’s already evening.

Jimin kicks off his shoes the second they step into the elevator, leaning back against the mirrored wall with a tired exhale. “If I see that buffet again, I might actually lose it.”

Yoongi snorts beside him. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m traumatized,” Jimin corrects, pressing the button for their floor. “There’s a difference.”

“You ate it anyway.”

“I was starving.”

“And now you’re complaining.”

Jimin tilts his head, giving him a look. “What am I supposed to do?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer that, just shakes his head, but there’s a hint of amusement there.

“Takeout?” he suggests.

“Please.”

They order as soon as they get to Yoongi’s room—something simple, something safe. Something that doesn’t look like it came out of a questionable conference tray.

While they wait, Jimin wanders a bit, glancing out the window at the city lights. It’s unfamiliar, distant—but quieter in a way he doesn’t mind.

“Your presentation,” he says suddenly, not turning around. “You really didn’t think it was a big deal?”

Yoongi shrugs from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s just a case.”

Jimin scoffs softly, finally turning to face him. “That’s not just a case and you know it.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either.

The food arrives soon after, saving him from answering.

They settle on the bed, containers spread between them, eating more comfortably this time.

“This is already better,” Jimin mutters after his first bite.

“Low bar,” Yoongi points out.

“Still counts.”

They fall into easy conversation again—cases, techniques, things they’d do differently.

“You’d take the risk,” Yoongi says at one point, watching him. “Even if it’s borderline.”

“If it gives the patient a better outcome? Yeah,” Jimin replies without hesitation. “I’d take it.”

“You are confident.”

Jimin shrugs. “That’s why they call me.”

Yoongi huffs. “Your ego is insane.”

“I wouldn’t be the best if I didn’t have this big of an ego, Min Yoongi. And I’m sure you are too.” The omega says, pointing his fork at Yoongi.

They finish eating, cleaning up after themselves in comfortable silence—throwing out containers, washing their hands, moving around each other without thinking too much about it.

When they’re done, the room feels quieter.

Softer.

Jimin leans back against the headboard again, exhaling, shoulders finally dropping as the day catches up to him.

“You did great today,” he says, voice quieter now.

Yoongi looks at him, something flickering in his expression. “Did I?”

Jimin lets out a small, breathy laugh—almost a giggle, light and unguarded in a way he doesn’t usually allow.

“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

Yoongi shifts closer.

His hand settles at Jimin’s waist, firm, grounding—and it says more than his words ever do.

Jimin feels it. He understands it.

And he doesn’t move away.

If anything, he leans in just slightly.

“You’re not leaving anytime soon, are you?” Yoongi murmurs, Jimin’s eyes flicking down to where Yoongi’s hand rests.

Jimin’s lips twitch faintly. “Were you planning on kicking me out?”

Yoongi hums, like he’s considering it—but he doesn’t sound convincing.

Their gazes meet.

And then they’re closer.

The kiss this time is different.

Not rushed like the on-call room, not driven by urgency or stolen minutes. It’s slower, softer at first—like they’re both aware of the time they actually have.

But it still carries that same pull.

That same want.

Jimin’s fingers curl lightly into Yoongi’s shirt, drawing him closer as the kiss deepens, unhurried but far from gentle. There’s familiarity in it now—knowing, practiced, something they’ve slipped into enough times to recognize without thinking.

Yoongi’s hand tightens at Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer until there’s barely any space left between them. The movement is instinctive, unplanned—like everything else about this moment. There’s no real starting point, no clear line where it begins. It just… happens. The kind of familiarity that comes from repetition, from knowing each other’s rhythms without having to ask.

The air shifts.

Jimin exhales softly as Yoongi leans in, his lips brushing along the curve of his neck, slow and unhurried. It’s different from the rushed encounters they’re used to, the ones squeezed in between schedules and responsibilities. There’s no urgency tonight, no ticking clock hanging over their heads. Just time. Too much of it, maybe.

Hands move naturally, sliding over fabric, easing things out of the way rather than tearing through them. The motions are practiced but not mechanical—there’s a strange kind of patience in it. Jimin lets himself sink into it, into the warmth, into the steady presence that grounds him more than he expects.

“Need it already,” he murmurs, voice softer than usual, a little breathless at the edges.

Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh against his skin, the sound low and warm. “Always in a hurry,” he mutters, though there’s no real teasing bite to it. He pushes a finger in, Jimin’s slick making a lewd noise. 

His touch lingers, deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose. Jimin reacts immediately—he always does—but tonight, it feels more drawn out, stretched just enough to make every sensation sharper. Yoongi has always been good at this, at reading him, at knowing exactly how much to give and how much to hold back.

“I’m taking it slow, alright?” Yoongi says quietly, his voice close enough that Jimin feels it more than hears it.

It’s not really a question.

Jimin lets out a small, frustrated sound, shifting slightly beneath him, trying to chase something that keeps staying just out of reach. “As long as you make it worth it,” he mumbles, half a challenge, half a plea.

There’s a small laugh leaving the alpha’s mouth but he keeps his hand busy. He presses lightly on Jimin’s prostate just enough to hear him gasp. He’s teasing Jimin because he doesn’t really get to do that much. 

Another finger goes in just as easily because of the amount of slick that Jimin is producing. “You’re leaking.”

“Sh-shut up,” The omega grinds himself against the pads of Yoongi’s fingers, trying to reach the pleasure he’s chasing for.

Yoongi smiles faintly at that, though Jimin doesn’t see it. His hand steadies him instead, grounding him when he starts to move too much, too fast. There’s something almost careful in the way Yoongi handles him tonight, something that wasn’t there before—or maybe just wasn’t noticeable.

Jimin notices it now.

The way Yoongi doesn’t rush.

The way he pauses, adjusts, watches.

It’s subtle.

But it’s there.

And it makes Jimin’s chest tighten just slightly, though he doesn’t understand why.

“Relax,” Yoongi murmurs, quieter this time.

Jimin huffs out a breath, but he listens. Eventually.

His body softens, just a little, letting Yoongi set the pace instead of trying to control it himself.

The room fills with quiet sounds—soft breaths, the shifting of sheets, the faint creak of movement. Nothing loud. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough to remind them that they’re not rushing through this like they usually do.

Jimin tilts his head back slightly, eyes closing as he lets himself feel it instead of thinking too much about it. That’s always been the point, anyway. To stop thinking.

To just exist in the moment.

The alpha grinds his cock against the omega’s thigh. Jimin’s skin is too smooth, silky even. Yoongi always thinks about how pretty Jimin is. Everything about him. 

It doesn’t take long for Yoongi’s cock to enter Jimin’s wet and slippery hole. The alpha drags his cock carefully, in and out. 

Yoongi hovers over the omega, staring at his face while he builds up his pace. He likes to see how Jimin’s mouth falls open every time his prostate is touched. He loves to watch the omega tremble through his moans, his legs shaking with anticipation, and his stomach tied in knots. 

“You like that?” He lowers his voice down, lowering his head to whisper.

The omega chuckles despite the pleasure, “Fuck,”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, Jimin.” He pushes one harsh thrust, “Yeah?”

“F-fuck you,” 

Later, the room settles into silence again.

The city hums faintly outside, lights flickering through the curtains.

Jimin lies on his side, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion finally catching up to him. His body feels lighter, tension eased in a way sleep alone never quite manages.

Yoongi is beside him.

Close enough to feel.

But not touching.

Neither of them says anything.

Because whatever this is, it works.

At least for now.

***

Jimin jolts awake—hard.

His entire body jerks as his eyes snap open, breath catching somewhere between confusion and panic. For a second, everything feels off—the lighting, the sheets, the unfamiliar ceiling above him.

Then it hits.

Hotel.

Conference.

Yoongi.

Jimin turns his head sharply, and there he is—still asleep, completely undisturbed, breathing slow and even like the world isn’t about to end.

“Shit,” Jimin mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

He fumbles for his phone on the bedside table, squinting at the screen,

And freezes.

“…Fuck! Yoongi!”

Yoongi barely stirs, letting out a low hum, shifting slightly deeper into the pillow.

“Yoongi, wake up!” Jimin snaps, already scrambling out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he grabs for his clothes scattered across the floor. “Yah!”

“What?!” Yoongi growls, voice rough with sleep as he props himself up, eyes barely open, hair a mess. “What?!”

“We’re running late!” Jimin almost yells, hopping on one foot as he drags his pants on. “My presentation is in an hour!”

That does it.

Yoongi blinks, then sits up straighter, some level of awareness finally kicking in. “What?”

“In. An. Hour,” Jimin repeats, already halfway dressed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I still have to shower, I—my slides—my—”

“Okay, okay,” Yoongi cuts in, pushing himself fully upright now, rubbing his face. “Stop panicking.”

“I am not panicking—” Jimin snaps, immediately contradicting himself as he looks around like he’s lost something. “Where’s my—ugh!”

Yoongi swings his legs off the bed, standing up despite still looking half-asleep. “Jimin.”

“What?!”

“Breathe.”

Jimin glares at him.

But he inhales anyway.

Exhales.

Still stressed—but at least slightly more coherent.

“Okay,” Yoongi says, voice steadier now as he switches into problem-solving mode. “You go take a shower. I’ll get your things ready.”

Jimin freezes mid-motion.

“…My things are in my room.”

Yoongi pauses.

“Oh.”

Then a second passes.

“Right.”

Jimin stares at him like this is the worst possible development.

“Great,” he mutters. “That’s just great—”

“Okay, new plan,” Yoongi cuts in quickly, already moving, grabbing a clean set of clothes from his bag. “I’ll change into something fresh and follow you to your room.”

Jimin blinks, trying to keep up.

“While you’re showering,” Yoongi continues, pulling on a shirt, movements quick now, efficient, “I’ll get your things ready. Just tell me what you need.”

Jimin hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah. That works.”

“What do you need?” Yoongi asks, already slipping into his shoes.

“Suit—uh, navy one. My laptop. Flash drive—it’s in the front pocket. Notes—” Jimin runs a hand through his hair again. “God, I look a mess.”

“You always look like that,” Yoongi mutters.

Jimin shoots him a look. “Not helping.”

“Just go,” Yoongi says, nudging him toward the door. “We don’t have time.”

And just like that, chaos.

They’re out of the room in minutes, Jimin speed-walking down the hallway while Yoongi follows, still fixing his sleeves. Elevator, hallway, fumbling with keycards.

Jimin practically runs into his own room, already stripping off what he just threw on as he heads straight for the shower.

“Five minutes!” he calls out.

“You have three!” Yoongi calls back, already moving around the room, grabbing exactly what Jimin listed.

Laptop, check.

Flash drive, found.

Notes, stacked.

Suit, laid out neatly on the bed.

By the time Jimin steps out of the shower, hair damp, movements rushed, everything is already there waiting for him.

“Marry me,” Jimin breathes out as he hurriedly gets dressed.

They both know there’s no bite into it. There’s really no real intention, maybe that’s why he can just throw those words out like they mean literally nothing.

Yoongi doesn’t even look up but he laughs. “You’re late. Focus.”

Jimin snorts despite himself, buttoning up his shirt, grabbing his things.

They’re out the door again in minutes.

Another rushed elevator ride and fast walks through the lobby.

By the time they reach the conference hall, they allow themselves to stop. They’re both slightly out of breath.

Jimin checks the time.

“…Ten minutes.”

Yoongi exhales. “Told you.”

Jimin lets out a short, incredulous laugh, adjusting his sleeves, trying to smooth himself back into composure.

From the outside, he looks put together like he didn’t just woke up an hour ago and freak the fuck out of his fuck buddy too. It almost looks like he’s been ready for this. But he glances at Yoongi for just a second, and there’s something there.

Something quieter beneath all the chaos.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Yoongi shrugs. “Yeah, no worries. Just don’t mess up your presentation.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, already turning toward the hall.

“I won’t.”

And just like that, Dr. Park Jimin steps forward again.

***

Jimin’s presentation ends to applause.

Not loud, not overwhelming—but enough.

Enough to signal approval. Enough to tell him he did what he always does: delivered, precise and composed, every word measured, every slide purposeful. He answers the last question with ease, offers a polite nod, and steps down from the podium like it’s just another day.

Like it didn’t take everything in him to get there on time.

Like the chaos of the morning didn’t happen.

Like nothing ever really touches him.

He returns to his seat beside Yoongi, posture still straight, fingers adjusting the edge of his sleeve.

There’s a beat.

Then, without looking at him, Jimin leans just slightly closer and murmurs—

“Now we can finally leave.”

Yoongi huffs quietly, almost amused. “That eager, huh?”

“I’ve fulfilled my obligations,” Jimin mutters. “I’m free.”

Yoongi glances at him. “You sound like a patient who just got discharged.”

“Honestly, the feeling is the same.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue.

They don’t stay for the next speaker.

They slip out quietly, unnoticed in the shuffle of shifting attendees and low murmurs, stepping out into the open air like they’ve both been holding their breath inside that hall.

The city greets them differently in the daylight.

Less formal.

Less suffocating.

Jimin stretches his arms slightly as they walk, rolling his shoulders. “I needed that.”

“To escape?” Yoongi asks.

“To not think about innovative medicine for at least two hours,” Jimin replies.

“That’s optimistic.”

“Let me pretend.” Jimin snorts. “Some of their presentations are hard to believe.”

The alpha shrugs like he’s not even trying to support Jimin’s words.

The younger one gasps, raising a brow, “Come on, you don’t think they are a little, you know? Like… borderline delusional.”

It takes Yoongi a second to process the omega’s words before he guffaws laughing out loud, halting their steps altogether. 

“Okay, that’s… yeah, you make sense.” Yoongi chuckles, trying to steady his breathing again. 

There’s silence after all of that. Not really uncomfortable but more like settling. 

They walk without much direction at first, just following the flow of streets, passing unfamiliar shops and small cafés, the noise of the city softer here compared to the conference halls.

“Food?” Yoongi asks eventually.

“Yes. Real food.”

They find a place tucked along a quieter street—not fancy, but warm. The kind of place that smells like something good is always cooking. It’s enough.

They settle into a table by the window.

Jimin leans back slightly, exhaling. “This already feels better.”

“Your standards are low after that buffet,” Yoongi says.

“Don’t remind me.”

And then they order.

For a moment, it’s just silence—not uncomfortable, just… there. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Then Yoongi speaks.

“What is he again?”

Jimin blinks. “What?”

“Your ex,” Yoongi clarifies, tone casual but there’s something under it. “What is he?”

Jimin rolls his eyes almost immediately, leaning back in his chair. “A jerk.”

Yoongi hums, like he expected that answer. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?” Jimin shrugs. “He’s just… a jerk.”

But there’s something in the way he says it—too light, too dismissive.

Like he’s skipping over something.

Yoongi watches him for a second. “Didn’t seem like just a jerk.”

Jimin lets out a quiet breath, gaze drifting toward the window. “He wasn’t.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“He was… a lot.”

The food hasn’t even arrived yet, but Jimin’s already picking at the edge of the napkin in front of him.

“It was complicated,” he continues, voice still light, but not as effortless as before. “Everything was always… intense. Every argument turned into something bigger than it needed to be.”

Yoongi stays quiet.

Lets him talk.

“And somehow,” Jimin adds with a small, humorless huff, “it always ended up being my fault. Maybe it was really my fault.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“Every fight,” he says. “My fault. Every misunderstanding—my fault. Every bad day he had somehow became something I had to fix.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens slightly.

Jimin doesn’t look at him.

“I think at some point,” Jimin goes on, voice quieter now, “I just… started believing it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I mean,” he lets out a small laugh, but it doesn’t quite land, “if everything keeps pointing back to you, maybe you are the problem, right?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer that.

Because it’s not a question that deserves agreement.

Jimin leans back again, forcing a lighter tone. “To be fair, I had some pretty bad relationships before that too.”

Yoongi glances at him.

“Well,” Jimin adds with a shrug, “not just romantic ones.”

Another small pause.

Then—

“I’ve got a pretty fucked up family too, you know.”

He says it so casually.

Like he’s talking about the weather.

Like it’s just another fact.

Then he smiles—a little too quick, a little too practiced.

“But hey,” he adds, lifting his shoulders, “builds character, right?”

The food arrives just then, the server placing the plates down between them.

Perfect timing.

Jimin immediately reaches for his utensils, like the conversation never happened. “This already looks better.”

Yoongi doesn’t move right away.

He watches Jimin for a second longer.

The way he brushes everything off.

The way he turns something heavy into something easy.

The way he laughs like it doesn’t matter.

It does.

It obviously does.

And for the first time, Yoongi realizes something that sits heavier than he expects—

Jimin doesn’t just avoid love.

He avoids anything that might make him feel too much of it.

Even the bad parts.

Especially the bad parts.

Because feeling it at all might mean admitting it hurt.

Yoongi finally picks up his fork.

“You’re not the problem,” he says, almost offhand, like it’s just a passing comment.

Jimin pauses for half a second.

Then he scoffs lightly. “Debatable.”

“It’s not,” Yoongi replies simply.

Jimin glances at him.

Searches his face for something—mockery, maybe.

Finds none.

So he looks away instead, taking a bite of his food.

“Let’s not get into that,” he mutters.

Yoongi lets it drop.

For now.

But the thought stays.

Because beneath the jokes, beneath the ease, beneath whatever this thing is between them—Yoongi knows.

Jimin’s way of coping?

It’s not just avoidance.

It’s self-destruction disguised as indifference.

And Jimin doesn’t even realize it.

Chapter Text

As soon as they’re back in Seoul, work has been waiting for them.

It always does.

The hospital feels exactly the same—too bright, too fast, too alive. Like it never noticed they were gone. Except, it did. Jimin was called for mutliple consults, some are new patients and some are referrals. It’s almost like he’s drowning in them.

“Hey, you’re back!” Jungkook greets Jimin almost enthusiastically, waving with both hands still tucked inside his coat pockets.

“Hey,” The omega replies, acknowledging his presence.

Then Jungkook tilts his head, “How did the conference go? Did you enjoy it?”

Jimin hums in response, barely slowing his pace as he walks in. “Yeah, the conference is… fine.”

“Fine?” Jungkook echoes, falling into step beside him. “You went all the way there just for fine?”

“It had its moments,” Jimin shrugs. “Mostly bad food and too many people pretending they know everything. For the most part, it was really boring. But Yoongi had a great presentation so that kinda saved it.”

“Oh, right! Doctor Min also went.” Jungkook snorts. “Sounds about right.”

Then he hesitates.

There’s a shift—subtle, but Jimin catches it immediately.

“Okay, so…” Jungkook, the surgical fellow, starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have this dilemma.”

“You always have a dilemma, Jungkook,” Jimin replies easily, pushing the door open as they head deeper into the hallway.

Jungkook grabs his arm suddenly, stopping him mid-step.

“I mean—” he stammers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly struggling to get the words out. It doesn’t take any second longer for Jimin to realize that this is not related to their work. It is something personal. Something a little cousin wants to tell his elder cousin.

Jimin glances around, making sure no one’s paying too much attention, then lets out a sigh. “Come on. Follow me.” 

He pulls Jungkook into a nearby stockroom, closing the door behind them.

“Okay,” Jimin says, crossing his arms. “Spit it out. Whatever this is.”

Jungkook inhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut like he’s about to confess a crime.

“IkissedNamjoonhyung.” The words tumble out in one breath.

Then there’s silence. Jimin blinks once, twice, thrice, trying to process Jungkook’s words.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “And?”

Jungkook’s eyes snap open, panic written all over his face. “And this is extremely messed up! I mean—he’s Namjoon hyung. No, actually—he’s Doctor Kim Namjoon. He was my mentor in residency. He’s obviously standing at a higher rank than me. He’s not someone I should just be kissing out of the blue!”

Jimin scratches his head, trying to keep up. “Okay… but was it consensual? Did he push you away? Did he yell at you? What?”

“I…” Jungkook falters, voice dropping. “I pushed him away.”

Jimin pauses as if his ears stopped working for a few seconds. “…Wait.”

He narrows his eyes slightly.

“Let me get this straight—you kissed him,” he says slowly, “but you’re the one who pushed him away?”

Jungkook nods, wincing at how ridiculous it sounds out loud. “And now I’m avoiding him. But I have a surgery with him in an hour which will probably take five to six hours.”

There’s a beat of dead silence.

Then Jimin bursts out laughing, one hand flying to his mouth to muffle it.

“Okay—okay, that’s pretty messed up,” he admits between quiet laughs. “But if it makes you feel any better… I’m sleeping with Min Yoongi.”

Jungkook freezes.

Then,

“You are what?!”

Jimin shrugs like he just commented on the weather. “Yeah. For a month now.”

Jungkook stares at him like his entire worldview just cracked. “Why am I only hearing about this now?!”

“Because it’s a secret, dummy.” Jimin replies simply. “I just wanted to let you know that a kiss is not enough to ruin friendships. Look at me and Yoongi.”

Jungkook blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“What the actual—”

“What?” Jimin frowns.

“That’s totally different!” Jungkook exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

Jimin hums, tilting his head. “Oh right. Yeah. It is different…”

He pauses, then adds casually,  “…because you’re in love with Namjoon and I’m not with Yoongi.”

Jungkook groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “I want to curse you right now.”

Jimin giggles, completely unfazed. “What I’m saying is—just talk to him. That’s Namjoon hyung we’re talking about. He’s not going to eat you alive just because you kissed him. He’s more emotionally intelligent than you think.” 

Jungkook mutters under his breath, already reaching for the door. “Sometimes you’re really of no help at all.”

“That’s because I see nothing to worry about,” Jimin shoots back, following his cousin out the door.

They step back into the hallway and almost immediately freeze.

Because walking toward them are two very familiar figures.

Tall. Composed. Annoyingly confident.

Namjoon and Yoongi.

They walk like they own the place—not in an arrogant way, but in that quiet, unshakable confidence that makes people instinctively step aside.

Heads just automatically turn.

Conversations pause.

There’s a presence about them that fills the space without trying.

Pheromones to be exact.

Jungkook stiffens beside Jimin. “Now that’s just fucking great,” he mutters under his breath.

Jimin exhales slowly. “Right.”

Namjoon spots them first.

Of course he does because if there’s one thing about Kim Namjoon is that he looks for Jungkook in every room he enters. 

His gaze lands on Jungkook—and lingers just a second too long.

Jungkook immediately looks anywhere but at him.

Yoongi, on the other hand, glances at Jimin.

Just a quick look.

But it’s enough.

Enough to say I know you’re here.

Enough to say last night happened.

Enough to say act normal.

Jimin straightens slightly, expression smoothing out into something neutral.

“Morning,” Namjoon greets, voice calm, like nothing’s out of place.

“Hyung,” Jimin nods.

Jungkook manages a stiff, “Good morning.”

There’s an awkward beat— a very obvious one.

Jimin looks between them, then sighs internally.

“This is painful,” he mutters just loud enough for Jungkook to hear.

“I hate you,” Jungkook whispers back.

Yoongi’s gaze flickers between them, catching the tension immediately.

He raises a brow slightly. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Jimin answers quickly.

“Yes,” Jungkook blurts out at the same time.

Jimin closes his eyes for a second.

Namjoon tilts his head, curious now. “Jungkook?”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook says too quickly. “I just—have to go prepare for the surgery. See you in the OR, Doctor Kim.”

And before anyone can stop him, he walks off.

Fast. Really fast. Almost like running to save his life. 

It’s adorable, Jimin thinks. His cousin, tall, usually confident, stunningly pretty, and undeniably smart is running away from his mentor so he does not humiliate himself more than he should have.

Namjoon watches him leave, confusion clear in his expression.

“Did I do anything wrong?” he asks.

Jimin sighs, rubbing his temple. “I… you know what, just go and prepare for your surgery too.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet huff, arms crossing loosely. “Sounds like a mess.”

Jimin glances at him briefly.

“Not as much as ours,” he mutters under his breath.

Yoongi hears it. Of course he does.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at Jimin for a second longer and then he looks away.

And just like that, everything slips back into place.

At least, that’s what it looks like.

***

“This is a rare case.” Jimin stares at the scans quite intently, arms crossed over his chest as he studies every slice on the screen.

The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the monitor.

Yoongi stands beside him, just as focused, hands resting on his hips. “He’s the luckiest, most unlucky person I’ve ever met.”

“I agree,” Jimin murmurs, stepping back slightly until the edge of the table presses against him. “Imagine taking a nasty fall, breaking your spine… and that’s how we find out there’s a growing tumor sitting right there.”

Yoongi exhales slowly, eyes still on the imaging. “If he didn’t fall, this would’ve gone unnoticed for who knows how long.”

“And by then, it could’ve been worse,” Jimin adds.

There’s a brief silence as both of them process that.

Jimin leans forward again, pointing lightly at the scan. “It’s compressing here,” he says. “That explains the early neurological symptoms.”

Yoongi nods. “Stability’s already compromised from the fracture.”

“So we’re dealing with two problems at once,” Jimin mutters. “The tumor and the structural damage.”

“So, what’s our plan?” Yoongi asks, finally looking at him.

Jimin inhales, thinking it through. “We need to know if the tumor is benign so we can operate knowing this is most likely not going to grow back.”

He pauses, then continues—

“But if it’s malignant, there’s still no signs of metastasis. That gives us a window. I can still resect it.”

Yoongi nods once, following. “And after that, I stabilize the spine.”

“Exactly,” Jimin says. “We’ll need to coordinate timing carefully. The longer the compression stays, the higher the risk.”

“And the longer the instability goes unaddressed, the worse the outcome,” Yoongi adds.

“Alright, let’s talk to him,” Jimin says.

Mr. Kwon’s room is quiet when they enter.

The atmosphere shifts immediately—less clinical, more human.

Mr. Kwon lies in bed, pale but awake, his eyes flicking toward them with a mix of anticipation and fear. Beside him, his wife, Mrs. Kwon sits close, her hand gripping his tightly, already on the verge of tears.

Jimin softens instantly.

It’s subtle—but it’s there.

He pulls a chair closer to the bedside, sitting down so he’s at eye level with the patient instead of towering over him.

“Mr. Kwon,” Jimin begins gently, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’m Dr. Park. This is Dr. Min.”

Yoongi gives a small nod, standing just slightly behind Jimin.

“We’ve reviewed your scans,” Jimin continues, pulling them up on the tablet. He turns it slightly so Mr. and Mrs. Kwon can see. “I’d like to walk you through what we found.”

Mrs. Kwon’s grip tightens around her husband’s hand.

Jimin keeps his voice calm. Steady.

“You had a fall that caused a fracture in your spine,” he explains, pointing carefully at the image. “But during the imaging, we also found something else.”

He pauses just enough—

Then continues.

“There’s a tumor here.”

Mrs. Kwon lets out a quiet sob almost immediately, covering her mouth.

Mr. Kwon’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

Jimin doesn’t rush.

He lets them take it in.

“The good news,” Jimin adds gently, “is that we found it early. Right now, there are no signs that it has spread anywhere else.”

Mrs. Kwon nods shakily, tears already falling.

“But,” Jimin continues carefully, “we still need to determine what kind of tumor it is.”

Mr. Kwon swallows. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need to do a biopsy first,” Jimin explains. “That will tell us whether the tumor is benign—meaning non-cancerous—or malignant.”

“And that changes everything,” Yoongi adds, his voice calm but firm.

Jimin nods. “If it’s benign, we can remove it and expect that it won’t come back. The surgery would focus on relieving the pressure on your spine and stabilizing it.”

“And if it’s malignant,” Mr. Kwon asks quietly.

Jimin meets his eyes. “Then we still operate,” he says. “Because right now, it hasn’t spread. Removing it would still be the best option—but your treatment plan afterward may include additional therapies.”

Mrs. Kwon wipes her tears, trying to stay composed. “Is… is the surgery dangerous?”

There’s a pause.

Jimin doesn’t lie.

“All surgeries carry risks,” he says gently. “Especially when it involves the spine.”

Yoongi steps forward slightly then, his tone reassuring. “After Dr. Park removes the tumor, I’ll be handling the stabilization of your spine,” he explains. “We’ll reinforce the structure to give you the best chance at recovery.”

Mr. Kwon nods slowly, listening.

“There is a risk,” Yoongi continues carefully, “of losing some motor function. Because the spinal cord is involved.”

Mrs. Kwon squeezes her husband’s hand tighter.

“But,” Yoongi adds, steady and certain, “we will do everything we can to minimize that risk.”

Jimin nods in agreement. “Our goal is to remove the tumor, relieve the pressure, and preserve as much function as possible.”

Silence settles for a moment.

Heavy—but definitely not hopeless.

Mr. Kwon exhales slowly. “What happens now?”

“We schedule the biopsy,” Jimin answers. “As soon as we have those results, we’ll finalize the surgical plan and move forward quickly.”

Mrs. Kwon nods, tears still falling but her expression is a little steadier now.

“Thank you, doctors,” she whispers.

Jimin offers a small smile.

Yoongi gives a quiet nod.

***

Jimin takes a deep breath, standing across from Yoongi with their patient between them—draped, prepped, and completely reliant on their hands.

The OR is quiet in that focused, almost sacred way.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks quietly from the other side of the table, already gloved, already steady.

Jimin nods once. “Ready.”

He extends his hand.

“Scalpel, please.”

The surgery begins.

Lights bright. Monitors steady. The soft rhythm of machines filling the background.

Jimin leads first.

Precise. Controlled.

Every movement intentional as he makes the initial incision, carefully working his way down, layer by layer, exposing the surgical field. The team moves with him seamlessly—nurses anticipating, residents watching closely, the scrub tech already handing instruments before he asks.

Yoongi assists without a word.

Retracting, adjusting, keeping the field clear—his focus just as sharp.

“Good exposure,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jimin hums in acknowledgment, eyes never leaving the site. “Suction.”

The tumor comes into view gradually.

Encapsulated.

Defined.

Jimin studies it for half a second longer.

“…Well-circumscribed,” he mutters.

Yoongi glances. “That’s a good sign.”

Jimin nods slightly. “Yeah.”

Carefully—painstakingly—he begins the resection. Separating the tumor from surrounding tissue, mindful of every structure, every millimeter.

“Neuro monitoring?” Jimin asks calmly.

The tech responds immediately. “Stable.”

Jimin continues.

“Have I nicked a nerve yet?” he asks after a few more minutes, tone light but precise.

A brief pause as the readings are checked.

“No, you’re doing great, Dr. Park.”

Jimin exhales softly through his nose.

“Good.”

Another careful movement.

Another separation.

Then,

“Got it,” Jimin murmurs.

The tumor comes free. Clean. Intact.

He lifts it slightly, just enough for confirmation before passing it off.

“Send for pathology,” he says.

There’s a brief moment of quiet satisfaction.

“Benign, most likely,” Yoongi mutters.

Jimin glances at him, just briefly. “Looks like it.”

Then he steps back slightly, rolling his shoulders once.

“Your turn,” he says.

Yoongi nods, already stepping in.

“Impressive,” he murmurs under his breath. “Now let’s begin the structural stabilization.”

The shift is seamless.

Now Yoongi takes the lead.

His movements are different—equally precise, but more structural, more mechanical in nature. He assesses the fracture points, the instability from L2 through L5.

“Let’s start stabilization,” he says.

Jimin moves beside him as first assist now, handing instruments, maintaining exposure.

“Rod,” Yoongi says.

“Rod,” Jimin echoes, placing it into his hand.

Yoongi begins the fixation process—aligning, securing, reinforcing.

Everything is going smoothly.

Until—

The monitor beeps sharply.

“Wait,” the neuro tech says suddenly. “He just lost motor function on his right leg.”

The room stills.

Yoongi freezes for half a second.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Without hesitation, he undoes his last move, hands moving quickly but controlled.

“Reversing,” he says.

Everyone watches.

The seconds stretch.

“Motor function returning,” the tech announces.

A quiet breath ripples through the room.

Yoongi exhales, jaw tight. “His fracture from L2 through L5 is compressing the nerve.”

Jimin leans in slightly. “What do we do?”

Yoongi’s eyes scan the field rapidly, calculating. “We need to decompress more before stabilizing.”

Jimin nods immediately. “Okay.”

Yoongi modifies the approach—relieving pressure first, ensuring the nerve has space before securing everything into place again.

“Check again,” Yoongi says.

“Stable,” the tech confirms.

Yoongi continues.

Slower now.

More cautious.

Every move deliberate.

Minutes pass.

Then—

“Final fixation,” Yoongi says.

Jimin assists, steady as ever. If there’s one thing about neurosurgeons, they have the most stable hands ever.

And finally,

“It’s holding,” Yoongi mutters.

The monitors remain steady.

No alarms.

No sudden drops.

Just the quiet rhythm of success.

“Let’s begin to close, please proceed with the counting of instruments,” Jimin says.

The team moves in.

Layer by layer, they finish.

The OR is quiet again.

The patient is being wheeled out toward PACU.

Yoongi stands still for a moment longer, staring at the space where the surgery just happened.

“I might have just paralyzed him,” he murmurs, voice low.

Jimin glances at him, then pats his shoulder lightly as they begin to walk out.

“We don’t know that yet,” he says. “Let’s wait for him to wake up and we’ll assess him again.” 

Yoongi doesn’t respond.

Then the omega sighs, squeezing his shoulder lightly, “Don’t worry yourself too much. We both did everything we could.”

A few hours later, they’re back.

Mr. Kwon is awake now.

A little groggy—but responsive.

Mrs. Kwon is at his side again, eyes filled with anxious hope.

Jimin steps forward, his tone gentler now. “Mr. Kwon, can you hear me?”

A weak nod.

“Good,” Jimin says. “I’m going to check your movement, okay?”

Mr. Kwon nods again.

Jimin starts the neuro exam.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

They twitch.

“Good. How about your left leg?”

It moves.

Jimin glances briefly at Yoongi.

“Your right leg, Mr. Kwon.”

There’s a second.

A long one.

But finally, a movement.

It is small, almost unnoticeable but it’s there.

Mrs. Kwon gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as tears immediately fall.

“He can feel everything,” Jimin confirms, relief clear in his voice now. “His motor functions are good and he’s following demands too.”

Yoongi exhales, shoulders finally dropping.

Mrs. Kwon stands abruptly, moving toward them, grabbing both of their hands.

“Thank you—thank you so much,” she cries, pulling them into a brief, emotional hug.

Jimin smiles softly, a rare warmth settling in his chest.

Yoongi nods, still processing.

“We’ll be referring you to a physical therapist,” Jimin adds gently once things settle. “A very good one. With proper rehab, you’ll regain full function.”

Mr. Kwon nods weakly, grateful.

Mrs. Kwon squeezes their hands one more time.

“Thank you, doctors.”

Outside the room, the door clicks shut behind them.

There’s a pause.

Then both of them exhale at the same time.

Relief.

Pure, unfiltered relief.

Jimin leans back slightly against the wall, running a hand through his hair. “That was…”

“Too close,” Yoongi finishes.

Jimin nods.

They stand there for a moment longer.

Just the quiet understanding that they pulled it off.

The neurosurgeon clears his throat, extending a hand. “Congratulations, Doctor Min.”

There’s a gleam in the orthopedic surgeon’s eyes, amused, “It’s a pleasure to work with you, Doctor Park.”

***

Jimin’s phone rings.

It’s nothing new. His phone rarely gets a moment of peace—pages, calls, consults stacking one after another like a never-ending cycle. So he is used to his phone ringing and vibrating almost every minute.

But this. This is entirely different.

He doesn’t even need to look at the screen to feel it.

Still, he does.

And his chest tightens.

Noona.

Jimin swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry, like something is lodged there, making it harder to breathe.

Yet he answers anyway.

“Noona,” he says, forcing his voice into something steady.

There’s a pause on the other end. Jimin doesn’t believe it is hesitation—or maybe it is because his sister has not called him for over a year now.

“Jimin, are you at the hospital?”

“Yeah,” he replies, already tense. “I just finished my surgery.”

For some reason, he feels the need to add that information because every time he gets in touch with his family, they can never erase in their heads Jimin’s past. Jimin used to remind them that he is a doctor, a surgeon. He used to remind them that this time, he is different. 

And it took him long enough to realize that whatever he does, it will never be enough.

So Jimin just reminds himself instead. He reminds himself that he is capable of saving hundreds of lives in this lifetime.

There’s noise in the background—voices, movement, something clattering. It is a noise that Jimin is awfully familiar with.

Then Jiwon speaks again, her tone edged with irritation. “Well, we’re in the emergency room because eomma broke her arm.”

Jimin freezes for half a second.

“What?”

He hates how his heart drops.

“We’re in the ER,” she repeats, like it’s an inconvenience more than anything else. “Just come down here and check her out. I don’t trust this young doctor assessing her.”

In the background, he hears their mother’s voice—sharp, telling Jiwon to hang up.

“Is she okay?” Jimin asks, the worry slipping through despite everything.

Jiwon hums. “Just come down.”

The call ends.

Jimin is already moving.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Hey, where’s the fire?” Yoongi calls out lightly, almost laughing when Jimin rushes past him in the hallway.

Jimin stops just long enough to turn, something unsettled flickering in his eyes.

“My mom is in the ER,” he says. “Can you come with me?”

Yoongi blinks once—caught off guard more by the tone than the words.

Then he nods. “Yeah.”

No questions.

He falls into step beside Jimin.

They walk quickly, Jimin a step ahead, his pace sharp and purposeful.

Yoongi stays quiet as he walks behind. 

He’s never met Jimin’s family.

Come to think of it—he’s never even heard much about them. Not really.

He can see by the way Jimin moves how worried he is. Yoongi doesn’t really know much about Jimin. He doesn’t know the details of his life except for the fact that he has a jerk of an ex and a messed up family. 

There are pieces. Offhand comments. Jokes that don’t quite land the way they should.

“I’ve got a pretty fucked up family.”

Yoongi didn’t push then.

But now, he just watches.

The way Jimin’s shoulders are tense. The way his hands flex slightly at his sides like he’s bracing for something.

This isn’t just concern.

This is something else.

And Yoongi is not even sure if he’s allowed to see this side of Jimin.

The ER is loud when they arrive.

Busy.

Chaotic.

Just like how it always is.

Jimin slows down just enough to scan the rows of beds, his eyes moving quickly until—

He finds them.

And something in him shifts.

It’s subtle.

But Yoongi definitely notices.

The worry that was there moments ago,

Gone.

Replaced with something quieter.

Colder.

There are two women.

An older one on the bed, arm cradled awkwardly, and another standing beside her—slightly older than Jimin.

The resemblance is undeniable.

Same features.

Same sharpness.

They have identical eyes, their noses are almost the same, and their cheeks are the same.

“Dr. Park,” a resident approaches quickly. “I, uh—I ruled out any neurological deficits. It’s just her arm that’s the problem.”

Jimin nods once. “Thank you, Doctor Kang. We’ve got it from here.”

The resident steps back.

Jimin turns toward the bed.

“Eomma, what happened?” he asks.

His voice is flat. Controlled.

Yoongi notices that too.

The woman beside the bed—Jiwon, he assumes—rolls her eyes. “I told you. She broke her arm.”

Jimin doesn’t react.

Just nods once.

Then he glances at Yoongi.

It’s quick—but clear.

And Yoongi understands.

He steps forward.

“Eomma,” Jimin says, tone unchanged, “this is Doctor Min Yoongi. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. He’ll check you out.”

Yoongi gives a small nod, professional. “Mrs. Park, let me see your arm, please.”

She doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she glances at Jimin and there’s something in that look.

Dismissive.

Almost annoyed.

Like his presence is unnecessary.

But she extends her arm to Yoongi anyway.

He can sense how different her approach is with the both of them. With his own son, she’s dismissive but with a doctor he just met a minute ago, she’s open—almost warm.

Yoongi works carefully, assessing the injury, his touch gentle but efficient.

There’s some swelling. Likely a fracture, but he needs imaging to confirm.

“So,” Yoongi begins, stepping back slightly as he pulls off his gloves, “we’ll need an X-ray to see the extent of the injury. From there, we’ll decide if we can manage it with a cast or if surgery will be necessary.”

Mrs. Park nods, then looks at him more directly.

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Min,” she says, her tone noticeably warmer. “You already seem like a competent doctor.”

Yoongi pauses.

Just slightly.

“Are you friends with Jimin?” she continues. “Is he like you too? Is he competent?”

Yoongi is caught off guard with the question. Or it’s not really the question but the tone. The message that the tone is sending.

But before Yoongi can even respond, 

Jiwon scoffs lightly. “Is he not messing anything up here? That’s new.”

Silence.

Heavy silence.

But Jimin says nothing.

He does not defend himself.

He does not react.

He just stands there, listening.

Like he’s heard it all before.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

He glances at Jimin but Jimin’s expression doesn’t change.

Still calm.

Still unreadable.

Too unreadable.

Jimin exhales quietly, then turns slightly away.

“I’m being paged,” he says, voice neutral. “I… I’ll be back later. Doctor Min.”

It’s an excuse.

A thin one.

But he doesn’t wait for a response—already stepping back, already putting distance between himself and the bed.

“Great,” Jiwon mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He’s running away again.”

It lands differently.

Sharp. Casual. Practiced.

Like it’s been said before.

Jimin’s steps falter for just a fraction of a second.

So small it’s almost invisible.

But Yoongi sees it.

Then Jimin keeps walking.

He doesn’t turn around.

Doesn’t say anything at all.

He just leaves.

Yoongi stands there, still for a moment longer than he should.

The air feels… off.

Mrs. Park adjusts slightly on the bed, already looking away like nothing just happened.

Jiwon crosses her arms, unimpressed, like Jimin’s reaction—no, his lack of reaction—only proves her point.

Yoongi swallows whatever instinct rises in his chest.

Because this isn’t his place.

Not right now.

So he turns back to Mrs. Park, slipping back into something professional, something controlled.

“We’ll get that X-ray done as soon as possible,” he says evenly.

Mrs. Park nods, her tone softer again. “Thank you, Dr. Min.”

Yoongi gives a small nod.

But his mind isn’t fully there anymore.

Because that one line—

“He’s running away again.”

It echoes.

And suddenly, everything clicks into place a little clearer.

The way Jimin brushes things off.

The way he jokes about things that shouldn’t be jokes.

The way he makes everything sound like it doesn’t matter.

Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t feel deeply.

Maybe it’s that he learned early on—

that staying only makes it worse.

Yoongi exhales slowly, glancing once more toward the hallway Jimin disappeared into.

And for the first time, he doesn’t just understand what Jimin meant.

He sees it.

***

“Mrs. Park, good news. You will not be needing surgery, but I have to re-set your bones to promote proper healing.”

Yoongi pulls a chair closer and sits beside her, tone calm, measured—professional.

The room is quieter than the ER floor. Taehyung had managed to secure it for them after a brief, charming standoff with the charge nurse, flashing that disarming smile of his until they gave in. It’s a small space, but it’s enough—private, controlled.

Mrs. Park exhales, nodding as if mildly inconvenienced more than relieved.

She turns her head slightly. “Where’s your brother?”

Yoongi blinks.

For a split second, he almost answers honestly—or at least, what he suspects is closer to the truth.

Jimin walked out because he couldn’t stay.

or he almost utters, “He’s probably in surgery.”

But that’s not his place.

Not his story to tell.

And something tells him they wouldn’t hear it anyway.

Before he can say anything, Jiwon answers instead, her voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

“Jihyun is on his way, eomma,” she says, patting her arm. “He just got off work and wanted to come here immediately.”

“I told you not to tell him, Jiwon-ah,” Mrs. Park mutters, though there’s no real resistance behind it.

Jiwon shrugs lightly. “I’m sure you’d want him here. I read online that being with your kids during a medical emergency helps with healing.”

Mrs. Park hums, seemingly satisfied. “You’re right.”

Yoongi swallows.

The words sit oddly in his chest.

Your kids.

He nods slightly, keeping his voice neutral. “Having a support system is really important, Mrs. Park. Do you want me to call Jimin? His surgery might be done by now.”

Mrs. Park chuckles softly, even reaching out to lightly touch Yoongi’s arm.

“There’s no need to call that brat,” she says. “Just set my arm and we’ll be out of your way, Doctor.”

And for some reason, that makes something in Yoongi’s stomach twist.

He doesn’t know the full story.

Doesn’t know the details.

But he knows enough.

He has seen enough.

Enough to recognize that something here isn’t right.

“Okay,” he mutters, standing up and preparing what he needs. “This might hurt a bit, but I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

He works efficiently, aligning the bones, explaining each step briefly as he goes—more out of habit than expectation.

Jiwon watches with mild interest.

Mrs. Park winces but doesn’t complain much.

And just as Yoongi finishes securing the temporary support,

There’s a knock.

Then the door opens.

“Eomma?”

A younger man steps in, slightly out of breath, eyes immediately landing on the woman in the bed.

“Jihyun,” Mrs. Park breathes out, her expression softening instantly.

The shift is immediate and noticeable.

Jihyun walks straight to her, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies, almost fond. “It’s just my arm.”

Jiwon smiles faintly, stepping aside. “You didn’t have to rush.”

“Of course I did,” Jihyun says easily, glancing between them before his gaze lands on Yoongi.

There’s warmth there.

Politeness.

“Hello, I’m Jihyun,” he says with a small bow. “Thank you for taking care of my mom.”

Yoongi nods. “Min Yoongi. Orthopedic surgeon.”

Jihyun smiles. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Then, naturally, he asks, “Is it serious?”

“Not really,” Yoongi reassures. “She won’t need surgery. I’ve re-set the bone, and we’ll place a cast for stabilization.”

Jihyun visibly relaxes. “That’s a relief.”

Then, after a beat, Jihyun’s voice echoes around the small room. “How about Jimin hyung?” he asks, looking around. “Why is he not here?”

Silence.

It stretches just a second too long.

Jiwon doesn’t answer.

Mrs. Park doesn’t either.

And before either of them can, Yoongi speaks.

“He’s still in surgery,” he says smoothly. “He was paged on an emergent case.”

The lie comes easier than expected.

Jihyun nods immediately, concern shifting. “Oh… I see. How long will that take?”

Yoongi hums lightly. “I can find out for you.”

“Just let him be, Jihyun,” Jiwon cuts in, her tone dismissive.

Jihyun frowns, glancing at her. “No. We haven’t seen Jimin hyung in a while, noona. Since we are all here together—we should at least eat together.”

Another silence.

It is heavier this time.

Mrs. Park sighs and Jiwon exhales through her nose.

Neither of them looks particularly enthusiastic about the idea.

But Jihyun, he means it.

It’s obvious how much he means it. It is almost painful to watch.

“Doctor Min,” He turns back to Yoongi, a small hopeful smile on his face. “Do you mind grabbing something to eat after Jimin hyung’s surgery is done? I’m not sure if that’s allowed but you can come as Jimin hyung’s friend.”

Yoongi pauses.

Just briefly.

Then nods. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Because if that meal happens,

If Jimin ends up sitting at that table,

Yoongi already knows and he won’t let Jimin sit through it alone.

Not after what he just saw.

Not after what he’s starting to understand.

So he nods again, more firmly this time.

“I’ll take care of it.”

***

“Thank you for the assist, Jimin. Though I’m not entirely sure why you had to jump in,” Hoseok says, nudging the faucet open with his foot. Water rushes out as he scrubs his hands, shoulders finally loosening now that the surgery is over.

Jimin blinks, pulling off his gloves. “I mean… he was my patient a year ago,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “I just—wanted to make sure I didn’t mess anything up.”

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. “You placed the shunt perfectly, Jimin. This is a completely different issue.”

“I know,” Jimin nods, though it doesn’t quite sound like he believes it.

Hoseok glances at him briefly.

There’s something off.

Subtle—but there.

Jimin is usually sharper after surgery. Lighter, even. But now he looks… elsewhere.

Distracted.

They step out into the OR hallway, the familiar buzz of movement surrounding them. The nurses greet them with a bow which they both return immediately. 

Hoseok’s hand lands on his belly, “Do you want me to call you when she’s awake?”

The younger omega smiles, “Yeah, I’d like that, hyung. That will put me at ease.”

As they both walk, they hear a voice calling.

“Yah, Jimin hyung!”

Jungkook jogs up to them, slightly out of breath. “Why didn’t you tell me auntie is in the ER?”

Jimin pauses mid-step.

Hoseok’s brows knit slightly as he looks between them, catching onto the shift immediately.

“Hi, hyung.” The youngest one mumbles, glancing at Hoseok.

“It’s just a fracture,” Jimin replies, tone dismissive. “Yoongi is taking care of it.”

Jungkook nods, though his expression still holds concern. “Also, Jihyun called me about dinner. I can’t come—I have an emergency surgery. I need to be in the OR stat.”

Jimin frowns. “What dinner?”

Jungkook shrugs. “He said something about dinner with you… and Doctor Min.”

There’s a beat.

“What?!” Jimin blurts out.

Hoseok raises a brow but says nothing, quietly stepping away as he presses a hand to his stomach, his other hand waving them off. “I’m going to the lounge,” he mutters. “This one’s getting restless.”

Jimin barely acknowledges it.

He’s already pulling his phone out, dialing.

The line rings once.

Twice.

“Hey, where are you?” Jimin asks as soon as Yoongi answers, voice low, rushed.

“I’m getting ready to go,” Yoongi replies. “Your brother asked me to have dinner with you guys. I already said you’re in surgery, but he insisted on waiting.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face.

“Why did you say yes?” he asks, already walking, already heading toward the attending’s lounge.

“I…” Yoongi hesitates. “I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking it through.”

Jimin exhales sharply.

But he doesn’t argue.

Because that—

That part is true.

He reaches the lounge, pushing the door open.

Hoseok is already sprawled on the couch, one hand on his stomach, eyes half-lidded.

“Hey,” Jimin mutters.

Hoseok glances at him. “Family dinner?”

Jimin groans quietly. “Apparently.”

“Good luck,” Hoseok says with a knowing smile.

Jimin huffs, grabbing his bag. “Don’t wait up but please send me a message when he wakes up.”

“Sure thing, Jiminie,” Hoseok replies, already settling back in.

Jimin changes quickly.

Out of his scrubs.

Into something more… normal. Civilian.

It feels strange.

Like he’s stepping into a role he doesn’t quite want to play.

He runs a hand through his hair one last time before heading out.

Yoongi is waiting just before the lobby.

Leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets—but his eyes lift immediately when he sees Jimin.

For a second, neither of them says anything.

Then Jimin walks up to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, straightforward. “For bringing you into this mess.”

Yoongi shrugs lightly. “I didn’t really have much of a choice. Your brother is really persuasive.”

It’s a lie.

A small one.

Jihyun didn’t need to persuade him.

Yoongi already decided the moment Jimin walked out of that room.

But he lets the excuse sit there because it is easier that way anyway.

Jimin huffs a quiet breath. “You don’t have to stay if it gets too much.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Jimin studies him for a second.

Then nods.

“Okay.”

They step into the lobby together.

And almost immediately, a voice calls out for him. Excited.

“Hyung!”

Jihyun spots him.

His face lights up instantly as he walks quickly toward them, not even bothering to slow down before wrapping Jimin in a tight hug.

“Hyung, it’s so good to see you.”

Jimin stiffens for half a second.

But then he relaxes.

Just a little.

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Hey, kiddo.”

It’s soft.

Real.

Different from anything Yoongi has seen from him today.

Maybe because Jihyun is truly a kind person.

Jihyun pulls back slightly, still holding onto his arms. “You’ve been so busy. We barely see you anymore.”

“Yeah, work has been crazy,” Jimin shrugs lightly.

Jihyun nods, like he understands—but still looks a little disappointed.

Then his gaze shifts to Yoongi.

“Oh—Doctor Min, right?” he says, smiling. “Thank you again for helping eomma earlier.”

Yoongi nods. “Of course.”

Jihyun glances between them, something curious in his eyes—but he doesn’t push.

“Come on,” he says instead, stepping back. “They’re waiting.”

Jimin’s smile fades slightly at that.

But Jihyun doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does—and chooses not to acknowledge it.

As they start walking, Yoongi lingers half a step behind.

To watch and to observe because for the first time, he sees it.

He sees it clearly.

Not all of Jimin’s family is the same.

Not all of them look at him like he’s… something lacking.

Jihyun doesn’t.

Jihyun looks at Jimin like he’s someone he genuinely missed.

Like someone he wants around.

Like someone who matters.

And suddenly, it makes sense why Jimin agreed to this.

Even just a little.

Because if there’s even one person, 

Just one—who still feels like that toward him…

Maybe that’s enough to keep showing up.

Even if the rest makes him want to walk away.

***

Dinner is insufferable.

Not in the loud, chaotic way that could be dismissed or laughed off later, but in something far worse—something quiet, restrained, and suffocating. The kind of tension that sits heavy in the chest, that makes every clink of silverware against porcelain sound too sharp, too deliberate. The private room was supposed to make things more comfortable, more intimate. Instead, it only traps everything inside—every glance, every word, every silence that stretches just a second too long.

The only thing keeping the evening from completely unraveling is Jihyun.

He tries—genuinely, persistently—to keep things normal. To keep things light. To make this feel like what it’s supposed to be: a family dinner.

“Hyung, you never really told me anything about your surgeries,” Jihyun says, carefully slicing through his steak. His tone is light, casual enough to keep the atmosphere from sinking further, but his eyes stay on Jimin with quiet attentiveness. “Anything interesting lately?”

For a moment, Jimin doesn’t answer.

Yoongi notices the hesitation immediately. The way Jimin’s fingers pause around his utensils. The way he seems to weigh every response before allowing it out into the open, as if speaking too much about himself has consequences he already knows too well.

Then, eventually, he gives a little.

“I mostly handle brain bleeds, tumors, aneurysms,” Jimin says quietly. “It depends on the case. They’re all different.”

Jihyun’s face lights up immediately, genuinely interested. “That sounds insane.”

“It kind of is,” Jimin admits, and there’s a faint smile on his lips now. “The brain is… complicated. You can study it your whole life and still not fully understand it.”

“That’s because you’re all nerds,” Jiwon says dryly as she takes a sip of wine.

Jihyun laughs. “Says the lawyer.”

“At least my clients can yell back at me.”

Yoongi glances at Jimin then.

The smile on the omega’s face is still there, but smaller now. Fragile. Like it only exists when it’s allowed to.

“You teach too, right?” Jihyun asks again. “Residents?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah.”

“That must be cool.”

“It’s exhausting,” Jimin says honestly, though there’s warmth in his voice now. “But worth it.”

Yoongi watches him carefully.

This version of Jimin feels unfamiliar in a way that unsettles him.

Not because it’s fake.

But because it feels hidden.

This softer side of him. The one that talks about medicine with quiet passion instead of clinical distance. The one that relaxes slightly when someone listens without judgment.

It lasts only a few seconds.

Because Mrs. Park clears her throat.

Once.

Twice.

Sharp enough to interrupt without directly interrupting.

Yoongi’s attention shifts toward her instinctively.

She sits stiffly at the head of the table, one arm still secured in a cast from the injury Yoongi treated hours ago. Even now, she carries herself with perfect posture, immaculate appearance untouched by discomfort.

Jimin notices her struggling slightly with the placement of her utensils before anyone else does.

Without saying anything, he quietly reaches over to adjust the dish closer to her good hand.

It’s subtle.

Automatic.

The kind of care that comes from habit.

Mrs. Park immediately pulls the plate back herself.

“I can manage,” she says coolly.

Jimin’s hand retracts almost instantly.

“Right,” he murmurs.

Yoongi’s brows knit together slightly.

The exchange is small.

Tiny, even.

But it leaves an unpleasant feeling sitting heavily in his chest.

Because Jimin hadn’t made a show of helping her. Hadn’t embarrassed her. He simply noticed she was struggling and acted on instinct.

And somehow, even that was unwelcome.

Mrs. Park turns toward Yoongi then, her expression softening almost immediately.

The contrast is jarring.

“Doctor Min,” she says warmly, “I truly wanted to thank you again for treating me.”

Yoongi straightens politely. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Park.”

“Nonsense,” she replies. “I am very sure my recovery will be much smoother because of you.”

Jiwon smiles lightly from across the table. “You must be quite famous around the hospital.”

Yoongi laughs quietly. “Not really.”

“You’re handsome too,” Jiwon adds casually, almost teasing and almost borderline flirting. “Orthopedic surgeons aren’t usually this attractive.”

“Jiwon Noona,” Jihyun groans immediately.

“What?” she says defensively. “I’m complimenting him.”

Yoongi smiles politely despite the awkwardness. “I’m just doing my job.”

His gaze flickers toward Jimin instinctively.

“And honestly, Jimin’s the impressive one here,” he says. “He recently removed a tumor most surgeons would’ve considered inoperable.”

For a split second, Yoongi expects pride.

Or at the very least acknowledgment.

Instead—Jiwon’s expression shifts first.

“That sounds reckless.”

The warmth disappears from the table almost immediately.

Yoongi feels it happen in real time.

Like a temperature drop.

Jimin doesn’t react outwardly, but his shoulders stiffen slightly.

Then Mrs. Park speaks.

“You really should learn to stop overestimating yourself, Jimin,” she says calmly.

Too calmly.

“Eomma,” Jihyun says quietly.

But she continues anyway.

“You act first and think later. One day, someone will die because of your arrogance.”

Silence settles heavily across the table.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens slightly.

Because Jimin doesn’t defend himself.

He does not argue.

He does not even look a tad bit surprised.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I’m careful with my patients,” Jimin says quietly after a moment.

Mrs. Park lets out a humorless laugh. “Careful?”

Jihyun sets his fork down harder this time. “Can we not do this tonight?”

“What?” she asks, looking genuinely offended by the interruption. “I’m speaking honestly.”

“You’re always speaking honestly,” Jihyun mutters bitterly.

Jiwon exhales sharply. “God, here we go again.”

Yoongi watches the entire interaction carefully now.

And the more he watches—the less any of this makes sense.

Because the difference is impossible not to notice.

The softness Mrs. Park uses with Jihyun.

The patience.

The warmth.

It exists.

Yoongi can see it clearly.

When Jihyun speaks, she listens.

When Jihyun jokes, she smiles.

But every time she looks at Jimin—it disappears.

Completely.

Like kindness was never meant for him in the first place.

“Jihyun works himself to the bone too,” Mrs. Park says suddenly, her tone affectionate now. “But at least he knows his limits.”

Jimin goes still beside him.

Yoongi notices immediately.

Every muscle tightening subtly beneath composed skin.

“He’s handling three departments already,” she continues proudly. “I keep telling him to slow down.”

Jihyun looks uncomfortable now. “Eomma…”

“But he never disappoints me,” she says softly.

The sentence lands exactly the way she intends it to.

Yoongi sees Jimin’s fingers tighten around his glass.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But Yoongi notices everything about him these days.

And suddenly, pieces begin fitting together in ways Yoongi doesn’t like.

Jimin doesn’t avoid talking about his family because he’s private.

He avoids it because this—this is what waits for him here.

“You really should rest more too, Jimin,” Mrs. Park says again, though concern never reaches her voice. “Before you end up ruining another life with your decisions.”

The room goes silent.

Completely silent.

Jihyun looks horrified now. “Eomma.”

“What?” she asks again. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” Jihyun says immediately.

“No,” she replies coldly. “I’m not.”

Jimin’s breathing changes beside Yoongi.

Barely.

But enough.

And Yoongi suddenly understands something terrifying.

Jimin isn’t waiting for this dinner to get better.

He’s enduring it.

Like someone surviving impact after impact, already knowing exactly where the blows will land.

Then Mrs. Park delivers the final cut.

“Killing someone isn’t a doctor’s job,” she says sharply.

A pause.

“Sure as hell isn’t a son’s job either.”

Everything stops.

Yoongi physically feels Jimin freeze beside him.

The omega’s entire body goes rigid so suddenly it’s frightening.

Jihyun’s chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “Enough!”

But it’s too late.

Because Jiwon speaks next.

Quietly.

Cruelly.

With no remorse coating her voice.

“We stopped being a family when Jimin killed appa.”

The silence afterward is unbearable.

Jimin’s hand trembles against his lap.

His lips part slightly, like words are trying to form.

Nothing comes out.

Not a single thing.

Then suddenly, his chair pushes back violently against the floor as he stands.

Yoongi’s heart lurches immediately.

Because Jimin looks—wrecked.

Not angry.

Not even defensive.

Just completely shattered.

“Hyung—” Jihyun says quickly, panicked now.

But Jimin is already walking away.

Fast.

Unsteady.

Gone before anyone can stop him.

The door closes behind him.

And the silence left behind feels rotten.

Yoongi stands immediately.

“I’ll go after him.”

Jihyun nods quickly, eyes full of guilt. “Please.”

And Yoongi doesn’t waste another second.

He doesn’t say anything else—not even a goodbye to Mrs. Park or Jiwon.

He just walks out.

Into the hallway.

Into the space Jimin fled to.

And as the door closes behind him, one thought settles heavily in his chest—

This should never have happened.

Not the dinner.

Not this.

Not him seeing this side of Jimin—raw, exposed, unguarded in the worst possible way.

This was never part of their arrangement.

No feelings.

No attachments.

No complications.

And yet—

Yoongi is already moving down the hallway, searching.

Because whatever rules they had, they don’t seem to matter right now.

***

It takes Yoongi exactly three minutes and twenty-one seconds to find him.

Not because he times it consciously, but because later, long after this night ends, long after the restaurant lights dim behind them and the city continues moving like nothing happened, Yoongi will remember every second of searching for Jimin with painful clarity.

The first minute is instinct.

The second is worry.

By the third, something close to fear has already started crawling beneath his ribs.

He doesn’t check the entrance first. Doesn’t linger near the parking lot where people laugh softly over expensive dinners and valets move from car to car with practiced ease. Jimin would never stay somewhere visible after breaking apart like that. Yoongi knows it without needing to think too hard about it.

Instead, he walks farther.

Past the warm spill of light coming from the restaurant windows.

Past the smokers gathered near the side alley.

Toward somewhere darker.

Quieter.

And then he sees him.

Jimin sits hunched on a wooden bench near the back perimeter of the building where the decorative plants have long overgrown around the fence. The nearest streetlamp flickers weakly above him, casting fractured shadows across the pavement. His elbows rest on his knees, both hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly that even from a distance Yoongi can see the strain in his knuckles.

He’s shaking.

Not the subtle kind.

Not something a person can hide behind steady breathing and lowered eyes.

His entire body trembles like he’s freezing from the inside out.

And the sound—God.

Yoongi stops walking for half a second because the sound of Jimin crying hits him harder than he expects.

It’s not loud.

That somehow makes it worse.

The sobs are broken apart like Jimin is trying to swallow them before they fully escape. Like he’s ashamed of them. Like even now, even after being torn open at that dinner table, he’s still trying to make himself smaller. Easier to ignore.

Something twists painfully in Yoongi’s chest.

He’s seen Jimin irritated. Exhausted. Cold. Sarcastic. Avoidant. Sharp around the edges like a blade that cuts before anyone gets close enough to touch it.

But this feels different.

This feels like seeing something he was never meant to witness.

Yoongi approaches slowly, careful with his footsteps. Not because Jimin is fragile, but because right now he looks like one wrong movement might send him running again.

When he reaches the bench, he sits down beside him.

Not too close.

Just enough.

A space wide enough for Jimin to breathe.

A space small enough for him to know he isn’t alone.

For a while, Yoongi says nothing.

He just sits there beside him in silence while the city hums distantly around them. Cars pass somewhere beyond the street. Someone laughs too loudly near the restaurant entrance. A motorcycle roars down the road before fading away.

But here—in this tiny corner of darkness—everything feels suspended.

Jimin’s crying quiets little by little, turning into uneven breaths and occasional shaky inhales. His head remains bowed. His hair falls over his face messily, hiding most of his expression from view.

Yoongi lets him have the silence.

He lets him decide what to do with it.

Minutes pass before Jimin finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is wrecked.

Hoarse from crying too hard.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.”

Yoongi leans back slightly against the bench, gaze fixed ahead instead of on him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

A humorless laugh escapes Jimin.

Short.

Broken.

“I told you my family is fucked up.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately because honestly, no response feels right. What exactly are you supposed to say after watching a mother look at her son like he’s something rotten she’s been forced to keep alive?

What are you supposed to say after watching someone flinch beneath words that were clearly not new?

So instead, he stays quiet.

And Jimin keeps talking.

Maybe because the dam already broke tonight.

Maybe because once pain starts spilling out, it becomes impossible to stop it completely.

“I fucked it up,” Jimin whispers.

Yoongi finally turns his head slightly toward him.

Jimin’s hands are clasped together tightly now, fingers twisting against each other hard enough to hurt.

“My dad died because of me,” he says quietly. “They didn’t lie.”

The words sink heavily between them.

There’s no anger in Jimin’s voice.

That’s what makes it unbearable.

Like he has carried this truth for so long that it has settled directly into his bones.

Yoongi’s chest tightens.

Jimin laughs softly then, but the sound cracks apart halfway through. “God. That sounds so pathetic out loud.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

His breathing shakes again.

“I was nine,” he says after a moment. “Or maybe almost ten. I don’t know anymore.”

His eyes stay fixed on the pavement.

Distant.

Like he’s somewhere else now.

“I remember my mom telling me not to leave the house without an adult. She always said it. Every day. Don’t go outside alone. Don’t wander off. Wait until your father gets home.”

He swallows.

“But the neighborhood kids were outside.”

He pauses, maybe to think or maybe just to… breathe.

“We used to play near this huge tree at the end of the block. Everyone gathered there after school.” His lips twitch faintly, almost involuntarily. “It had this stupid tire swing that squeaked every time someone used it.”

Yoongi listens quietly.

“I wanted to go,” Jimin says softly. “That’s all it was. I just wanted to play with them.”

Another shaky inhale.

“So I left.”

The night air feels colder suddenly.

“I didn’t think anything bad would happen. I was a kid. Kids don’t think like that.”

His fingers curl tighter.

“And my dad came looking for me.”

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly.

Jimin keeps talking before the silence can swallow him again.

“I remember it was getting dark already. We were still playing. I think someone was arguing about whose turn it was on the swing.” His brows knit slightly. “I can’t remember clearly. Just… flashes.”

His voice grows quieter.

“Then I heard something.”

A second of silence passes. 

“A crash.”

He stares blankly ahead.

“Or maybe I heard people screaming first. I don’t know.”

His breathing falters.

“But everyone suddenly stopped.”

Yoongi can almost see it.

He can almost picture a child frozen in place.

A street illuminated by headlights.

Panic spreading faster than understanding.

It’s not hard to see when he’s watching everything unfold in Jimin’s eyes.

“I ran toward the road because everyone else did. I got curious, maybe a little thrilled.”

Jimin’s lips tremble slightly.

“And he was there.”

Silence.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“He was on the ground,” Jimin whispers. “I didn’t understand what I was looking at at first.”

His eyes shine wetly beneath the dim light.

“But there was blood everywhere. E-everywhere.”

His voice cracks hard this time.

“So much blood.” Jimin instinctively lifts both of his hands, staring at them like there’s blood covering them. His own father’s blood.

He stares at his hands like even after decades, the stain of his blood never left his hands.

Yoongi feels nauseous suddenly.

Jimin laughs again weakly, miserably. “I remember thinking my mom was gonna get mad because my favorite pants got stained.”

The words hit like a punch.

Because of course that’s what a child would think.

Not death.

Not tragedy.

Just confusion.

Fear.

Small things.

“I kept trying to wake him up,” Jimin says quietly. “I touched his face and kept saying “Appa, appa, wake up” over and over again because I thought maybe he just fell.”

A tear slips down his cheek.

“I didn’t know people could die t-that quickly.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens painfully.

“The neighbors pulled me away,” Jimin continues. “Mr. Lee… our grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Lee was holding me while I screamed and someone said a car hit him.”

Another pause.

“He came looking for me.”

The sentence barely makes it out.

“And that’s how I killed my father.”

The silence afterward feels crushing.

Not empty.

Too full.

Too heavy.

Jimin bends forward again, pressing his palms against his eyes as another sob escapes him quietly.

And something inside Yoongi breaks a little.

Because all this time—all this fucking time—Jimin has been carrying this alone.

Not just grief.

Not just trauma.

Guilt.

The kind that poisons everything it touches.

The kind planted carefully inside a child until it grows around their ribs and convinces them they deserve every cruel thing said to them afterward.

Yoongi stares at him for a long moment before finally speaking.

“You didn’t kill him.”

Jimin shakes his head immediately like the response is automatic now. Conditioned.

“If I stayed home—”

“You were nine.” His voice comes out firmer this time.

Jimin finally looks at him.

Eyes swollen.

Destroyed.

“You were a child,” Yoongi repeats. “You didn’t push him into traffic. You didn’t drive the car.”

“But he wouldn’t have been there if not for me.”

“No,” Yoongi says sharply. “He was there because he loved you.”

The words land hard.

Jimin freezes.

Yoongi exhales slowly.

“He came looking for you because you were his son,” he says more quietly now. “That’s what parents do.”

Jimin’s lips part slightly.

No sound comes out.

“They needed someone to blame,” Yoongi continues. “And you were there.”

Jimin looks away immediately.

Because that one hurts.

That one cuts too close to the truth he’s spent years trying not to acknowledge.

“They’ve said it so many times,” Jimin whispers. “I think eventually I just started believing them. But maybe they’re right. No, they’re right.”

Yoongi’s chest aches.

He looks at Jimin properly then.

Really looks at him.

At the exhaustion carved permanently beneath his eyes.

At the way he constantly holds himself like he’s apologizing for existing.

At the way he flinches before people even raise their voices.

And suddenly so many things make horrifying sense.

Why Jimin never lets people get too close.

Why he keeps relationships shallow.

Why he clings so desperately to being wanted because somewhere deep down, he probably believes being loved is impossible.

Why he works himself to death inside operating rooms trying to save everyone he can.

Like maybe if he saves enough lives, it’ll finally outweigh the one he thinks he destroyed.

Yoongi feels sick.

“I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before,” Jimin murmurs eventually.

“I know.”

Jimin leans back weakly against the bench, staring up at the dark sky overhead.

“Still think I’m not messed up?”

Yoongi huffs softly through his nose.

Not mocking.

Not amused.

Just tired in a way he can’t explain.

“I think,” he says carefully, “you’ve been carrying something no child should’ve ever carried.”

Jimin’s throat bobs.

“You know what’s funny?” he asks quietly. “I became a neurosurgeon because of him.”

Yoongi turns toward him again.

Jimin wipes at his face tiredly before continuing.

“I think part of me thought if I became good enough… smart enough… maybe I could’ve saved him.”

His laugh breaks apart again.

“Which is insane because he died before he even reached the hospital.”

But Yoongi understands.

God, he understands.

Because guilt doesn’t care about logic.

Trauma doesn’t care about reason.

“You save people every day,” Yoongi says quietly.

Jimin’s expression twists painfully. “And sometimes they still die.”

The patients…

Yoongi realizes immediately.

The patients that Jimin have lost.

The number of deaths that triggered all this buried grief wide open.

“Whenever I lose a patient on my table,” Jimin says softly. “And all I could think about was how terrified their family looked.”

His eyes shine again.

“That he was someone’s father too, she’s someone’s sister, they mean something big to strangers I bump into everyday.”

Yoongi exhales slowly.

“And I kept thinking… what if my dad looked like that?”

Silence settles again.

But this time it feels different.

Less suffocating.

Like the truth being spoken aloud has loosened something slightly—opened wounds.

And maybe that matters.

Jimin sits there quietly for a long while before speaking again.

“I think this is why I don’t know how to love people properly.”

Yoongi’s brows furrow slightly.

Jimin laughs weakly. “I mean… look at me.”

His voice drops softer.

“I only know how to be useful. Wanted. Needed.”

Something painful twists through Yoongi’s chest again because suddenly their arrangement makes horrifying sense too.

Just sex.

No feelings.

No expectations.

No possibility of abandonment because nothing real existed to lose in the first place.

Yoongi looks at him for a long moment before quietly saying, “You don’t have to earn being loved, Jimin.”

Jimin immediately looks away—like the sentence physically hurts to hear.

And maybe it does.

Because people who spend years believing they’re difficult to love don’t suddenly know what to do with gentleness.

The night grows colder around them.

Still, neither of them moves.

Eventually, Jimin’s breathing steadies.

The tears stop.

Not because he’s okay.

Just because exhaustion finally overtakes grief.

Meanwhile Yoongi watches him carefully.

And for the first time since meeting him, he thinks he’s finally seeing the real Park Jimin.

Not Doctor Park.

Not the sharp-tongued omega who hides behind sarcasm and avoidance.

Not the brilliant surgeon everyone admires.

Just—Jimin.

A man who has been hurting for so long he no longer knows how to exist without the pain.

And maybe that realization should scare Yoongi.

Maybe it should send him running because this is already far more complicated than either of them intended.

Instead, all Yoongi feels is heartbreak.

Deep.

Heavy.

Terrible heartbreak for someone who spent most of his life believing a childhood tragedy made him unworthy of love.

After a while, Jimin lets out one last shaky breath and murmurs quietly, “You must think I’m a trainwreck.”

Yoongi looks at him carefully.

Then, softly—“No.”

A pause.

“I think you survived something terrible—something a child should have never been forced to survive at all..”

And Jimin—for the first time all night or maybe all his life—finally cries without trying to hide it.

Chapter Text

“Oh, fuck.” Jimin whimpers, shifting on his feet while he tries to even out his breathing. “I’m coming.”

Yoongi just hums around the omega’s length not really minding how much Jimin is moving under his touches. 

The omega’s hands are on the alpha’s shoulder and head. He yelps when Yoongi pulls one of his legs, placing it on his shoulder to gain better access. “Y-yoongi,”

The alpha’s fingers are busy behind Jimin too. He is fingering him, not really to open him up. No. It is just to stimulate him even more, making him a crying mess.

“H-hey, I need to.” Jimin’s voice is quiet and the pleasure is traveling all over his body—from his head to his toes. 

Yoongi doesn’t need to do much work, Jimin comes in just a matter of minutes.

Breathing heavily, Jimin tries to pull away with nowhere else to go but just closer to the wall. He gently puts his leg down, Yoongi helping him in the process. He feels sticky to say the least. His cum, slick, sweat, and Yoongi’s saliva are all over his body. 

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you want to sit?”

“I’m fine. I just need to clean myself up before I go to surgery.” Jimin’s voice is steady—too steady—as he reaches for the wipes, movements quick, almost mechanical. Like if he just keeps going, keeps moving, keeps acting like everything is normal, then maybe it will be.

But Yoongi’s hand closes over his wrist before he can start.

“I’ll do it,” he says quietly.

Jimin exhales, already tired, already resisting. His eyes fall on Yoongi—still kneeling in front of him, hair slightly damp, a sheen of sweat along his temples, chest rising and falling a little heavier than usual.

“Yoongi, I can do it.”

Yoongi catches a glance of him but he doesn’t stop cleaning Jimin. His hands focus on the younger’s hole, his buttocks, and down his thigh. “I know you can. I just want to do it for you.”

Jimin prefers not to, honestly. 

“I made this mess anyway. It’s just right for me to do this.” The alpha continues, wiping Jimin’s cock last. 

Jimin doesn’t respond.

He just looks away, jaw tightening slightly as he lets Yoongi finish, every second stretching longer than it should.

When Yoongi finally stands, there’s a shift.

The space between them feels… different.

Closer. Too close.

Jimin immediately turns, reaching for his shirt, using the motion as an excuse to break eye contact. “You don’t need to.”

“Hey.”

Yoongi’s voice stops him—gentle but firm enough that Jimin pauses.

He doesn’t turn back right away.

“You have been avoiding me,” Yoongi says.

Jimin lets out a quiet scoff, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”

Yoongi watches him for a moment.

Then Yoongi shakes his head slightly, like he’s already thought this through more than once.

“No,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “You’re not avoiding being around me. You’re avoiding talking to me.”

That lands heavier than Jimin expects.

It doesn’t show immediately. He’s good at that. Years of practice, of keeping things contained, controlled, hidden behind something more palatable.

But for a split second, he stills.

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against the fabric of his shirt, the motion small but telling. Then just as quickly, he smooths it out, like it never happened. Like Yoongi didn’t just hit something too close to the truth.

“Jimin,” Yoongi continues, softer now, more careful, like he’s stepping onto fragile ground, “what happened last week—”

“Please.”

Jimin cuts him off too fast. Too sharp.

There’s no hesitation, no space to even let Yoongi finish the thought. It’s immediate, instinctive—even defensive.

“Let’s not talk about it.”

There’s an edge to his voice.

It is not anger. Not quite.

It is something tighter.

Maybe something closer to panic.

And Yoongi cannot help but notice because he always notices. That’s who he is.

His brows draw together slightly as he takes a step closer, not aggressive, not forceful—just enough to close the distance that Jimin keeps trying to create.

But Yoongi knows too well that it doesn’t matter how physically close they are or if there’s no distance between them that’s left of them to breathe because even still, Jimin just seems too far away. Too distant.

“You don’t just say something like that and then pretend it didn’t happen.” The alpha mutters,

“I’m not pretending, Yoongi.” Jimin snaps, the words coming out harsher than he intends.

He exhales right after, dragging a hand briefly through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back together. “I just… don’t want to talk about it.”

Because talking about it means reliving it.

And reliving it means letting Yoongi see it again.

That part of him.

That weakness.

Jimin cannot fathom even thinking of the fact that Yoongi has seen the most vulnerable piece of him. That piece that he tried so hard to hide, bury, and forget. 

But Yoongi doesn’t back off—not this time because now he sees it.

Clearer than before.

The way Jimin is retreating—not physically, but emotionally. The way he’s building walls in real time, brick by brick, right in front of him and he cannot do anything about it because for every brick that Yoongi tries to tear down, Jimin just puts up two times more.

“You poured your heart out,” Yoongi says, quieter now, more deliberate. “And then you disappeared on me.”

Jimin lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he looks away.

“God,” he mutters. “Listen to yourself, Yoongi.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” Jimin says under his breath.

And that’s exactly the problem.

He knows Yoongi is serious.

He knows Yoongi isn’t just saying things to fill the silence, or to make this easier, or to brush it off.

Yoongi means it.

And that makes everything worse.

Because it means Yoongi remembers everything.

Every word, every crack in his voice, and every piece of him that he never lets anyone see.

It means Yoongi knows too much now.

Too much about his family.

Too much about his past.

Too much about the one thing Jimin has spent his entire life trying to bury deep enough that no one could ever reach it.

His greatest thorn and his greatest shame.

The reason he doesn’t talk about his family.

The reason he jokes instead of explains.

The reason love feels like something dangerous—something that always ends up hurting someone.

He finally turns to face Yoongi fully but there’s even more distance in his eyes now.

Cold. Guarded. Carefully constructed.

Walls that weren’t even that high as before.

“Yoongi,” he says, voice steadier—but stripped of warmth, “you have seen me naked. In every position possible.”

Yoongi doesn’t react outwardly but something in his gaze sharpens, just slightly.

“I’m fine with that, I can deal with that,” Jimin continues, “That doesn’t bother me.”

Because that part is easy.

It’s just physical.

Detached.

Something he can control.

Something that doesn’t require him to give anything real.

“But what I’m not fine with—” his voice tightens, just a fraction, just enough to betray him, “—is you seeing how weak I am.”

The words hang between them—raw, unfiltered.

And painfully honest.

Jimin swallows, his jaw clenching slightly like he regrets even saying that much.

“I can’t,” he adds, quieter now. “I just… can’t.”

Because if Yoongi sees that—if Yoongi understands that—then this stops being simple.

And simple is the only thing Jimin knows how to handle.

Yoongi exhales slowly, his voice steady. “That’s not weakness.”

Jimin shakes his head immediately.

“It is to me.”

And that’s the truth that matters.

Not what Yoongi thinks.

Not what anyone else thinks.

Just that.

Another silence stretches between them.

Then Jimin’s voice drops, softer now—but resolute.

“So please.”

Don’t push me.

Don’t ask me.

Don’t make me stay in this moment longer than I already have.

He grabs his things, movements quick, efficient—like he’s escaping something.

Maybe he is.

He doesn’t look at Yoongi again.

Doesn’t give him the chance to say anything else.

Because if he does—he might hesitate.

And he can’t afford that.

Not now.

Not when Yoongi already knows this much.

So he walks past him, out of the room, out of reach.

And just like that—he’s gone again.

***

“Hey, what’s the case?” Jimin asks the second he pushes through the trauma room doors, already gloving up, already scanning.

Taehyung doesn’t even look up, hands steady as he presses gauze against the patient’s abdomen. “Twenty-nine-year-old male, hit by a car,” he reports quickly. “Thirty-five weeks pregnant. I need a neuro workup.”

That makes Jimin pause for half a second.

Then he’s moving again.

“Someone page Doctor Kim Seokjin,” Taehyung adds over his shoulder. “We might have to get this baby out now.”

Jimin steps closer, eyes sharp as he assesses the head wound. “Get me suction,” he mutters, then to his resident, “Prep for a full neuro check. He’ll need a head CT—open parietal laceration. I’m not risking anything.”

“Alright,” Taehyung nods, voice firm as he directs the room. “CT scan now. Book an OR ASAP. Bleeding’s controlled for the moment.”

“I’m here—what happened?” Seokjin enters briskly, already tying his mask, eyes darting between monitors and the patient.

“Fetal heart tones?” he asks immediately.

“Not in distress,” Taehyung answers. “But the father is. We’ll get imaging and meet you in the OR. I’ll have to operate on him, can you assist?”

Seokjin nods once. “I’ll prep the OR.”

Everything moves fast after that.

It always does.

The OR is controlled chaos that settles into rhythm the moment the first incision is made.

Jimin stands at the head, fully focused, the world narrowing down to anatomy and precision. The craniotomy proceeds carefully—each movement deliberate, practiced. Blood is controlled. Exposure is clean.

Across from him, Taehyung manages the abdominal injuries, keeping the bleeding stable, eyes flicking between the surgical field and the monitors.

Seokjin stands slightly off to the side—but no less involved—his gaze fixed on the fetal heart rate monitor, one hand resting near the patient’s abdomen, ready.

“FHR is stable,” Seokjin says after a moment, his voice calm and even, the kind of tone that keeps a room from tipping into panic. His eyes remain fixed on the monitor, tracking every fluctuation with quiet vigilance. “No signs of distress yet.”

Taehyung exhales through his nose, not quite relief but something close enough to let his shoulders drop by a fraction. “Let’s keep it that way,” he mutters, his hands never pausing as he continues to manage the abdominal bleeding with practiced efficiency.

The tension in the room eases, but only just. It doesn’t disappear—situations like this never allow that—but it settles into something more manageable, something the three of them know how to work within. The rhythm of the surgery becomes steadier, more controlled, each movement precise and purposeful. The monitors continue their steady beeping, no longer alarming but still demanding attention, a constant reminder that stability is something earned moment by moment.

As the minutes stretch on and the patient holds, the atmosphere shifts subtly. It’s a familiar phenomenon in the operating room—when things stabilize, when the immediate danger is contained, conversation begins to slip in, threading itself between the clinical focus. It doesn’t take away from the work. If anything, it grounds it.

“How’s Hoseok?” Seokjin asks, his tone casual despite the intensity of his focus, as if they’re not standing over an open surgical field but somewhere far less critical.

Taehyung lets out a quiet huff of amusement, the corner of his lips lifting behind his mask. “Complaining,” he says without hesitation. “The pup’s been moving nonstop. Says it feels like he’s hosting a full-on dance party in there.”

Seokjin smiles faintly at that, his gaze never leaving the fetal monitor. “Sounds about right,” he murmurs, clearly unsurprised.

“And his belly?” he adds after a moment, glancing briefly toward Taehyung before returning his attention to the screen.

Taehyung shakes his head, a soft, fond exhale escaping him. “Big enough that I have to tie his shoes for him now,” he says, and there’s something unmistakably warm in his voice—something that has nothing to do with the operating room and everything to do with the life waiting outside of it.

That earns a small chuckle from Jimin.

It’s quieter than usual, but it’s there.

“I never thought I’d see you like this,” he says, his tone lighter than it has been all day, even as his hands remain steady, his focus unwavering on the delicate work at the patient’s skull.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, though there’s no real irritation behind it. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, adjusting his grip slightly. “Change is the only constant thing in this world… or whatever that saying is.”

“You sound like you just read that off a motivational poster,” Jimin replies dryly, a hint of his usual bite slipping through.

“Shut up,” Taehyung shoots back, but there’s a small twitch of a smile beneath his mask.

Seokjin hums softly, clearly entertained by the exchange even as he continues monitoring. “Are you excited?” he asks, the question gentle, almost deliberate.

Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. “Over the moon,” he answers, and this time there’s no sarcasm, no deflection—just something open and real. “Also spiraling a little because I have no idea how to assemble that damn crib.”

Jimin snorts under his breath. “You? Mr. ‘I can fix anything’?”

“Medical problems, Jimin.” Taehyung corrects immediately. “Not IKEA furniture. That’s a completely different level of hell. I can’t believe I’d rather fix a dead bowel than screwing some damn pieces of wood that can fall apart anytime and kill people so I’m back to solving medical problems. Thank you very much.”

Seokjin lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “You’re going to be fine. You should really cut yourself some slack.”

“I better be,” Taehyung mutters, though the fondness doesn’t leave his voice. “The kid deserves at least one competent parent.”

“You have Hoseok hyung,” Jimin says, almost absentmindedly, but there’s a softness to it, an acknowledgment.

Taehyung glances up for just a second, something gentler passing through his expression. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

A brief lull follows.

Not awkward. Not strained.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles naturally when things are finally under control, when everyone in the room knows they’re past the worst of it but still focused enough not to let their guard down completely. The monitors continue their steady rhythm, the surgical field remains clean, and the weight that had been pressing down on them earlier loosens just enough to let them breathe.

Jimin shifts slightly on his feet.

It’s subtle—so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it.

But something is off. He knows it and he can feel it.

There’s a faint heaviness in the way he exhales, a small adjustment in his stance like his balance isn’t sitting quite right. His shoulders roll back as if trying to shake it off, his grip tightening just slightly before he steadies it again.

He ignores it. Of course he does.

There’s no room for anything else here.

Focus returns fully to the procedure, and whatever flicker of discomfort passed through him is buried beneath precision and routine. His hands remain steady, his movements exact, his attention locked in where it needs to be.

Fortunately, the surgery continues without complications.

Layer by layer, step by step, everything falls into place. The cranial work is completed cleanly, the bleeding remains controlled, and Seokjin’s quiet updates confirm what they’ve been hoping for—the fetus remains stable throughout.

By the time they close, there’s a shared understanding in the room—that they successfully did it. There was no emergency cesarean and no additional complications. Just a clean, controlled finish.

The kind of outcome they don’t always get but they always hope for. The kind that feels earned.

As the final steps are completed and the patient is prepared for transfer, the tension that had been lingering finally releases in a more tangible way. Their shoulders drop, breaths deepen, and the room shifts from high-alert focus to just quiet relief.

It’s a good outcome.

A rare one.

Once the surgery ends, the energy shifts again just like the usual.

The urgency that once filled the room drains out in slow, almost imperceptible waves, leaving behind something lighter—something quieter. Gloves are peeled off, stained and discarded without a second thought. Masks are pulled down, the elastic snapping softly against skin that’s been pressed and hidden for hours. 

Jimin is the first to step away from the table.

He rolls his neck slightly, a soft crack following the motion as the adrenaline that carried him through the procedure begins to wear off. The fatigue creeps in quickly after that, heavy and familiar, settling into his limbs like it belongs there.

“Good work, Jimin-ah.” Taehyung says as he passes by, clapping him lightly on the shoulder, already halfway turned toward the door, his mind shifting to charts and notes and the next thing waiting for him. “Good work, everyone!”

Jimin nods once in acknowledgment. “You too.”

Taehyung doesn’t linger. He rarely does.

But Seokjin, he stays.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches, observes, and studies something that Jimin can’t quite pinpoint just yet.

It’s subtle, the way his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, the way his expression doesn’t quite match the relief in the room. There’s something else there—something more careful, more deliberate which for the younger omega feels rare. 

“Jimin,” he calls quietly.

Jimin pauses mid-step, turning back slightly, brows lifting just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Seokjin gestures subtly with his head, motioning toward a quieter corner of the OR, away from the staff finishing cleanup, away from the noise and movement.

Jimin hesitates for a split second.

Then follows.

“What’s up?” he asks, already dragging a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face in a way that betrays just how tired he actually is.

Seokjin doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studies him— really studies him.

His gaze moves over Jimin’s face, his posture, the way he’s standing—like he’s putting pieces together, confirming something he’s been quietly suspecting.

It takes longer than it should and long enough for Jimin to notice.

“So… uhh,” Seokjin starts finally, his voice careful in a way that immediately puts Jimin on edge. “How are you doing?”

Jimin blinks, caught off guard by the question. It’s too normal that it ends up being too unusual… if that makes any sense.

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, the response slipping out without thought. “Just tired. Back-to-back surgeries.”

Seokjin hums softly.

But there’s no agreement in it. No acceptance.

He just doesn’t look convinced at all.

And that’s what makes Jimin’s stomach tighten, just slightly.

Seokjin shifts his weight, his hand coming up briefly to rub the back of his neck—a small, uncharacteristic gesture. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Like he’s choosing his words carefully. Like whatever he’s about to say matters more than he wants it to.

He opens his mouth.

Stops.

Closes it again.

Jimin watches him now, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

That hesitation—that’s not normal.

“Why?” Jimin asks, his tone sharpening slightly despite himself. “What’s up?”

Seokjin exhales quietly, the sound almost lost under the distant noise of the OR being cleared.

“Have you…” he starts, then pauses again, recalibrating, like even now he’s not sure how to phrase it.

Jimin’s frown deepens.

“Hyung.” There’s a warning in it now.

A push.

Say it.

Seokjin finally lifts his gaze fully to meet Jimin’s.

And when he does, there’s no more hesitation. “…Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

The question lands quietly.

But it hits hard.

For a second, Jimin doesn’t react because he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe.

Like his body hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

Then—a flicker.

Confusion.

Disbelief.

Something sharper, something more unsettled, creeping in just beneath the surface.

“…What?”

***

Seokjin’s words don’t leave him.

They follow Jimin out of the OR, down the hallway, into the locker room, through the motions of washing his hands and changing out of his scrubs. They sit at the back of his mind like something unfinished, something unresolved—quiet, but persistent.

Have you taken a pregnancy test?

It’s ridiculous.

That’s what he tells himself at first.

Ridiculous, out of nowhere, and outright unnecessary.

And yet—it lingers.

Long enough for him to find himself standing in front of a pharmacy shelf ten minutes later, staring blankly at rows of test kits like they’re written in a language he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t remember deciding to buy one.

But he does.

And now—he’s here.

Inside one of the hospital’s bathroom cubicles, the fluorescent light too harsh, the space too small, too quiet. The door is locked, but it doesn’t feel secure. Nothing about this feels secure.

There’s nowhere else.

The attending’s lounge is out of the question—too many people, too many familiar faces who would ask questions he’s not ready to answer. Going home would take too long, and the thought of sitting with this—waiting—feels unbearable.

So this is it.

A hospital bathroom.

Cold tiles.

A thin barrier between him and the rest of the world.

Jimin leans back against the stall door for a moment, the unopened test kit in his hand.

He just… stares at it.

Like if he waits long enough, the answer will change on its own.

Because one thing is painfully clear to him, once he takes this—there’s no going back.

Whatever it says, it will change everything.

Not just for him.

For Yoongi too.

And that thought alone makes his chest tighten.

Because this—this was never part of the plan.

There was no plan for this.

Jimin never really thought about becoming a parent.

Not seriously.

Not in a way that felt real.

Maybe somewhere deep in his mind—buried in the most instinctive, primal part of him, somewhere in the hypothalamus, where drives and hormones and biological impulses quietly exist—maybe there was a trace of it.

A possibility.

A distant, abstract what if.

But he never gave it shape.

Never gave it space to grow into something real.

Because how could he?

When the only version of family he’s ever known is something he learned to survive—not something he ever wanted to recreate.

Hell, he barely had one.

And now—this?

This possibility?

It feels less like a blessing and more like something terrifyingly irreversible.

His grip tightens slightly around the box.

He exhales—slow and unsteady.

“God,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “This is so stupid.”

But his shaking hands are already moving.

Opening the box.

Reading the instructions without really processing them.

Going through the motions like he’s on autopilot.

Because if he stops—he might not do it at all.

And maybe that would be easier because not knowing is a privilege.

But he already knows himself well enough.

Not knowing will also eat him alive.

So he does it.

And just like that—there’s no undoing it.

He sets the test aside, resting it on the small ledge, his eyes fixed on it like looking away might somehow delay the outcome.

Seokjin’s voice echoes in his head.

“You might want to take one.”

Jimin lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath.

He doesn’t feel pregnant.

Does he?

He’s tired, sure—but he’s always tired. Back-to-back surgeries, long hours, barely any sleep. This past week alone has been brutal. He’s been running on caffeine and sheer willpower, pushing himself past exhaustion like he always does.

There’s a logical explanation for everything.

There has to be.

And yet—another thought creeps in. That unwelcome yet persistent thought. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well.

He’s been off. Distracted.

But then again, that could just as easily be because of that damn dinner.

Because every time he slows down, every time he lets himself breathe—he remembers.

The words.

The looks.

The weight of it all pressing back down on him.

So of course he’s tired.

Of course he’s not at his best.

It doesn’t have to mean anything more.

Right?

Jimin swallows hard, his gaze still locked onto the test.

Time stretches. Too slow. Too fast.

He’s not even sure anymore.

And then he looks, really looks.

And everything in him just—stops.

There it is.

Clear.

Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

For a moment, his brain doesn’t process it.

It’s just a word.

A simple word on a plastic stick and yet it feels heavier than anything he’s ever held.

His fingers twitch slightly at his sides.

His breath catches somewhere between his chest and his throat.

“No,” he whispers, but there’s no conviction in it. Just disbelief. “No, that’s—”

But it’s right there.

It doesn’t change. It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t give him another option.

His knees feel weak all of a sudden, forcing him to sit down on the closed toilet lid behind him.

The small space feels even smaller now.

Like the walls are closing in.

Like there’s not enough air.

Pregnant.

The word repeats in his head.

Over and over.

Louder each time.

And suddenly, everything shifts.

Everything he thought he understood about his life, about where he’s going, about what he wants—it all fractures.

Because this, this isn’t something he can ignore.

This isn’t something he can push aside and pretend doesn’t exist.

This is real.

Terrifyingly real.

And Yoongi… Yoongi is part of this.

That thought hits just as hard.

Jimin drags a hand over his face, his breathing uneven now.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he whispers to no one.

There’s no answer.

Just silence.

And the faint hum of the hospital outside the stall, continuing like nothing has changed—even though everything just did.

It presses in on him, that contrast.

Inside this cramped cubicle, his entire world has just tilted on its axis.

But outside, life goes on.

Monitors beep, footsteps echo, someone laughs down the hall, someone is crying in pain, a stretcher rattles past.

Normal.

Everything is painfully and cruelly normal.

Jimin stares at the test in his hand for a second longer, like if he looks hard enough, the word will rearrange itself into something else. Something easier. Something that doesn’t demand anything from him.

But it doesn’t.

It stays the same.

Pregnant.

His throat tightens.

His chest feels… wrong. Too full. Too tight. Like he forgot how to breathe somewhere in the middle of all this.

And then—his phone goes off.

Jarring enough that he physically flinches.

The sound cuts straight through everything—the silence, the spiral, the weight pressing down on him—and for a second, he just blinks at it, disoriented.

Another buzz.

Then another one.

They were pages after pages.

ER.

Of course.

Of course it is.

For a moment, he just stands there, frozen between two worlds—one that just cracked open in his hands, and one that’s calling him back like nothing has changed.

His fingers tighten slightly around the phone, around the emergency that is calling for his help.

That is something he understands.

That is something he knows how to do.

Being a doctor.

There’s no confusion there.

No hesitation.

No what now?

It is all just action, just steps and purpose.

Jimin exhales sharply, like he’s forcing something down—forcing everything down.

Not now.

He can’t. He can’t deal with this right now.

He doesn’t have the time.

He doesn’t have the space.

He doesn’t have the luxury to fall apart in a bathroom stall when someone out there is dying for every minute he wastes. 

That’s how it’s always been.

That’s how it has to be.

His eyes flicker back to the test one last time.

A beat, two… and he moves.

The motion is quick. It is almost abrupt. Like if he hesitates even a second longer, he won’t be able to do it.

He drops it into the trash.

Just like that.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t carry the weight of an entire future inside it.

The plastic hits the bottom of the bin with a quiet, hollow sound.

And Jimin doesn’t look at it again.

He unlocks the stall, stepping out into the bright, sterile light of the restroom. The mirror catches him for a split second—pale, eyes a little too wide, something unsettled sitting just beneath the surface.

He turns on the tap.

Cold water.

He splashes his face once. Twice.

Then he finally breathes. He breathes in. He breathes out.

And he does that again and again.

By the time he straightens, his expression is different.

Controlled and composed.

The version of Park Jimin everyone knows.

The one who walks into emergencies without hesitation.

The one who fixes things.

The one who doesn’t fall apart.

He grabs a paper towel, dries his hands, and pushes the door open.

The noise of the hospital floods back in fully now—voices, footsteps, urgency.

He moves fast down the hallway, his pace steady, purposeful. Nurses nod at him as he passes, residents fall into step behind him instinctively.

“Doctor Park, trauma in bay three,” The charge nurse calls out the moment she spots Jimin.

He nods once. “Got it.”

There’s no trace of hesitation, no trace of what just happened.

Because right now, he doesn’t have the time to be anything else.

So he does what he’s always done best.

He buries it.

And walks straight into the ER like nothing has changed.

“I need a portable X-ray here now—and get us lead vests,” Yoongi calls out, not looking away from the patient as his hands continue to assess the damage. He palpates carefully along the arm, then shifts lower, jaw tightening slightly. “Arm’s fractured… and his hip’s dislocated. We don’t have time to wait.”

A nurse immediately moves to comply, already reaching for the phone to call radiology.

Jimin steps in beside him, quick, decisive. “Hold the X-ray,” he says, voice firm. “I need to do a neuro check.”

Yoongi finally looks up.

There’s a flicker of confusion—brief, but there.

“Doctor Park,” he replies, tone controlled but edged with urgency, “I need imaging before I reset anything. We could be dealing with more than just a simple dislocation.”

“This will just take a second, Doctor Min,” Jimin cuts in, already crouching slightly, penlight in hand. His tone is clipped—professional, but stripped of its usual ease.

“And the X-ray will too,” Yoongi counters, sharper now. “Get the vests ready,” he adds to the staff, glancing briefly at the nurse. “For me, Doctor Park, and the resident.”

Normally, this is how it goes—simultaneous, efficient, no friction.

But not today.

Jimin doesn’t acknowledge the instruction.

He’s already focused on the patient, moving through the neuro exam with practiced speed. “Sir, can you hear me?” he asks, voice gentler for the patient but still tight underneath. “Squeeze my hand.”

The patient responds weakly.

Jimin notes it, checks pupils, responsiveness, motor function—quick, precise, almost rushed.

There’s something off in the way he moves.

Faster than necessary.

Like he’s trying to beat something.

“Doctor Park,” Yoongi tries again, quieter this time but more pointed. “We need that X-ray before I—”

“Done,” Jimin says abruptly, cutting him off as he straightens.

And then—he looks at Yoongi.

For a second too long.

Something closed off sits behind his eyes. Something distant.

“He’ll probably need burr holes,” Jimin adds, voice returning to that clinical sharpness. “So I’d appreciate it if you can get your X-ray as quickly as you can, Doctor Min.”

The formality lands heavier than it should.

Yoongi stills, just for a fraction of a second.

Because that—that’s not how they talk or maybe that is how they talk. He cannot say because there was not a time where this kind of tension floated between them. 

Around the two surgeons, the ER continues moving—orders being called, machines beeping, staff rushing—but there’s a thin, unmistakable tension stretching between them now.

Normally, they’d be in sync.

Moving around each other without needing to say much.

But Jimin is… off.

Dismissive in a way that doesn’t fit the situation.

And Yoongi doesn’t understand it.

What he doesn’t know, what he can’t know, is that Jimin’s mind is split in two.

One part here, in the ER.

The other still trapped in a bathroom stall, staring at a word that changed everything.

Pregnant.

The thought lingers, unwelcome, heavy.

And the moment Yoongi called for an X-ray, it hit something instinctive in him.

Immediate.

Protective.

Unfamiliar.

His brain has automatically recognized the risk and his body reacted before his mind could catch up.

So he did the only thing he knows how to do when something feels too big, too overwhelming—he shut it down.

He turned it into control, into insistence and into something clinical and sharp.

Because it’s easier to be difficult than to explain why.

Easier to push than to admit fear.

And easier—so much easier—to keep Yoongi at arm’s length.

Especially after last week.

Especially after Yoongi already knows too much.

So instead of explaining—he finishes his part.

Steps back and then he leaves.

There is no need for extra words or explanation.

He pushes past the curtain and out of the trauma bay, the noise of the ER dulling slightly as soon as he’s out of immediate range.

The moment the door swings shut behind him and he exhales.

A deep, shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

His hand comes up briefly to his face, pressing against his eyes before dragging down slowly.

For a second—just a second—he lets himself feel it.

The weight.

The confusion.

The fear he refuses to name.

Then he drops his hand, straightens, and forces it all back down where it belongs.

But back inside the trauma bay, Yoongi watches him go.

Confusion sits heavy in his chest now.

And something else—worry.

Because that wasn’t just stress.

That wasn’t just a bad moment.

That was Jimin pulling away.

Again.

But there’s no time to follow it because right now, there’s still a patient on the table.

A fractured arm and a dislocated hip. A situation that demands his full attention.

So Yoongi swallows it down, turns back, and refocuses.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice steady again. “Get that X-ray in. We’re reducing the hip as soon as we have imaging.”

Because whatever is happening with Jimin—whatever this tension is—it’ll have to wait.

For now, the only person he can afford to worry about—is the one right in front of him.

***

“Jimin—hey.”

Yoongi’s voice cuts through the hallway noise as he jogs to catch up, the soft echo of his footsteps closing the distance between them.

Jimin hears him.

Of course he does.

But he doesn’t slow down.

Doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He just keeps walking, pace steady, shoulders set, like if he doesn’t stop—if he doesn’t give Yoongi even a second—this can all be avoided.

“Hey—”

This time Yoongi reaches him, his hand catching Jimin lightly by the elbow.

It’s not forceful.

Just enough to stop him.

Jimin exhales sharply through his nose, eyes closing for the briefest second before he turns.

Slowly.

His expression is blank. Too blank.

The kind that takes effort.

The kind that hides everything.

Yoongi searches his face, his grip loosening but not quite letting go. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice quieter now, stripped of the urgency from earlier but carrying something heavier.

Something real.

And that—that’s exactly what Jimin can’t handle.

A bitter, almost humorless chuckle slips past his lips as he pulls his arm free. “Can we not do this?” he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

Yoongi frowns, confused. “What?”

Jimin glances around the hallway like he’s making sure no one’s paying attention, like this conversation itself is something he wants to minimize, shrink, make insignificant.

“Our deal,” he says, voice low but sharp, “is just sex.”

The words land harder than they should.

He gestures vaguely between them, a quick flick of his fingers like he doesn’t even want to spend too much time defining it. “This—” he adds, almost dismissively, “you asking how I’m doing, if I’m okay… you being worried—”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not part of it.”

There’s a beat.

A quiet, heavy one.

Yoongi just looks at him because this isn’t just Jimin being blunt.

This is something else.

Something defensive.

Something almost desperate.

“Jimin,” Yoongi says slowly, his brows pulling together, “deal or no deal… I am your friend.”

He says it like it should be obvious.

Like it should matter.

Like it should mean something.

And maybe it does.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Because Jimin’s reaction is immediate.

His jaw clenches so tightly it aches, his gaze dropping for a second before snapping back up, sharper now, colder.

“Yoongi,” he says, quieter—but there’s strain under it, something fraying at the edges. “Please.”

It is not even angry.

Just—tired.

“I’m tired.”

Two simple words.

But they carry everything he’s refusing to say.

Tired of thinking.

Tired of feeling.

Tired of carrying things he doesn’t know how to put down.

Tired of this—of Yoongi standing in front of him, looking at him like he’s something worth worrying about.

Because that’s dangerous.

That kind of attention.

That kind of care.

It gets in and Jimin can’t afford that.

Not now.

Not when everything is already slipping out of his control.

Yoongi’s hand drops fully to his side.

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to push.

Like he’s going to say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales quietly, something in his expression softening—not into acceptance, but into something more complicated.

Something that looks a lot like hurt.

“You can’t keep pushing people away, Jimin,” he says, voice low.

There’s no anger in it.

No accusation.

Just truth.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

Because Jimin doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t argue.

He just stands there for a second, unmoving, like the words hit somewhere deeper than he wants to admit.

But he doesn’t let it show.

He never does.

So instead—he turns.

Just like that.

He turns like none of it mattered.

He turns like none of it got through.

And he walks away.

Yoongi cannot do anything about it but watch him go.

Doesn’t call after him this time.

Doesn’t follow.

He just stands there in the middle of the hallway, hands at his sides, jaw tight, something heavy settling in his chest.

Because he’s not mad.

Not even close that.

If anything, he’s hurt.

And more than that—he’s worried.

Because whatever’s going on with Jimin… it’s bigger than this.

Bigger than whatever “deal” they’ve made.

And for the first time, Yoongi feels it clearly.

He’s already in deeper than he was supposed to be.

And Jimin is doing everything he can to make sure he stays out.

Even if it means walking away like this.

Even if it means leaving Yoongi standing there— with nothing but the space Jimin just created between them.

***

“Jimin,” Seokjin says the moment the door opens, already looking up from where he’s seated. “You paged.”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there for a second, hand still on the doorknob like he’s not entirely sure he should have come here at all. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and when he finally turns fully toward Seokjin, the first thing that gives him away is his eyes.

His eyes are red, glossy, and undeniably on the verge of breaking.

“Hyung, I—” he starts, but the words don’t follow.

They never do.

Not when it matters like this.

The on-call room is quiet, tucked away from the chaos of the hospital. No beeping monitors, no rushing footsteps, no voices calling out orders. Just a small, contained space with dim lighting and a couch that’s seen too many exhausted doctors collapse into it at the end of long shifts.

It’s exactly what Jimin needs.

A place where he can fall apart without an audience.

Seokjin watches him carefully, his expression softening almost immediately. He doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t push. He’s known Jimin long enough to understand that forcing words out of him will only make him shut down further.

Instead, he stands slowly and steps closer, closing the distance in a way that’s careful, non-threatening.

“You took the test, didn’t you?” he asks gently.

Jimin nods—barely that Seokjin almost missed that small movement.

His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s holding onto something invisible, something that’s keeping him from unraveling completely.

Seokjin moves closer still, sitting down on the couch beside him, leaving just enough space so Jimin doesn’t feel cornered. Even then, there’s hesitation in the movement, like he’s measuring how much closeness Jimin can tolerate right now.

“I’m pregnant,” Jimin whispers.

And just like that—it’s real.

Saying it out loud does something to him.

His voice breaks on the last word, and his eyes finally give in, tears swelling until they spill over, slipping quietly down his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them away immediately. Doesn’t even seem to notice at first.

Because Jimin isn’t someone who does this.

He doesn’t cry in front of people.

He doesn’t sit down and talk about what he feels.

He doesn’t know how.

And maybe that’s why it’s been so easy—so necessary—for him to keep Yoongi at a distance.

Because what happened last week, what he said, what Yoongi saw—that was already too much.

He is too exposed. Too real.

And this?

This is something else entirely.

Seokjin doesn’t say anything right away. He just sits there, letting the weight of Jimin’s words settle between them, giving him space to breathe through it.

“I don’t know what to do,” Jimin admits after a moment, his voice uneven, quieter than Seokjin has ever heard it. He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically pull himself together. “This isn’t something I prayed for. This isn’t something I imagined for myself.”

His laugh comes out hollow, almost disbelieving. “I don’t even know if I ever wanted this.”

Seokjin turns slightly toward him, his expression soft but grounded. There’s no panic in him, no judgment—just steady presence. It’s something he’s learned over time, both as a doctor and as someone who understands exactly how overwhelming this kind of moment can be.

“Jimin,” he says gently, “you don’t have to have everything figured out right now.”

But Jimin shakes his head immediately, like even that feels impossible.

“How am I supposed to raise this pup?” he asks, his voice cracking again. “I don’t even know what a proper family looks like. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

That the part that scares him the most.

Not just the pregnancy.

But what comes after.

Seokjin watches him for a moment, then asks carefully, “Do you know whose pup this is?”

Jimin lets out a quiet, humorless breath, nodding almost immediately.

There’s no hesitation there.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

He hasn’t been with anyone else.

Not in the past two months.

Not since this… arrangement started.

Seokjin nods slowly, absorbing that. “Have you told them yet?”

Jimin’s head drops slightly.

He shakes it.

A small, almost defeated motion.

“How can I?” he murmurs. “How am I supposed to just… drop that on him?”

His hands curl into loose fists against his thighs, frustration and fear bleeding into his tone. “I can’t drag him into this mess. This is reckless. I—” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “I am reckless.”

Seokjin’s brows knit together slightly. “You’re not a mess, Jimin.”

But Jimin doesn’t hear it.

Or maybe he just doesn’t believe it.

There’s a stretch of silence between them, heavy but not suffocating. Seokjin lets it sit, lets Jimin work through whatever he needs to say next.

And eventually—he does.

“It’s Yoongi,” Jimin says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The name alone seems to undo something in him.

“It’s Yoongi’s pup.”

The words break apart as they leave him, and this time, he doesn’t try to hold it in. The tears come faster now, his shoulders shaking as everything he’s been keeping locked down finally spills over.

Seokjin doesn’t hesitate.

He moves closer, pulling Jimin into him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, grounding him, steadying him as he cries into his shoulder.

It’s messy.

Unfiltered.

Real in a way Jimin rarely allows himself to be.

Seokjin lets him.

He doesn’t rush it or try to fix it.

He just stays as a dear friend to Jimin.

When Jimin’s breathing starts to even out, when the worst of it passes into something quieter, Seokjin speaks again, his voice low and steady.

“It’s up to you, Jimin,” he says. “Whatever you decide… I’ll support you.”

There’s no pressure in his tone.

No expectations.

Just truth.

“But,” he adds gently, “as your friend… and as Yoongi’s friend—he deserves to know.”

Jimin stiffens slightly at that.

Not pulling away.

But not relaxing either.

Seokjin continues, careful but firm. “It’s his right too.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Because deep down—Jimin knows he’s right.

And Seokjin knows something else, too.

Something he doesn’t say out loud, but it sits there between them anyway.

Yoongi isn’t the kind of person who runs.

Not from responsibility.

Not from something that matters.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what Jimin is afraid of.

Chapter Text

Jimin’s phone lights up again.

The vibration is soft against the wooden surface of his bedside table, but in the silence of his apartment, it feels loud. Insistent. Impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t reach for it immediately.

He already knows who it is.

He’s known since the third message.

Since the fifth.

Since the tenth.

Now—it’s the nineteenth.

Slowly, like he’s delaying the inevitable, Jimin turns his head toward the screen. The brightness cuts through the dim room, illuminating his face just enough to show how tired he looks. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

The kind that sits behind the eyes. Heavy and unmoving.

He exhales quietly before finally picking it up.

And there it is.

Yoongi.

Again.

The messages stack on top of each other, one after another, each one a little more concerned than the last.

Are you alright? Do you feel sick?

You didn’t come to work. Is there something wrong?

Jimin? Please tell me you’re okay.

Do you want me to bring you some food?

Did something happen?

Just tell me you’re alive at least.

Jimin.

They go on.

And on.

And on.

Jimin stares at them, thumb hovering over the screen, but he doesn’t open the chat fully. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t even let himself linger too long on any single message.

Because if he does, he might just answer.

And he can’t.

Not now.

It’s been a week.

A full week since he walked out of that hospital, since he sat in that on-call room with Seokjin, since everything he thought he had under control slipped through his fingers.

He filed his leave of absence that same night with no hesitations and no explanation beyond what was necessary.

Just enough to keep people from asking too many questions.

And then, he disappeared.

Suddenly, no hospital. No friends. No Yoongi.

Just this apartment and his thoughts.

Which, as it turns out, are a terrible place to be alone in.

The days blur together in a way that feels both slow and suffocating. He sleeps at odd hours, eats when he remembers, spends most of his time sitting in silence or lying in bed staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers if he waits long enough.

But it doesn’t.

Nothing does.

Because every time his mind quiets—

it circles back to the same thing.

Pregnant.

The word doesn’t feel real, even now.

And yet everything about his life has already started shifting around it.

His body feels different.l— subtly, barely even noticeable.

But enough that he’s aware of it.

Too aware.

And then there’s Seokjin’s voice, replaying in his head at the worst possible moments.

He deserves to know.

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his grip tightening slightly around his phone.

“I know,” he mutters under his breath, the words barely audible in the empty room.

He knows.

That’s the problem.

Because telling Yoongi—it makes this real in a way he’s not ready for.

Right now, it’s just his.

His problem.

His situation.

His mistake.

But the moment Yoongi knows, it becomes something else.

Something shared.

Something that can’t be contained or ignored.

And Jimin has spent his entire life learning how to handle things on his own.

Learning how to carry things without asking for help.

Learning how to survive without depending on anyone.

So the idea of pulling Yoongi into this—of changing what they are—it feels like stepping into something he has no control over.

And that terrifies him more than anything.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Just for a second.

Long enough for the screen to brighten, waiting.

Expecting.

But then—he locks the phone.

Sets it face down on the table like that somehow stops the messages from existing.

Like that stops Yoongi from worrying.

Like that stops everything from catching up to him.

Jimin leans back against the headboard, dragging a hand down his face slowly.

“I can’t,” he whispers, more to himself than anything else.

Not now and especially not like this.

The room falls quiet again, the kind of silence that presses in instead of comforts.

And across the city—Yoongi is still waiting.

Still sending messages into a space that gives him nothing back.

While Jimin sits there, unmoving, choosing silence—

because it’s the only thing he knows how to hold onto right now.

Because even this… this isn’t part of their deal.

***

It all started the night Jimin finally ended things with his ex-boyfriend.

If it weren’t for that dumbass, he wouldn’t have found himself hunched over a bar counter, a half-empty glass of tequila in his hand and a phone in the other, rereading the same message over and over again like it might change if he stared at it long enough.

“Nobody will love you like I do. You dumb fuck.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, a quiet scoff leaving his lips as he locked his phone and tossed it face-down on the counter. The words should have hurt. Maybe a few years ago, they would have. Maybe even a few months ago.

But now?

They just felt… tired.

Predictable and just outright overused.

He had heard that line before. Different people, same script. Like love was something they owned, something they could weaponize when things didn’t go their way.

But love…

Was that even what it was?

Jimin had spent a long time questioning that.

Because when he thought about his past relationships, when he stripped everything down to its barest form, what he remembered wasn’t love.

It was being wanted.

Needed. Possessed, almost.

And for the longest time, that had been enough for him.

Because maybe—just maybe—he didn’t know how to love.

Or worse, maybe he wasn’t capable of it.

So he settled.

If someone wanted him, that meant something, right?

That meant he was worth staying for.

Even if it wasn’t the kind of staying that lasted.

Even if it always ended the same way.

“Another one?”

Jimin blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the bartender’s voice. He glanced at his empty glass and pushed it forward without a word.

“Make it strong.”

The bartender snorted lightly. “Like the last three weren’t?”

Jimin only offered a small, humorless smile in response.

That night, he drank more than he usually allowed himself to. Not enough to completely lose control—he never did that—but enough to dull the edges, enough to quiet the noise in his head.

Or at least—he tried.

Because even with the alcohol, his mind kept circling back.

To the message.

To the relationship.

To everything he had let himself tolerate just to feel… something.

And then a familiar presence settled beside him.

“It’s unlikely to see you alone.”

Jimin turned his head slightly, already knowing who it was before he even saw him.

Min Yoongi.

Same composed expression. Same quiet intensity. A glass of whiskey already in his hand like he had been there longer than Jimin realized.

Jimin let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s unlikely to see you out, Yoongi.”

Yoongi shrugged lightly, clinking his glass against Jimin’s. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

Jimin hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Something like that.”

There was a brief pause before Yoongi glanced at him again, more observant this time. “Where’s your man?”

Jimin didn’t hesitate.

“We broke up.”

Yoongi winced slightly, a quiet hiss slipping through his teeth. “That must be rough.”

Jimin shrugged, leaning back slightly against the stool. “It’s about damn time, though.”

That seemed to catch Yoongi’s attention more than the breakup itself. “Yeah?”

Jimin let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I think I’ve been over it longer than I realized.”

There was no pity in Yoongi’s expression. No awkward sympathy.

Just understanding.

And strangely, that made it easier to keep talking.

What started as a simple exchange turned into something longer. Unexpectedly longer.

They talked about work first—because that was safe. Cases, difficult patients, long hours, the kind of stress only people in their field could understand. It was familiar ground, something they could both navigate without thinking too much.

But then it shifted. Slowly. Naturally.

They talked about residency, about old stories from their intern days, about mutual friends. Things Jimin had almost forgotten, things that felt lighter compared to everything else weighing him down.

It struck him, at some point, how strange it was.

They had always been in the same circle.

Same friends. Same spaces.

And yet—

they had never really talked like this. Not like this. Not for this long.

Not this easily.

Yoongi swirled his drink, eyes on the amber liquid for a moment before he spoke again. “I’m honestly just here for a hook-up.”

Jimin blinked, turning to him with a raised brow. “Isn’t that a little reckless for a doctor?”

Yoongi let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Probably.”

Jimin tilted his head, studying him for a second. “Well, I’d say it isn’t—but for you? Maybe. I never imagined you to be that type.”

He paused, lips twitching slightly, then he continued, “Then again, I’ve never seen you with anyone, so maybe I just don’t know you that well.”

Yoongi huffed, amused. “You don’t.”

A beat passed before he added, quieter, “You’re right, I don’t usually do this.”

Jimin glanced at him, curious.

“It’s just…” Yoongi trailed off, then shrugged. “Work’s been stressing me out lately.”

Jimin let out a breath, nodding almost immediately. “God, yes.”

That earned him a small smile.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Two people, exhausted in the same way, sitting side by side in a dim bar, trying to forget everything waiting for them outside.

The conversation didn’t stop after that.

If anything, it deepened.

More honest. Less filtered.

By the time they left the bar, the alcohol had settled into Jimin’s system—not enough to blur his judgment, but enough to lower the walls he usually kept firmly in place.

He didn’t remember who suggested leaving first.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that they ended up at his place.

And what happened between them wasn’t complicated.

It wasn’t emotional.

It wasn’t anything they needed to define.

It was heat.

Relief.

A way to shut everything else out, even if just for a little while.

And afterward—the room was quiet.

Jimin sat at the edge of the bed, robe loosely wrapped around him, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. He glanced over his shoulder at Yoongi, who was already getting dressed like this was something routine.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

Which—it didn’t.

Right?

“This isn’t going to be a problem between us, right?” Jimin asked, his tone casual, but there was something underneath it. Something careful.

Yoongi glanced at him briefly, then went back to fixing his shirt. “I told you,” he said simply. “I’m just here for sex.”

There’s a small pause and then, almost as an afterthought, the alpha continued, “And it’s good, Jimin. The sex is good.”

Jimin let out an airy  laugh, shaking his head as he tightened the robe around himself, “You’re right.” His smile dropped as if he’d realized something he wanted to admit.  “The sex is good.”

Incredible, even but he didn’t say that out loud. He didn’t really need to.

Yoongi picked up his things, hesitating for just a second before asking, “Is this going to be a first and last thing?”

Jimin turned slightly, meeting his gaze. “Do you want it to be?”

Yoongi shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

And that—that felt familiar.

Control.

Something Jimin understood.

Something he preferred.

He held Yoongi’s gaze for a moment longer before answering.

“We can do this again.”

A small pause.

“Just sex, right?”

Yoongi nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

“Just sex.”

And that was how it started.

Simple.

Clear.

Safe.

Or at least—that’s what Jimin thought back then.

***

Jimin snaps out of it when a knock echoes through his apartment.

It is too loud in the quiet he’s been drowning himself in for days.

He freezes.

For a second, he doesn’t move at all—just stares blankly toward the door like if he ignores it long enough, whoever it is will just… go away.

His chest tightens.

God, please don’t be Yoongi.

Another knock follows.

More insistent this time.

Jimin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he forces himself to stand. His body feels heavier than usual, like even something as simple as walking to the door takes more effort than it should.

He hesitates when he reaches it.

Hand hovering over the knob.

Because opening that door means facing someone.

Talking.

Explaining.

And he hasn’t been ready for that.

Not with anyone.

But the knocking doesn’t stop.

So eventually—he gives in.

The door swings open, and—“Jungkook.”

There’s no time to react because his cousin is already pushing past him, letting himself in like he owns the place.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Jungkook exclaims, looking around briefly before turning back to Jimin. “Great!”

Jimin blinks, still processing the sudden intrusion as he slowly shuts the door behind them. “What are you doing here?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer immediately. He’s already making himself comfortable, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch like he’s been here a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he has.

He’s not in scrubs.

Just his usual oversized sweatshirt and loose sweatpants.

But Jimin knows.

There’s a faint scent clinging to him—that distinct sterile scent.

Hospital.

And for some reason—it hits harder than it should.

Because Jimin misses it.

He misses the OR lights, the controlled chaos, the feeling of knowing exactly what he’s doing and where he belongs.

He misses being useful.

Being needed.

And now he’s here—in hiding like he’s being chased by the unknown.

Jungkook finally turns to him, arms crossing over his chest. “I just needed to check if my favorite cousin is alive,” he says casually. “Since you decided to disappear without saying anything.”

Jimin scoffs lightly, walking past him toward the kitchen like this is just another normal day. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You did,” Jungkook counters immediately, following him. “You filed a leave and then went radio silent without even thinking of sending me, your very pretty, caring, and loving cousin, a message. That’s disappearing.”

Jimin grabs a glass, filling it with water just to have something to do with his hands. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” Jungkook raises a brow.

Jimin doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he tries to move past him again, but Jungkook steps into his path effortlessly.

Blocking him.

“Tell me what happened,” Jungkook says, voice softer now but still firm. “Come on. I just came out of a ten-hour surgery. I’m exhausted, and I’m still here.”

He gestures vaguely toward himself. “At least appreciate the effort.”

Jimin groans, dragging his hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

Jungkook grins immediately. “Oh, come on. I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m your favorite pain in the ass.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Because Jungkook, Jungkook knows him too well.

And that’s exactly why this is harder than it should be.

There’s a brief silence that stretches between them, heavier than before. Jungkook studies him now, really looks at him—the tired eyes, the lack of energy, the way Jimin keeps avoiding direct eye contact.

Something’s wrong. Clearly.

And Jungkook isn’t the type to let it go.

“Yoongi hyung has been asking me about you,” Jungkook says after a moment, more carefully this time.

Jimin stills slightly.

Just for a second but Jungkook catches it.

“I got worried too,” he adds.

Jimin looks away, jaw tightening just a fraction.

“Is he okay?” he asks quietly.

The question slips out before he can stop it.

And Jungkook notices that too.

He tilts his head slightly. “He’s… fine, I guess,” he answers. “Just confused. You’ve been ignoring him.”

Jimin exhales slowly, nodding like he expected that answer.

Because of course he is.

Yoongi doesn’t know anything.

He’s just… there.

Waiting.

Jungkook watches him for a moment longer before stepping closer. “Hyung,” he says, quieter now, “what’s going on?”

There’s no teasing in his voice anymore.

No jokes.

Just concern.

Real concern.

And for some reason—that’s what breaks whatever fragile wall Jimin has been holding up.

He lets out a breath, long and shaky, his shoulders dropping slightly like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I—”

He stops.

Starts again.

“I…”

His mind feels scattered, like everything is happening all at once and he doesn’t know where to begin.

Jungkook waits. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush him.

And finally, Jimin says it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Jungkook blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“Are you—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly like he’s trying to process. “I… is my mind playing tricks on me or did you just say—”

“I’m pregnant, Jungkook,” Jimin repeats, more firmly this time, even though his voice still trembles at the edges. “I have a pup inside of me.”

A beat.

“Yoongi’s pup.”

That does it.

Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly, his mouth parting as he stares at Jimin like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“What the—” he breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, wait.”

He starts pacing. Actually pacing.

“Okay,” he repeats, like saying it enough times will help him understand. “So you’re pregnant. With Yoongi hyung’s—”

He stops mid-sentence, turning back to Jimin.

“Since when?”

“A week,” Jimin mutters.

“You’ve known for a week?” Jungkook’s voice rises slightly.

Jimin shrugs helplessly. “I found out and then I— I just… I didn’t know what to do.”

And that’s the truth.

There’s no dramatic breakdown this time.

Just—panic and confusion.

A kind of quiet unraveling that sits under his skin.

“I still don’t know what to do,” Jimin admits, his voice quieter now, more fragile in a way that’s unfamiliar even to himself. “I can’t think straight. I can’t focus. I just—”

He gestures vaguely, like the words won’t come out properly.

“I don’t even know what I’m feeling,” he continues, frustration creeping in. “One second I’m fine, and the next I feel like everything is… collapsing.”

Jungkook watches him, all traces of teasing gone now.

“Have you told him?” he asks carefully.

Jimin shakes his head immediately. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t!” Jimin snaps, then immediately exhales, trying to calm himself down. “I just— I can’t, Jungkook.”

He looks away again, voice dropping. “Everything is already a mess. If I tell him… it’s going to get even worse.”

Jungkook frowns slightly. “Or better.”

Jimin lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” Jungkook admits. “But neither do you.”

That—that makes Jimin go quiet.

Because he’s right.

And that’s exactly what scares him.

“I don’t even know if I can do this,” Jimin whispers, more to himself than anything else. “I don’t know if I can be… that.”

A parent.

Someone responsible for another life.

Someone who doesn’t mess it up.

Jungkook steps closer, his voice softer now. “You don’t have to figure everything out today.”

Jimin shakes his head again. “But it feels like I do.”

Because everything has already changed.

Even if he hasn’t moved from this spot.

Even if he hasn’t told anyone—except Jungkook now.

The room falls quiet again, heavier than before.

And Jimin just stands there in the middle of it, feeling more lost than he ever has—with no idea what comes next.

Jungkook steps closer, the earlier shock settling into something steadier—something more grounded. He studies Jimin for a long moment, like he’s trying to find the right words, like he knows this is one of those moments that matters more than anything he could joke about.

“Hyung,” he says finally, voice quieter now, gentler in a way that Jimin doesn’t hear often from him. “Yoongi hyung is a good man.”

Jimin doesn’t look at him.

But he hears it.

“He will not let you do this alone,” Jungkook continues, more certain this time. “You know that, right?”

Silence stretches between them.

Jungkook exhales softly, rubbing the back of his neck before adding, “He’s not like the others.”

That almost makes Jimin laugh.

Almost.

Because the thought comes so quickly, so instinctively, that it doesn’t even feel like something he consciously chooses.

But he is.

Jimin presses his lips together, gaze dropping to the floor.

Because in his head, it’s simple.

Yoongi wants him.

That’s it.

And Jimin knows what that feels like.

He’s lived in that space his entire life.

Being wanted.

Being needed.

Being someone people gravitate toward because of what he can give, what he can offer, what he is to them in a specific moment.

And maybe that’s why Yoongi is so easy to be around.

Why this whole arrangement worked.

Because it never asked for more.

It never demanded anything deeper.

It stayed in a space Jimin understood.

Safe, controlled, temporary.

Jimin lets out a quiet breath, arms crossing over his chest like he’s holding himself together.

“He’s exactly like the others,” he mutters, not looking at Jungkook.

Jungkook frowns immediately. “He’s not.”

“He is,” Jimin insists, more firmly now, even if there’s something fragile underneath it. “He just… hides it better.”

Because in Jimin’s mind, it always starts the same way.

Interest.

Want.

Attention.

And then eventually, it turns into something else.

Something heavier.

Something that breaks.

And he refuses to believe this will be any different.

Jungkook watches him carefully, clearly not convinced. “You don’t believe that.”

Jimin huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I do.”

But even as he says it—something about it doesn’t sit right.

Because Yoongi hasn’t acted like the others.

Not really.

Not in the ways that matter.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because if Yoongi is different—then everything Jimin has been telling himself falls apart.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook steps even closer now, voice softer but firmer. “Hyung, listen to me.”

Jimin finally looks at him. Tired. Guarded.

“He’s been worried about you,” Jungkook says. “Not because he wants something from you. Not because of whatever you think this is.”

A pause.

“Just because it’s you.”

That hits somewhere deeper than Jimin expects.

And he hates it.

Because it makes things more complicated. Not simpler.

Jimin looks away again, jaw tightening slightly. “That’s exactly why I can’t tell him.”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

“If I tell him,” Jimin continues, voice quieter now but more strained, “then this—” he gestures vaguely between them, like Yoongi is somehow part of the space “—it changes.”

And that’s what he’s been trying to avoid.

From the very beginning.

“No more ‘just sex.’ No more simple arrangement. No more…” he trails off, shaking his head slightly.

No more control.

Jungkook watches him carefully, understanding dawning in his expression.

“You’re scared,” he says.

Jimin scoffs lightly. “Of course I am.”

But it’s not just fear.

It’s something deeper.

Something that’s been sitting inside him for years.

“If I let him in,” Jimin murmurs, almost to himself now, “then I have something to lose.”

And Jimin has spent his entire life learning how to survive without that.

Without attachments that can break him.

Without people who can leave.

Without love that turns into something painful.

Jungkook’s expression softens again, but this time there’s something more serious behind it.

“You already do,” he says quietly.

Jimin stills.

Because he knows what Jungkook means.

He already has something to lose.

Whether he tells Yoongi or not.

Whether he admits it or not.

There’s another silence—longer this time. Heavier even.

And Jimin just stands there in the middle of it, thoughts spiraling again—but quieter now, more focused.

More real.

His hand unconsciously drifts toward his abdomen, resting there for just a second before he pulls it back like he’s not ready to acknowledge it fully.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits again, softer this time.

Not panicked.

Just… lost.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away.

He just stays there with him.

Because for now—that’s all Jimin can handle.

***

Jimin doesn’t come back to work for another day.

He tells himself he just needs a little more time. One more day to think, to breathe, to come up with something that resembles a decision. Something that feels solid enough to stand on.

But even as he says it, even as he lets another morning pass with him still inside his apartment, he knows the truth.

There is no perfect moment for this.

There is no version of this conversation that ends cleanly, without consequence.

And more than anything—there is no way to keep this hidden forever.

Because time doesn’t stop.

Because the life growing inside him won’t stay small and quiet just because he’s not ready.

Because sooner or later, Yoongi is going to find out.

Whether Jimin tells him or not.

He realizes that dragging this out won’t make it easier. It won’t soften the impact. It won’t protect anyone the way he keeps telling himself it will.

If anything—it only makes everything heavier, harder, and more complicated.

There’s really no point in hiding anymore.

Or maybe there is.

He’s not sure.

That’s the worst part of it.

He’s not sure what he wants, what he’s afraid of, or what he’s even trying to protect at this point.

But one thing stays constant, echoing louder than everything else.

Yoongi deserves to know.

It’s a simple truth.

Unavoidable.

And yet, Jimin still doesn’t know how to say it.

How do you even begin a conversation like that?

How do you look someone in the eye and tell them something that will change both of your lives in an instant?

He doesn’t have the answer.

But eventually—he stops running.

The hospital feels almost unfamiliar when he steps back into it, even though it’s only been a little over a week. The scent, the noise, the constant movement of people—it all rushes back at once, wrapping around him in a way that feels both comforting and overwhelming.

This is where he belongs.

This is what he knows.

And for a brief moment, he lets himself hold onto that.

Jimin tightens his grip on his bag as he walks down the familiar hallway, each step steady even if his thoughts aren’t. He tells himself to focus. To get through the day. To push everything else aside until he can’t anymore.

Until he has to face it.

He pushes the door open to the attending’s lounge—and pauses.

Because of course.

Of course he’s here.

“You’re back.”

Yoongi’s voice cuts through the quiet, calm but unmistakably present. He’s standing by the lockers, one hand mid-motion as he places his pens neatly into the pocket of his coat.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Jimin feels it immediately.

That shift.

That space between them.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious to anyone else.

But it’s there.

It’s been two weeks since they last had a proper conversation. Two weeks of missed calls, unanswered messages, near encounters in hallways that never turned into anything more.

Two weeks of Jimin avoiding.

And Yoongi waiting.

Jimin swallows, forcing his shoulders to relax as he steps further inside. “I’m good,” he says, the words coming out a little too quickly, a little too polished. “Great, actually.”

Yoongi watches him for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s trying to read something beneath the surface. But in the end, he just nods.

“That’s good,” he replies. “That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is immediate.

And awkward.

Not the kind they used to have, the comfortable quiet that came naturally when they were alone together. This one is different. Tense. Careful. Like both of them are choosing their next moves a little too deliberately.

Jimin walks toward his locker, setting his bag down and pulling it open with practiced ease. His movements are normal. Routine. He takes out his clean scrubs, his coat, arranging everything like he always does.

But he can feel it.

Yoongi’s gaze following him. Lingering.

It’s not invasive. Not demanding. Just there.

And somehow, that makes it harder to ignore.

Jimin keeps his focus on what he’s doing, avoiding eye contact as he shuts the locker and turns toward the bathroom to change. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is normal. That they can just… exist in the same space without addressing anything.

But of course—it doesn’t stay that way.

“It’s good to see you back.”

Yoongi’s voice is quieter this time, softer, and it makes Jimin pause just slightly before he turns.

He manages a small controlled and careful smile.

“Thanks.”

It’s simple. Polite. Safe.

And maybe that’s what makes it feel so distant.

Yoongi nods once, like that’s enough, like he won’t push any further than Jimin allows him to. He adjusts his coat slightly, already turning toward the door.

“Yeah, I’ll get going,” he says.

And just like that—he’s about to leave.

Like this is it.

Another almost-conversation that ends before it even begins.

Something in Jimin tightens.

Because if he lets him walk out now—he knows he won’t say it later.

He knows he’ll find another excuse, another reason to delay, another way to avoid.

And he can’t keep doing that.

Not anymore.

“Yoongi.”

The name leaves his mouth before he can second-guess it.

Yoongi stops. Turns.

“Yeah?”

There’s no irritation in his voice. No impatience.

Just attention.

Jimin takes a small breath, steadying himself. His fingers curl slightly at his sides, grounding himself in the moment.

“Can we talk?” he asks, quieter now, more serious than anything he’s said since walking in. “After work.”

A brief pause.

Then—“I have to tell you something.”

There it is.

Not the truth yet but close enough that it feels real.

Yoongi studies him for a second, something shifting subtly in his expression. Not alarm. Not quite concern.

But awareness.

Like he understands that whatever this is—it matters.

He nods.

“Sure,” he says simply. “I’ll find you.”

No questions.

No pressure.

Just agreement.

And somehow, that makes Jimin’s chest feel tighter because now there’s no backing out.

No more time to hide behind silence or distance.

By the end of the day, everything changes.

And as Yoongi walks out of the room, leaving Jimin standing there alone, the weight of that reality settles fully in his chest.

Heavy, unavoidable, and finally—

impossible to ignore.

***

Lunch settles into that familiar kind of chaos—the kind that usually grounds Jimin, gives him something steady to hold onto in the middle of long shifts and longer thoughts.

But today, it doesn’t.

Today, everything feels louder. Sharper. Too close.

Jimin sits across from Namjoon, peeling the straw from his milk carton with slow, deliberate movements, like if he focuses hard enough on something small, everything else might blur out.

“Oh, you’re back. Are you feeling better now?” Namjoon asks, already halfway through his meal.

Jimin nods, lifting the carton to his lips. “Yeah. I feel rested.”

It comes out easy. Practiced.

“That’s great,” Namjoon says, chewing. “Oh—have you seen Jungkook?”

Jimin shakes his head, picking up his sandwich. “No. He said he had something to do. Research, maybe?”

Namjoon hums, accepting that answer without question.

Jimin watches him for a moment, then leans back slightly, tone casual—too casual.

“How are you? The two of you.”

Namjoon pauses mid-bite. “What?”

Jimin smiles faintly, tilting his head. “You’ve been in a lot of surgeries together. I’m just asking if you’re working well together.”

There’s a flicker—quick, almost invisible—but it’s there.

Namjoon laughs, a little tight around the edges. “Ah. Yeah. We’re good.”

Jimin hums like that’s enough.

Like he isn’t aware of everything Jungkook told him.

Before the moment stretches, a chair shifts beside him.

Yoongi.

Jimin doesn’t look immediately, but his body reacts anyway—subtle, involuntary. His shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before he smooths it out, forcing himself to stay still.

Yoongi sets his tray down like this is routine. Like nothing has changed in the past two weeks. Like he hasn’t been texting Jimin nonstop, like Jimin hasn’t been ignoring half of them.

He doesn’t greet him.

Doesn’t even glance at him directly.

Instead, he turns to Namjoon. “You’re stealing my residents again.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Your residents? You mean the ones you didn’t sign up for fast enough?”

“That’s because I was busy doing actual work,” Yoongi replies, already reaching for his utensils.

“Oh, right. Hammering bones counts as intellectual stimulation now?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “At least my patients walk out of the hospital.”

“They walk out crooked,” Namjoon mutters.

Jimin exhales quietly through his nose, biting back a smile despite everything.

It’s normal.

Too normal.

Beside him, Yoongi eats like this is just another day, but Jimin can feel it—the way Yoongi’s attention drifts, the way his awareness lingers.

And then, “You’re only having a sandwich?”

Jimin pauses.

Slowly, he turns his head just enough to meet Yoongi’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not really hungry.”

Yoongi studies him for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice—but long enough for Jimin’s breath to hitch.

Then he sighs quietly, opens his container of sliced fruits, and places it between them.

No words.

Just… there.

Jimin stares at it for a second, something tight curling in his chest.

Before he can decide what to do, the table shifts again. “Move—pregnant omega coming through.”

Hoseok’s voice cuts through the space, dramatic as ever. Taehyung is right beside him, one hand firmly holding Hoseok’s as if the man might collapse mid-step.

“You’re not that fragile,” Seokjin mutters, already sliding into a seat—and immediately reaching for Yoongi’s fruit.

Yoongi’s head snaps toward him. “Don’t—”

Too late.

Seokjin pops one into his mouth, completely unfazed. “This is good.”

Yoongi glares.

Seokjin ignores him like it’s his full-time job.

Jimin lets out a small laugh before he can stop himself.

“Where have you guys been?” he asks, reaching—finally—for a piece of fruit.

Hoseok sighs as Taehyung pulls out his chair. “I had my ultrasound,” he says, settling in. “I’ve been so busy I forgot I had to get checked.”

“If I didn’t drag him into my exam room, he would’ve skipped it again,” Seokjin adds, already turning slightly toward him.

Taehyung scoffs. “You should send me his schedule next time, hyung. I’ll make sure he shows up.”

“Deal,” Seokjin says immediately.

Then his tone shifts subtly but enough.

His posture straightens, his attention sharpens—not just on Hoseok anymore.

“You really shouldn’t be skipping your checkups,” he continues, voice more clinical now. “Especially at this stage.”

Hoseok groans. “Here we go again.”

Seokjin ignores him completely.

“At this point, fetal development is progressing rapidly,” he explains, hands gesturing slightly as he talks. “Organ systems are already formed, but maturation is ongoing. Growth, neurological development, lung development—all of that needs to be monitored regularly.”

Jimin stills.

His fingers tighten slightly around the fruit he’s holding.

Seokjin keeps going.

“Especially for first pregnancies,” he adds, tone steady but intentional. “The body is adapting for the first time. Hormonal shifts, circulatory changes, metabolic demands—it’s a lot. Even if you feel fine, there could be things you’re not aware of.”

Hoseok leans back, already regretting bringing it up. “I feel fine.”

“That’s not the point,” Seokjin counters immediately. “Feeling fine doesn’t rule out complications. We monitor for a reason—fetal growth patterns, placental health, amniotic fluid levels. Early detection matters.”

His gaze flicks—briefly—to Jimin.

Just a second.

But it’s enough.

“Exposure is another concern,” Seokjin continues, now leaning forward slightly. “We work in an environment with radiation, anesthetic gases, infectious risks. Even small, repeated exposures can add up over time. That’s why protective measures are non-negotiable.”

Jimin swallows. Seokjin’s words hit him in ways that he wasn’t ready for.

“And stress,” Seokjin adds, softer now. “Chronic stress impacts both the omega and the pup. It’s not just physical health—it’s everything. Nutrition, rest, monitoring… all of it matters.”

Hoseok sighs dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll go to my appointments.”

“You better,” Taehyung mutters, squeezing his hand.

Seokjin leans back slightly, satisfied—but his eyes flick once more toward Jimin. Careful, knowing.

And then, Jungkook arrives.

He drops into a seat, a little too fast, a little too loud, like he’s trying to act normal.

But his eyes immediately land on Jimin.

Then Yoongi.

Then Seokjin.

And something shifts.

Seokjin notices.

Of course he does.

Their eyes meet for a brief second—Jungkook’s wide, Seokjin’s sharp.

A silent exchange.

Jimin clears his throat, breaking it. “You’re late for lunch.”

Jungkook blinks. “I had things to do.”

“Research?” Namjoon asks.

Jungkook nearly chokes. “Yeah. Sure. That.”

Yoongi glances at him, unimpressed.

Taehyung raises a brow.

Seokjin watches quietly.

And Jimin sits there, surrounded by voices, laughter, movement, and feels like everything is closing in.

Beside him, Yoongi nudges the fruit container just a little closer again.

The alpha is still not looking at him, still not saying anything but he’s there.

His presence has already become something that Jimin looks for even if he doesn’t want to.

But he doesn’t really have to admit that, right?

***

Jimin signs the last page with a steady hand, the scratch of pen against paper louder than it should be in the quiet ICU.

“Alright, great job,” he says, offering his resident a small, practiced smile as he hands the chart back. “Page me if anything changes.”

“Thank you, Doctor Park. Have a great night,” she replies, bowing slightly before giving him a quick wave.

“You too, Youngha.”

He watches her go for a second longer than necessary, like he’s delaying something.

Then he exhales and turns.

The walk out of the ICU feels longer than usual. Each step echoes in his head, heavy, deliberate, like he’s walking toward something irreversible.

Because he is.

He hasn’t heard from Yoongi since lunch—aside from that one message.

We’re still up for tonight?

Jimin said yes.

Of course he did.

Because there will never be a better time than this. There will never be a version of him more ready—or at least, more desperate—to just say it.

To stop carrying it alone.

By the time he reaches the attending’s lounge, his chest feels tight.

He moves mechanically—changing out of his scrubs, folding them like routine matters, like normalcy matters. He murmurs his goodbyes to a couple of attendings, forces a smile when needed, ignores the way his hands feel slightly cold.

Then his phone buzzes.

[from: Yoongi]
I’m outside the hospital.
I’ll wait for you by the entrance.

Jimin stares at the message for a moment.

Then he inhales slowly.

And starts walking.

It takes him less than five minutes to reach the entrance.

He sees Yoongi immediately.

Of course he does.

By the smoking area, leaning casually with a cigarette between his fingers, another doctor beside him. The glow of the ember flickers faintly in the dim light, smoke curling into the night air.

Jimin slows down.

Just enough.

“…I haven’t seen you hitting the gym these days,” the other doctor says, taking a drag from his own cigarette. “Wooyoung and I have been bumping into each other a lot.”

Yoongi chuckles softly. “I’ve been really busy these days. There are sports games happening left and right. You know, injuries.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t deny. You’re very much needed in this hospital.”

Yoongi shrugs, taking another drag. “How’s your wife, by the way? Did she give birth already?”

“Yeah, a month ago,” the guy says, already pulling out his phone. “Do you wanna see the baby?”

Jimin stops walking. He stands at a distance not too close but not too far. 

“Here—” the doctor turns his phone toward Yoongi.

Yoongi leans in slightly, a small smile forming. “Oh, such a beauty. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, man. She’s really cute. I didn’t know a human that small could really tickle a person’s heart.” The other alpha replies,

Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh. “Well… it must be nice.”

Something in Jimin’s chest twists.

“How about you?” the doctor continues. “Any plans? Are you even dating anyone?”

Yoongi pauses.

Just for a second.

Then, “I’m seeing someone.”

Seeing.

Jimin’s breath catches—just barely.

“Damn, Min.” The other doctor chuckles, pushing Yoongi’s shoulder lightly. “You managed to squeeze that with your tight schedule huh.”

He steps back immediately, retreating into the shadows near the corner of the entrance, heart beating louder than it should.

He doesn’t want Yoongi to know what he heard.

And he doesn't want to hear more of what the alpha has to say.

Doesn’t want to start this conversation like that.

So instead, he pulls out his phone.

[to: Yoongi]
I’m at the entrance.
Where are you?

He waits.

And a few seconds later, he hears it.

“Hey, Jimin.”

Jimin looks up, like he’s just noticed him.

“Hi,” he says, voice steady enough.

Yoongi has already put out his cigarette, walking toward him. There’s something in his expression—relief, maybe—but it’s subtle.

“Do you want to grab dinner?” Yoongi asks. “We can talk there.”

Jimin nods. “Yeah. Maybe that diner across the street.”

“Okay.”

Simple.

Easy.

Like this isn’t about to change everything.

The diner is quiet in a way that feels almost intentional, like the world outside has decided to lower its volume just enough to give them privacy. It isn’t empty—there are a few scattered customers, the soft clatter of plates from the kitchen, a muted hum of conversation—but nothing that demands attention. Nothing that would notice two people sitting across from each other, suspended in something heavier than the room can hold.

They slide into their seats without much thought, the movement practiced, familiar. Menus are picked up but barely read, more for the sake of having something to do than actual interest. Yoongi is the one who signals the server over, his voice steady, casual, like this is just another night.

“I’ll have the steak and eggs,” he says easily, then glances at Jimin, giving him space to order.

“Chicken and mashed potatoes,” Jimin adds, his voice quieter but stable enough.

“And drinks?” the server asks, pen poised.

Yoongi nods. “Two beers—”

“I’ll pass,” Jimin cuts in quickly, the response coming out almost too fast, too automatic. “I’m on call.”

The excuse slips out like second nature.

Yoongi pauses for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking toward Jimin, as if weighing something—questioning, maybe—but in the end, he doesn’t push.

“One beer, then,” he amends, handing the menu back.

When the server leaves, the space between them shifts into something more noticeable. Jimin drops his gaze to his hands resting on the table, fingers loosely intertwined, then separating again, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

The food arrives quicker than expected.

And somehow, that only makes everything worse.

Because now there’s no more delay. No more excuse to sit in silence without acknowledging it.

Jimin takes a bite, chewing slowly, but it feels wrong—like the food is heavier than it should be, like every swallow requires more effort than necessary. There’s a tightness in his chest that doesn’t ease, a weight that settles deeper with every passing second.

Across from him, Yoongi eats normally. Comfortably. Like his body hasn’t picked up on the tension tightening around them.

“I got an email earlier,” Yoongi says after a while, cutting into his food with the same calm precision he carries in the operating room. “Some doctor from the US reached out. He saw my presentation from the conference.”

Jimin hums softly, nodding once. “That’s good.”

Yoongi continues, like he’s trying to fill the space, to keep things moving. “He wants to collaborate on a research project. Something about improving recovery time for athletes post-surgery.”

Jimin lifts his gaze briefly, meeting his eyes just long enough. “That’s… really good, Yoongi.”

And it is. He means it.

But that’s all he gives.

No follow-up questions. No curiosity. No teasing remarks about Yoongi’s sudden rise into international attention.

Nothing.

Yoongi notices. Of course he does. What doesn’t he notice?

Jimin’s pregnancy? The omega wants to laugh at that because if he hadn’t been actively avoiding Yoongi, he is sure that the alpha would have noticed.

There’s a shift in the way he looks at Jimin now—subtle, but there. A quiet assessment. A growing awareness that something is off.

The conversation starts to thin after that, unraveling into small, disconnected pieces before disappearing entirely. The only thing left is the soft clink of utensils against plates, the occasional sound of someone laughing in the distance—normal noises that feel strangely out of place in the middle of this.

Eventually, Yoongi stops.

He sets his fork down carefully, the movement deliberate, controlled.

Then he looks at Jimin.

Fully this time.

“What are we talking about?”

His voice isn’t sharp. There’s no impatience in it, no frustration.

Just quiet curiosity.

And something softer beneath it.

Concern.

Jimin stills, his grip tightening slightly around his fork before he slowly sets it down beside his plate. He exhales, the breath shallow, and finally lifts his eyes to meet Yoongi’s.

For a second, the words sit at the edge of his tongue.

For a second, he almost lets them die there.

Because saying it out loud means it becomes real in a way it hasn’t fully been yet. It means there’s no taking it back. No pretending this is just something he can handle on his own.

He almost backs out.

Almost.

But he doesn’t.

“Yoongi,” he says, his voice quieter now, but steady in a way that surprises even him.

And then—

“I’m pregnant.”

The words land between them.

And everything changes.

Silence follows immediately, but it’s not the kind they’re used to. Not the easy, familiar quiet that has always existed between them without needing to be filled.

This silence is different. Heavier.

It stretches, thick and unmoving, like time itself has slowed just to let the weight of those words settle properly.

Yoongi doesn’t react right away.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t move.

It’s like his body hasn’t caught up yet, like his mind is still trying to process what he just heard, turning the words over and over, searching for something that makes sense.

His hand, which had been resting near his plate, stills completely.

His gaze stays fixed on Jimin, but there’s something new in it now—something unsettled. Something searching.

Trying to understand.

Trying to place where this fits in the reality he thought he was in just moments ago.

“What?” he finally says, the word barely audible, like it had to fight its way out.

Jimin swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

“I’m pregnant,” he repeats, softer this time—but clearer. Firmer. There’s no room for misunderstanding now.

No room to take it back.

Yoongi leans back slightly in his seat, the movement slow, almost mechanical, like he needs the space just to breathe properly again.

His hand drags through his hair, fingers pressing against his scalp as he exhales—a long, quiet breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

There’s still no immediate reaction.

No anger.

No raised voice.

No visible panic.

Just… silence.

The kind that fills every corner of the space between them.

Then, after what feels like too long, “You’re sure?”

Jimin nods. Once. “Yes.”

Another pause follows, longer this time. Yoongi’s gaze drops to the table, his jaw tightening slightly as something shifts behind his eyes—thoughts moving too fast, too many at once.

Then he looks back up at Jimin.

And in that moment—it feels like everything between them is balancing on something fragile.

One wrong word.

One wrong reaction.

And it could all break.

Chapter Text

The silence between them stretches so long it starts to feel physical—like something pressing against Jimin’s chest, making it harder to breathe. Around them, the diner continues as if nothing monumental has just been dropped onto their table. Plates clink, a server laughs somewhere near the counter, and a door opens and closes. Life goes on in the background, indifferent.

But at their table, everything has shifted.

Yoongi hasn’t spoken.

Not immediately. Not instinctively. And that—more than anything—makes Jimin’s stomach twist.

He hates this. The waiting. The not knowing. The way his mind immediately starts filling in the blanks with worst-case scenarios.

So he does what he always does when things get too heavy.

He tries to take control of it.

“I’m not asking you to be part of this,” Jimin says, the words coming out steadier than he feels. He keeps his eyes on the table at first, tracing the edge of his plate with his thumb before finally forcing himself to look up. “I just… wanted you to know. Because you deserve the truth.”

It sounds reasonable. Clean. Detached.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like he doesn’t care.

But the slight tremor in his voice betrays him.

Yoongi’s brows pull together almost immediately, confusion flashing across his face, followed quickly by something firmer. Something grounded.

“I am a part of this, Jimin.” 

There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. No room for argument.

Jimin nods, because logically, yes—of course he is. That’s not what he means. That’s not what he’s trying to say.

“I know,” he replies quietly. “But what I’m saying is… you don’t have to take responsibility for it.” His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the table now. “I’m keeping it. I’m going through with the pregnancy.”

Saying it out loud makes it feel even more real.

More permanent.

“I’ve already decided.”

And he has. In the middle of all the confusion, the fear, the spiraling thoughts—this is the one thing he’s been sure about. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know what kind of parent he’ll be. He doesn’t even know if he’s ready.

But he knows he’s not letting go of it.

Then he continues, “So if you’re not on-board with this, that is totally fine with me. I can handle this.”

Yoongi watches him carefully, like he’s trying to read every layer beneath those words.

“I want to,” Yoongi says after a moment.

Jimin blinks. “What?”

“I want to do this with you, Jimin.”

The statement lands just as heavily as the first one Jimin dropped earlier.

It doesn’t make things lighter.

If anything, it makes them more complicated.

“The pup deserves two parents, Jimin.”

Jimin lets out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking his head almost immediately. Not in disagreement—but in disbelief. In fear.

“Don’t,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t just say that.”

Yoongi frowns slightly. “I’m not just saying it.”

“Then think about it,” Jimin presses, leaning forward now, his voice still controlled but his eyes sharper, more desperate. “You don’t get to decide something like this in five minutes, Yoongi. This isn’t a case you can just assess and fix.”

There’s an edge to his words now. Not anger—panic disguised as logic.

“This is your life,” he continues. “Your future. You didn’t sign up for this.”

Because that’s the truth.

They didn’t.

This wasn’t planned. It wasn’t discussed. It wasn’t something they built toward.

This—this is a consequence of something that was never meant to be anything more than temporary.

“You wanted me,” Jimin adds, and that one comes out quieter. More honest. “Not this.”

Not the baby.

Not the responsibility.

Not the weight of something permanent.

They were just… two people finding relief in each other. No strings. No expectations. No future.

And now suddenly—

there is one.

Jimin swallows hard, forcing himself to hold Yoongi’s gaze. “You need time to think,” he insists. “Because if you don’t—if you decide this now and then realize later that it’s not what you want—”

His voice falters slightly.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

“I can’t go through that,” he admits, softer now. “I can’t… get used to the idea of you being here, of us doing this together, and then have you walk away.”

That’s the real fear.

Not the pregnancy.

Not the uncertainty.

Abandonment.

Again.

“I might actually lose it,” he finishes, almost under his breath.

For a moment, Yoongi just looks at him.

Really looks at him.

And this time, there’s no confusion in his expression. No hesitation.

Just understanding and something deeper.

Something steadier.

He exhales slowly, leaning forward, his forearms resting against the table as he closes the distance between them—not physically, not enough to overwhelm—but enough to be present.

“Jimin,” he says, voice low but firm. “You’re right.”

That alone makes Jimin’s chest tighten.

Because it sounds like agreement.

Like he’s about to back off.

But Yoongi continues, “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t think about having a kid. Not now. Not like this.”

It is honest.

It is blunt.

Most importantly, it is real.

Jimin nods faintly, like he expected that.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m walking away.” The alpha’s voice becomes steadier than ever.

That makes him pause.

Actually pause.

Yoongi’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“I don’t need to think about whether I want to be responsible,” he says. “Because that part isn’t optional to me. It’s already done. This exists now. The pup exists.”

His hand shifts slightly on the table, fingers curling like he’s grounding himself.

“And you exist,” he adds, quieter.

Jimin’s breath catches.

“I’m not choosing this because it’s easy,” Yoongi continues. “I’m choosing it because it’s right. Because I want to try. With you.”

There’s no dramatic declaration. No over-the-top promise.

Just something solid.

“I don’t know everything,” Yoongi admits. “I don’t know what this is going to look like. I don’t know how hard it’s going to get.”

A small pause.

“But I do know I don’t want you doing it alone.”

That hits harder than anything else.

Jimin’s grip loosens slightly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

“I’m not saying I have everything figured out,” Yoongi adds quietly, his voice calmer now, steadier after the storm that had followed Jimin’s confession. “I’m saying I want to figure it out with you.”

The words settle heavily between them.

Not ahead of him.

Not for him.

With him.

And somehow, that distinction matters more than Jimin expects it to.

The omega sits there in silence, fingers curled tightly around the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to process everything that has happened in the span of a single hour. His entire life feels like it shifted off its axis the second he saw the word on the test.

Pregnant.

The word still doesn’t sound real in his head.

Nothing about this feels real.

Not the nausea.

Not the exhaustion.

Not Yoongi sitting across from him looking at him like this matters just as much to him as it does to Jimin.

Because people don’t stay.

Not really.

Not when things become difficult.

Not when life stops being convenient.

And pregnancy—this is inconvenient in every possible way.

Yoongi exhales slowly before continuing, softer this time.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

Jimin’s gaze flickers up immediately.

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t change.

There’s no hesitation in him. No uncertainty hiding behind his eyes.

“Not because I feel obligated,” the alpha says. “Not because I have to but because I really want to stay.”

Jimin feels something twist painfully in his chest.

Because that—that right there is the part he doesn’t know what to do with.

Responsibility, he understands.

Duty makes sense.

Two adults dealing with the consequences of their actions? Fine. Rational. Understandable.

But wanting?

Wanting changes everything.

Jimin stares at him carefully, searching for cracks in his expression. For signs this is temporary. Emotional. Impulsive.

Another version of being wanted only until things become complicated.

But Yoongi just looks back at him steadily.

Openly.

And somehow, that scares Jimin more.

Because for the first time since all of this started, it feels real in a way he cannot ignore anymore.

Not just the pregnancy.

Them.

Whatever this is becoming between them.

It suddenly feels like something that might actually last.

And Jimin doesn’t know if he knows how to survive that kind of hope.

“Okay,” he says quietly after a long silence, voice almost fragile beneath the weight of everything he’s feeling. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

Something softens visibly in Yoongi’s face.

Relief, maybe.

Or something dangerously close to happiness.

“We will,” Yoongi says with a small smile.

The room grows quiet again after that.

Heavy with things neither of them fully knows how to say yet.

Jimin looks down at his hands. He’s exhausted. Emotionally wrung out in ways surgery never manages to do to him. Usually, Jimin knows exactly what to do. He knows how to solve problems. He knows how to stabilize situations before they spiral out of control.

But this?

There’s no textbook for this.

Just feelings.

And Jimin has never trusted feelings.

Yoongi shifts slightly in his seat, elbows resting against his knees as he leans forward a little.

“But,” he says carefully, “I just have one thing to ask.”

Jimin glances up again, brows pulling together faintly.

The alpha’s expression changes then. Just honest in a way that immediately makes Jimin tense.

“Just one thing from you, Jimin.”

The omega waits quietly.

Part of him expects logistics.

Doctors appointments.

Plans.

Maybe discussions about work schedules or families or practical things they haven’t fully addressed yet.

But what Yoongi says instead catches him completely off guard.

“Promise me you won’t push me away.”

The words land softly but they hit harder than anything else tonight.

Jimin blinks.

Yoongi’s voice lowers slightly as he continues.

“Because I know you,” he says gently. “At least enough to know that when things get difficult, you try to carry everything by yourself.”

Jimin immediately opens his mouth to argue but Yoongi keeps going before he can.

“You shut people out when you’re overwhelmed,” he says. “You pretend you’re okay even when you’re barely holding yourself together. You disappear into work. Into responsibility. Into taking care of everyone else.”

Jimin feels strangely exposed hearing it spoken out loud.

Because it’s true—painfully true.

Yoongi watches him quietly for another second before speaking again.

“And maybe that worked before,” he says softly. “But you can’t do this alone anymore.”

The words make Jimin’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

Not because they sound controlling.

Not because they make him angry.

But because no one has ever really asked to stay before.

People usually leave first.

Or Jimin leaves emotionally before they get the chance.

It’s easier that way but Yoongi is sitting here asking for the opposite.

Asking Jimin to let him remain.

“I’m serious,” Yoongi says after the silence stretches too long. “If you’re scared, tell me you’re scared. If you’re exhausted, tell me. If you’re angry at me, then be angry. But don’t decide everything alone and shut me out like none of this involves me too.”

Jimin looks away quickly then because suddenly his eyes burn.

God.

This is overwhelming.

The pregnancy.

The fear.

The tenderness in Yoongi’s voice.

The fact that a part of Jimin wants to believe him so badly it hurts.

“You make it sound easy,” Jimin whispers.

Yoongi huffs softly, almost amused.

“I don’t think any part of this is easy.”

That pulls the faintest laugh out of Jimin.

Small and broken around the edges.

“But I think it’ll be harder if we keep pretending we’re alone in it.” The alpha continues,

The room falls quiet again.

Jimin stares down at the floor for a long moment, thoughts moving too fast inside his head.

He’s terrified.

Not just of becoming a parent but of dependence.

Of needing someone this much.

Because what happens if Yoongi becomes important enough that losing him would ruin Jimin completely?

That possibility suddenly feels very real.

And maybe Yoongi notices the fear crossing his face because his voice softens even further when he speaks again.

“You don’t have to trust me all at once,” he says quietly. “I know this is a lot.”

Jimin swallows hard.

“You barely even like me most days,” he mutters weakly, trying to lighten the heaviness crushing his chest.

Yoongi snorts softly, “That’s not true.”

“You literally called me emotionally constipated last month.” The omega’s voice goes an octave higher.

“You are emotionally constipated.”

Jimin glares at him tiredly.

Yoongi smiles a little then, and somehow that smile feels gentler now than it ever has before.

“But I still want to stay,” he says.

The honesty in that nearly undoes Jimin completely.

Because there’s no performance in it.

Just the truth.

Jimin inhales shakily before finally nodding once.

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

Yoongi’s expression softens instantly, “That’s enough for me.”

And for the first time since seeing that word—for the first time since panic began clawing through his chest—Jimin feels something else settle quietly beneath the fear.

Not certainty or peace but something close to being less alone.

***

Jimin’s phone buzzes softly in his hand, the screen lighting up in the dim quiet of his apartment. He’s been staring at it for a while now—long enough that the brightness has started to sting his eyes, long enough that the words have begun to blur not because he can’t read them, but because he’s thinking too much.

Way too much.

[from: Yoongi]
Have you gotten yourself checked?
I mean, we both know how it should be, right?

[to: Yoongi]
I should schedule an appointment with Seokjin hyung.
He also knows about it.
He’s actually the one who told me to do the test.

[from: Yoongi]
Can I come to your appointment?
If only that doesn’t seem much of a trouble.
Of course I wouldn’t come if you’re not comfortable.

Jimin reads the last message again.

And again.

And again.

His thumb hovers over the screen, unmoving, like his body has forgotten how to respond to something this… normal.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

Normal.

This is what people do. This is what should happen. If two people are having a child together, they go to appointments together. They sit side by side, listen to doctors, ask questions, pretend they have any idea what they’re doing.

But Jimin—

Jimin has never been part of anything normal.

Not relationships. Not family. Not love.

And definitely not this.

His chest rises slowly as he inhales, but it doesn’t feel like enough air. His thoughts keep circling the same thing, over and over, like a broken record he can’t turn off.

Going to an appointment with Yoongi means letting him in.

Not just physically—not the way they’re used to, not the way that’s easy and familiar and requires no explanation—but emotionally. Realistically. Permanently.

It means Yoongi will see this.

Hear it.

Acknowledge it.

It means this becomes real in a way Jimin can’t take back.

And what if—

His jaw tightens.

What if Yoongi realizes, somewhere between the sterile walls of a clinic and the sound of a heartbeat, that this isn’t what he wants?

What if this is where it becomes too much?

Because Jimin knows this pattern.

He’s lived it.

People stay when it’s easy. When it’s fun. When it’s convenient.

People leave when it gets heavy.

And this—

This is as heavy as it gets.

Jimin exhales shakily, dragging a hand down his face before letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. His phone rests against his thigh now, screen still lit, still waiting.

He hates this.

The waiting.

The thinking.

The feeling.

Because no matter how much he tries to rationalize it, to keep it contained, there’s something in him that’s already shifting. Something that refuses to treat this like it’s just another complication he can walk away from.

His hand moves almost unconsciously, resting against his abdomen.

There’s nothing there yet. Nothing he can feel.

But he knows.

And that knowledge alone is enough to make everything else feel… different.

His throat tightens.

“God,” he murmurs under his breath, voice barely audible in the empty room.

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

Clarity? Strength? A way out?

Or maybe—

Maybe just a little less fear.

His gaze drops back to his phone.

Can I come to your appointment?

It’s such a simple question.

And yet it feels like the biggest decision he’s made in days.

Because saying yes means allowing Yoongi to step into this part of his life.

Saying yes means trusting him—at least enough to stand beside him in a room where everything will become real.

And Jimin…

Jimin doesn’t trust easily.

Not anymore.

Not after everything.

But then—

Promise me you will not push me away.

Yoongi’s voice echoes in his head again, steady and quiet but impossible to ignore.

Jimin presses his lips together, eyes closing briefly as that memory settles in his chest.

He’s been doing exactly that.

Pushing.

Avoiding.

Running the moment things start to feel like they matter.

Because it’s easier that way.

Safer.

Less painful.

Except—

This doesn’t feel safe either.

This distance.

This constant fear.

This feeling like he’s carrying everything alone.

His grip on the phone tightens slightly.

And for a moment—just a moment—he lets himself consider something he’s been actively avoiding.

What if Yoongi doesn’t leave?

What if, just this once, someone stays?

The thought is fragile.

Dangerous.

But it’s there.

And Jimin doesn’t push it away immediately.

Not this time.

His thumb finally moves.

[to: Yoongi]
You can come.

The message sends almost instantly, like his phone knows better than to give him time to second-guess it.

Jimin stares at the screen after, heart beating a little too fast, a little too loud in his chest.

There’s no immediate reply.

And strangely, that’s okay.

Because for the first time since everything started unraveling, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating.

It just feels… still.

Jimin exhales slowly, letting his head rest back again, eyes drifting shut as exhaustion begins to settle into his bones.

His hand returns to his abdomen, this time more deliberate.

More aware.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He doesn’t know what comes next.

He doesn’t know if Yoongi will really stay.

But he said yes.

***

“Hey,” Seokjin greets as soon as Jimin steps into the room, already halfway through organizing a stack of charts on his desk. He looks up, eyes immediately softening in recognition. “Where’s Yoongi?”

Jimin offers a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but is convincing enough. “He’s still in surgery,” he says, closing the door behind him. “We can start without him.”

Seokjin pauses, head tilting slightly as he studies Jimin for a second longer than necessary. “Are you sure? We can wait. I don’t mind.”

Jimin shakes his head almost immediately, shrugging off his bag and setting it down beside the chair. “No need, really. I’ll just tell him everything later. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

That earns him a quiet laugh. “That’s nonsense,” Seokjin says, pulling his chair closer to the desk and motioning for Jimin to sit. “You don’t know how excited I am for this.”

Jimin huffs out a small breath, somewhere between amused and overwhelmed. “Alright, but can we at least start with the history taking and all that?” he asks, slipping into the chair. “You know… the actual medical part?”

Seokjin blinks, then laughs again, shaking his head. “Right. I keep forgetting you’re a doctor too.”

“Seriously?” Jimin raises a brow.

“Seriously,” Seokjin repeats, still smiling as he opens a fresh patient file on his computer. “I’m allowed to be a little giddy, okay? After Hoseok, I’ve been waiting for one of my friends to walk in here with news like this.”

Jimin doesn’t comment on that. He just exhales quietly, hands resting on his thighs as he watches Seokjin type.

“Alright,” Seokjin starts, tone shifting into something more clinical, though the warmth never really leaves. “You said you took the pregnancy test about two weeks ago, right?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah.”

“Any symptoms so far? Nausea? Morning sickness? Food aversions?”

Jimin shakes his head. “Not really. I mean… I’ve been tired. But I’ve also been working nonstop, so that could just be that.”

Seokjin hums thoughtfully, typing everything down. “Fatigue is still a common early symptom,” he says. “Even if it overlaps with your schedule, we’ll take note of it.”

Jimin nods slowly, fingers absentmindedly tapping against his knee.

“Based on your timeline,” Seokjin continues, glancing at the screen, “you’re probably around six weeks pregnant.”

Jimin swallows.

Hearing it said out loud—put into a number, into something measurable—makes it feel… more real than it already did.

“We’ll need to run some blood work,” Seokjin adds. “Check your hormone levels, baseline labs. And I’d like to do a transrectal ultrasound today to confirm the gestational age and check viability.”

Jimin nods again, quieter this time. “Okay.”

There’s a brief pause—just long enough for the weight of everything to settle—before a knock sounds against the door.

Both of them glance up.

The door opens slightly, and Yoongi peeks his head in, still in scrubs, hair slightly damp, exhaustion written all over his face.

“Sorry,” he says, voice a little rough, eyes immediately finding Jimin. “Can I come in?”

Jimin’s chest tightens for a second, but he nods. “Yeah. Come in.”

Yoongi steps inside, closing the door behind him. He looks like he came straight from the OR—sleeves rolled, mask hanging loosely around his neck, a faint crease between his brows that hasn’t quite disappeared yet.

Seokjin glances between them before leaning back slightly. “Perfect timing,” he says. “I was just getting started.”

Yoongi gives a small nod, dragging a hand through his hair before taking a seat beside Jimin. “Sorry I’m late,” he mutters.

“It’s fine,” Jimin says quietly.

Seokjin, ever efficient, begins to summarize. He goes over Jimin’s history, the timeline, the lack of significant symptoms aside from fatigue, and his estimate of six weeks gestation.

Yoongi listens intently, posture straight despite the clear exhaustion in his body. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t speak. He just absorbs everything.

“We’ll do a transrectal ultrasound today,” Seokjin finishes. “Just to confirm everything early on. Doing the doppler will not be as accurate as we’d like the result to be.”

There’s a brief flicker of hesitation in his expression as he glances at Jimin, then at Yoongi.

“Yoongi can step out if you want privacy,” Seokjin offers gently.

But Jimin shakes his head.

“He can stay,” he says, voice steady despite the faint tension in his shoulders.

Yoongi’s gaze shifts to him, something unreadable passing through his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything—just nods once.

The ultrasound is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, but intimate in a way that has nothing to do with what they’re used to. This isn’t about desire. This isn’t something they can laugh off or ignore.

This is real.

Seokjin works with practiced ease, explaining things as he goes, his voice calm and reassuring. He points things out on the monitor, though at this stage, everything still looks small. Early. Fragile.

Jimin watches, silent.

Yoongi watches too.

Closer than before.

And neither of them says a word.

Afterward, once Jimin is settled again and Seokjin has finished documenting everything, the atmosphere shifts slightly. Lighter. More grounded.

“Alright,” Seokjin says, spinning his chair slightly toward them. “Let’s go over some basics.”

Jimin exhales, leaning back slightly.

“You’ll need to start prenatal supplements,” Seokjin begins. “Folic acid is non-negotiable—it helps prevent neural tube defects. I’ll prescribe that for you.”

Jimin nods automatically.

“If you start experiencing morning sickness, dry crackers in the morning usually help. Small, frequent meals instead of large ones. Hydration is important.”

As Seokjin continues, Yoongi quietly reaches over to grab a notepad from the desk.

Jimin notices immediately.

He watches as Yoongi flips it open, picks up a pen, and starts writing everything down—every supplement, every instruction, every small detail Seokjin mentions.

It’s… unexpected.

And for some reason—honestly, a little endearing.

Seokjin notices too.

He pauses mid-sentence, glancing at Yoongi with a smirk. “Wow,” he says. “Look at you. Taking notes and everything.”

Yoongi doesn’t even look up. “Just making sure I don’t forget,” he mutters.

Jimin lets out a small, quiet laugh, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction.

Seokjin chuckles. “Didn’t expect you to be this invested, Min.”

Yoongi finally glances up, unimpressed. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Seokjin shoots back, clearly amused. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t stop writing.

And Jimin just sits there, watching him for a moment longer than he means to.

Because this isn’t part of their deal.

And yet, here Yoongi is.

Showing up, trying, writing things down like it matters.

Like this matters.

Jimin looks away after a second, swallowing quietly.

He doesn’t say anything.

But something in his chest shifts again.

Subtle yet just a little terrifying.

***

“You should take it easy on surgeries,” Yoongi says as they walk side by side down the corridor leading to the OR floor. His voice is calm, but there’s a firmness to it that doesn’t quite match his usual tone.

Jimin glances at him, one brow lifting slightly. “Just because I’m pregnant?”

Yoongi blinks, clearly caught off guard by how quickly Jimin jumps to that conclusion. “What? No—” he exhales, shaking his head. “Not just that. I mean, yes, that too—but that’s not the only reason.”

Jimin keeps walking, his pace steady, but there’s a subtle tension in the way his shoulders square. “Then what is it?”

Yoongi lets out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair as he tries to organize his thoughts. “You’ve been taking back-to-back surgeries for weeks now,” he says, more measured this time. “Even before… all of this. You barely sleep, you skip meals, and you don’t take breaks unless someone forces you to.”

Jimin doesn’t respond.

He just keeps walking.

But he’s listening.

“You don’t need a pregnancy to justify slowing down,” Yoongi continues, voice softer now but no less serious. “You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard even before this happened. That’s not sustainable.”

Jimin finally turns his head slightly, looking at him—not annoyed, not defensive, just… quiet. Processing.

Yoongi takes that as his cue to keep going.

“And now,” he adds, “your body’s dealing with something completely different. Hormones, physical changes, all of it. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, it’s happening.”

He steps in front of Jimin just enough to slow him down, not blocking him entirely, but enough to make him stop.

“Wait,” Yoongi says, softer.

Jimin exhales through his nose, glancing around briefly. The hallway isn’t empty, and that alone makes him a little uneasy, but Yoongi’s expression—steady, concerned—keeps him rooted in place.

“Listen,” Yoongi continues, lowering his voice just a bit. “Your body is basically a rollercoaster right now. It’s adjusting, compensating, working overtime in ways you can’t even see yet. You’re going to get tired faster. You’re going to feel things differently.”

Jimin’s gaze drops for a second.

Because he does feel it.

The fatigue. The heaviness. The subtle shifts he’s been trying to brush off as nothing more than stress.

“You’re already running on empty most days,” Yoongi adds. “Stacking more stress on top of that isn’t going to help you. Or…” he hesitates just slightly, choosing his words carefully, “…the baby.”

The word hangs there.

Unavoidable.

Jimin swallows.

His jaw tightens just a little before he looks away, nodding faintly like he’s trying to pass it off as nothing.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “I’ll hand some of my cases to Dr. Lee,” Jimin says finally, voice quieter than before, but firm enough to mean it.

Yoongi exhales, shoulders relaxing almost immediately, relief evident in the way his posture softens. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it, no sarcasm—just genuine gratitude.

Jimin lets out a small huff, crossing his arms loosely. “Don’t make it sound like I just did you a favor.”

“You didn’t,” Yoongi replies easily. “You did yourself one.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it this time. “You’re insufferable.”

“To be fair, you’re a little stubborn,” Yoongi shoots back, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Jimin glances at him again, and for a brief moment, the tension eases.

Just a little.

They start walking again, slower this time, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

After a few seconds, Yoongi speaks again—quieter now, more careful.

“If anything feels off,” he says, “you tell me. Even if it seems small.”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away.

He keeps his eyes forward, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat.

But after a moment—“…I know,” he mutters.

It’s not much.

But it’s not nothing either.

***

Things between Yoongi and Jimin have changed—quietly, steadily, in ways that neither of them really announced out loud but both of them feel every single day.

It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t a complete shift.

But it’s there.

Yoongi texts him.

A lot.

More than Jimin ever thought he would.

At first, Jimin expected it to get on his nerves. Expected to feel suffocated, watched, monitored in a way that would make him want to pull back again.

But instead—he finds himself staring at his phone with a small, involuntary smile more often than he’d like to admit.

Because Yoongi isn’t overbearing.

He’s just… there.

Consistent.

Present.

And strangely careful.

[from: Yoongi]
Are you good?
I just finished surgery.

[from: Yoongi]
Have you eaten?
You don’t feel sick, right?

[from: Yoongi]
Did you get some rest?
You looked tired earlier.

[from: Yoongi]
I’m heading to the sports clinic.
Text me if you need anything.

Jimin reads them between cases, between rounds, sometimes in the middle of charting. He never replies immediately—not always—but he reads every single one.

And he remembers.

It’s… amusing.

Because this is not the Yoongi he knows.

Yoongi, who barely texts unless necessary. Yoongi, who shrugs things off, keeps things light, keeps things easy.

But now he’s checking in every hour like it’s part of his routine.

Like it matters.

And Jimin doesn’t stop him.

By the time Jimin is in the OR again, everything else fades into the background.

The lights. The monitors. The steady rhythm of the team moving around him.

This is familiar.

This is where he’s always been certain.

“Alright,” Jimin says, voice steady as he stands over the patient. “We’re proceeding with thrombectomy. Walk me through the steps, Dr. Choi.”

His resident straightens slightly, eyes focused. “We locate the clot, isolate the vessel, and carefully extract to restore blood flow.”

“Good,” Jimin nods. “And what’s our biggest risk here?”

“Vessel damage or incomplete removal,” Dr. Choi answers quickly.

“Exactly,” Jimin says. “So precision over speed. Always.”

His hands move with practiced ease, precise and controlled, guiding, correcting when needed. He explains as he goes, voice calm, instructive, the kind of tone that makes even the most complicated procedures feel manageable.

“Angle your approach slightly—yes, like that,” he murmurs. “You don’t force it. You let the anatomy guide you.”

The room is quiet except for his voice and the soft beeping of monitors.

Until—

A faint vibration.

Then another.

Then another.

At first, Jimin ignores it.

Phones go off sometimes. It’s not unusual.

But then it keeps going.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Not once. Not twice.

But repeatedly.

Consistently.

Close enough that it starts to cut through the concentration in the room.

Dr. Choi glances briefly toward the side table where their belongings are placed. “That could be an emergency, Doctor Park,” she says carefully.

Jimin blinks, momentarily pulled out of the procedure.

His brows knit slightly.

Because he already has a feeling.

He turns his head just enough to address the circulating nurse. “Can you check who it is?”

“Yes, doctor,” she replies, moving quickly to the table.

There’s a pause as she looks at the screen.

Then—

“…It’s from Doctor Min,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “He’s sent a total of twenty-five messages in the last ten minutes.”

A few members of the team shift slightly, exchanging subtle glances.

Jimin stills for half a second.

Twenty-five.

Of course he did.

“Should I check them?” the nurse asks.

Jimin exhales quietly, forcing his focus back to the surgical field. “No,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “I’m almost done here. I’ll check them myself.”

Because he knows exactly what those messages say.

Are you okay?

Why aren’t you replying?

Did something happen?

And the last thing he needs right now—

is for the entire OR to piece things together before he’s ready.

The nurse nods but hesitates. “Should I call him, then? Let him know you’re still in surgery?”

Jimin pauses.

Just for a second.

Then nods once. “Yes. Tell him I’ll return his messages once I’m done.”

“Alright, doctor.”

The nurse steps out briefly to make the call.

Jimin refocuses, hands steady again as if nothing interrupted them at all.

“Where were we?” he says, tone back to calm professionalism.

“Clot retrieval, doctor,” Dr. Choi replies.

“Right,” Jimin nods. “Let’s proceed.”

But there’s a subtle shift now.

Not in his technique.

Not in his precision.

But somewhere quieter.

Because even as he continues the procedure, guiding his team, finishing cleanly and efficiently—

there’s a small, persistent thought at the back of his mind.

Yoongi.

Worrying.

Messaging him like something is wrong.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel suffocating.

It feels… oddly grounding.

Annoying, maybe.

A little excessive.

But grounding.

Because someone is waiting.

Someone is paying attention.

By the time Jimin finishes and begins closing, the room settles back into its usual rhythm.

“Good work,” he says to his team, voice steady.

But as soon as he steps away, his eyes flick toward the table where his phone rests.

Silent now.

But definitely not empty.

And somehow—

he already knows exactly what he’s going to see.

***

Jimin doesn’t even knock when he pushes the on-call room door open, already halfway through a complaint that dies the moment it leaves his mouth.

“Yoongi, I feel queasy so I really can’t do much other than a sloppy hand—”

He stops.

Yoongi stares at him.

There’s a beat.

A long, blinking, utterly confused beat.

“Huh?” Yoongi says.

Jimin blinks back just as blankly. “Huh?”

And then it hits him.

Oh.

Oh.

Jimin exhales, dragging a hand down his face in secondhand embarrassment. “God,” he mutters under his breath. “Forget I said that.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch, and then he chuckles, low and amused. “I didn’t call you here for that, Jimin.”

Jimin leans back against the closed door, folding his arms loosely over his chest, trying to recover whatever dignity he has left. “Then what did you call me here for?”

There’s a faint sigh in his voice, exhaustion clinging to every word. It’s more obvious now, up close. The slight paleness of his skin, the way his shoulders sag just a little more than usual, like his body is quietly asking for a break he hasn’t been giving it.

Yoongi notices.

Of course he does.

“I called you here to rest,” Yoongi says simply, patting the bed beside him.

Jimin frowns slightly. “Rest.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I checked your schedule. You don’t have surgery for the next four hours. You’re supposed to be doing pre-op rounds, but I already told Doctor Choi to take care of it.”

Jimin straightens a little at that, a reflexive protest rising to his lips. “You did what?”

But it doesn’t come out as sharp as it should have.

Because he’s tired.

So tired.

The kind of tired that settles deep into the bones, that no amount of coffee can fix. The kind that makes even standing feel like a chore.

He exhales slowly, the fight draining out of him before it can even begin. Instead, he just mutters, “You’re overstepping.”

“I know,” Yoongi says easily.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Or better?

Jimin isn’t sure anymore.

“But you needed it,” Yoongi adds, softer this time.

Jimin doesn’t argue because Yoongi is totally right. He needs it.

He hates that Yoongi can see it.

He hates it in the same way he used to hate being seen at all.

But it doesn’t feel as suffocating as it used to.

That’s… new.

“But I hate the beds here,” Jimin complains instead, pushing himself off the door and walking toward the bed with slow, dragging steps. “They don’t even have blankets.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet laugh, watching him. “First time I’ve heard you complain about the on-call room.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says as he drops down on the edge of the bed beside him. “Because every time we’re here, we’re busy.”

The words hang between them for a second.

It's different now.

Everything about this is different now.

Yoongi hums. “Fair enough.”

There’s a brief silence, but it’s not the kind that feels awkward anymore. Not the kind that stretches too tight between them.

It’s… easy.

Unfamiliar, but surely easy.

“Okay,” Yoongi says after a moment, shifting slightly and patting the mattress again. “Lie down. I’ll wake you up if you get paged.”

Jimin glances at him.

Studies him, almost.

There was a time—very recently—when Jimin would have brushed this off. Made a joke. Left the room. Avoided the moment entirely just to avoid… this.

Care.

But now he just nods.

“Fine,” he mutters.

He slips his shoes off and moves to lie down, adjusting himself on the narrow hospital bed. It’s not comfortable, not really, but right now it feels like the best thing he’s had all day.

Yoongi reaches over without thinking, fixing the pillow under Jimin’s head, adjusting it until it supports him properly.

It’s such a small thing.

So simple.

And yet—Jimin notices.

He always notices.

“I’ll just take a quick nap,” Jimin says quietly, his voice already softer, slower.

“Go ahead,” Yoongi murmurs. “Your time is ticking.”

Jimin huffs out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

For a moment, he just stares at the ceiling.

Then his eyes close.

And just like that, the tension in his body starts to melt, piece by piece.

Yoongi stays where he is, sitting beside him, one arm resting loosely on his thigh. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t make noise. He just… stays.

Watching.

Just enough to make sure Jimin is okay.

A week ago, this would’ve felt wrong.

Two weeks ago, Jimin would’ve walked out before it even got to this point.

Before Yoongi could see too much.

Before Yoongi could mean too much.

But things have shifted.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Just… slowly.

In quiet moments like this.

In shared silences.

In small acts that neither of them fully acknowledges out loud.

Jimin shifts slightly in his sleep, his hand curling loosely near his chest.

Yoongi glances at him, something soft flickering across his face.

This wasn’t part of the deal.

None of this was.

Not the concern.

Not the waiting.

Not the quiet understanding that’s starting to build between them.

Not the fact that Yoongi knows Jimin’s worst memories, his deepest wounds—and stayed anyway.

And definitely not the fact that there’s a life growing between them now.

But somehow—despite all of that—this doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Yoongi leans back slightly against the wall, letting out a slow breath.

Jimin sleeps.

And Yoongi stays.

And somewhere in between all of it—without either of them saying it out loud—something shifts into place.

Not just sex.

Not just a deal.

Something quieter. Heavier.

Something that settles in the spaces they used to leave empty.

Something… more.

Something neither of them planned.

But something they’re both, slowly, starting to accept.

Time stretches in the small on-call room, the dim light painting the walls in soft gold and gray. Outside, the hospital never really sleeps. There are distant footsteps echoing through the hallways, muted pages overhead, the occasional rattle of a gurney rolling past. Life continues beyond the door in the same relentless rhythm it always has.

But in here—it feels suspended.

Quiet.

Contained in a way hospitals rarely are.

Yoongi exhales slowly and leans further back against the couch, shoulders sore from hours of standing in the OR. Across from him, Jimin sleeps curled on his side beneath the thin blanket of the call room bed, one arm tucked under the pillow, face softened by exhaustion.

He looks younger like this.

Less guarded.

Less sharp around the edges.

And maybe that’s why Yoongi keeps looking at him.

He reaches into his pocket for his phone mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. The room is too quiet. His thoughts are too loud. So he unlocks the screen and lets his thumb hover for a second before typing into the search bar.

Pregnancy first trimester care.

The results appear instantly.

Articles.

Medical journals.

Guidelines.

Forums.

He almost laughs to himself.

Years ago, this would have just been information to memorize for exams. Temporary knowledge filed away somewhere in his brain before moving on to the next thing. Obstetrics had never been his field. He remembers sitting through lectures half-asleep while thinking about bones, joints, trauma surgery—the things that made sense to him.

Orthopedics is simple in comparison.

Orthopedics makes sense to him.

Bones make sense.

A fracture happens because of force. A ligament tears because of impact. Healing follows timelines. Recovery has structure. There are protocols, measurable improvements, scans that tell him exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it.

Pregnancy doesn’t feel like that.

Pregnancy feels unpredictable.

Fragile in ways that make him uneasy.

He scrolls slowly through an article discussing fatigue during the first trimester, brows pulling together slightly as he reads symptom after symptom that suddenly sounds painfully familiar.

Nausea.

Vomiting.

Dizziness.

Mood changes.

Exhaustion.

Hormonal fluctuations.

Nutritional support.

Stress management.

Warning signs.

His jaw tightens slightly.

Jimin has almost all of it.

The exhaustion.

The nausea.

The mood shifts he tries to hide behind sarcasm.

Yoongi glances up from the screen.

Jimin shifts slightly in his sleep, brows faintly furrowing before relaxing again. Even asleep, he looks tired. Like his body is trying to recover from something deeper than long shifts and missed meals.

And maybe it is.

Yoongi watches him longer than he means to.

It’s strange.

How quickly this happened.

Two months ago, they were barely anything to each other beyond familiar faces in hospital corridors. Colleagues. Friends through proximity. Two people existing in the same orbit without ever really colliding.

Then came that night.

Too much alcohol.

Too much exhaustion.

Too much loneliness neither of them wanted to name out loud.

Yoongi remembers seeing Jimin at the bar and thinking he looked different outside the hospital. Softer somehow. Less untouchable. He remembers how easy it had been to sit beside him. To talk. To keep talking.

Then came one reckless decision after another.

And somehow it became this.

This room.

This sleeping omega beside him.

This strange heaviness in his chest every time he looks at him now.

Yoongi lowers his phone slowly.

Because if he’s being honest with himself, something changed long before the pregnancy test.

He just hadn’t noticed it immediately.

Or maybe he refused to.

Jimin has always been beautiful. Anyone with functioning eyes can see that. People notice him without trying. Even exhausted in wrinkled scrubs after a twenty-hour shift, he still manages to look composed in a way Yoongi never quite understands.

But it’s not just that.

It’s never just that.

It’s the way Jimin steps into an operating room and suddenly everyone trusts him without question.

The way his hands never shake during surgery.

The way he teaches residents with patience even when he’s clearly exhausted himself.

The way he keeps going no matter how tired he is.

And maybe most dangerously—

it’s the way he hides pain so well that people forget it exists at all.

Yoongi exhales quietly.

Because lately he’s starting to realize how much pain Jimin carries around.

Not physically.

Something older than that.

Something buried deep enough that even Jimin himself probably doesn’t know where it begins anymore.

And somehow—instead of pushing Yoongi away, it keeps pulling him closer.

“That’s probably a bad sign,” Yoongi murmurs under his breath.

Jimin shifts slightly again, breathing evening out after a moment.

Yoongi’s gaze drifts unconsciously toward the omega’s stomach.

There’s nothing there yet.

Not really.

No visible bump.

No obvious sign.

Just the knowledge of it.

The understanding that something is growing there.

Something alive.

His child. 

The thought still feels surreal every single time it crosses his mind.

He’s going to be a father.

A father.

The word alone almost makes him laugh out of disbelief.

Because nothing about Yoongi has ever screamed father material.

He works too much.

Sleeps too little.

Forgets meals constantly.

Half his emotional coping mechanisms involve pretending things don’t affect him until they eventually explode later.

And yet—

when Jimin told him he was pregnant, Yoongi’s first instinct hadn’t been fear.

It had been action.

What do they need?

What’s the plan?

What should he do?

Namjoon once told Yoongi that he solves problems instead of processing emotions.

At the time, Yoongi rolled his eyes at him.

Now he thinks maybe Namjoon was right.

Because the second this became real, Yoongi stopped thinking about escape entirely.

Leaving never even crossed his mind.

Not once.

Instead he found himself searching for prenatal vitamins online at three in the morning.

Reading about omega pregnancies between surgeries.

Memorizing warning signs.

Calculating schedules in his head to make sure Jimin wouldn’t have to attend appointments alone.

It happened naturally.

Like his brain made the decision before his heart could catch up.

Yoongi rubs tiredly at his face before looking down at his phone again. Another article catches his attention.

Emotional support during pregnancy significantly affects maternal wellbeing.

He scoffs softly under his breath.

“Great,” he mutters quietly. “No pressure.”

His eyes drift back toward Jimin almost immediately.

And there’s something about this moment that suddenly feels dangerous.

Not because anything is happening.

But because nothing is.

No sex.

No flirting.

No distractions.

Just this quiet room and the realization that Yoongi genuinely likes being here with him.

That realization settles heavily in his chest.

Because wanting someone physically is easy.

Yoongi understands that.

But this ache to stay close to someone even in silence—that’s different.

That’s where things get complicated.

He studies Jimin’s sleeping face carefully.

The faint crease between his brows.

The exhaustion beneath his eyes.

The way he instinctively curls inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller even in sleep.

Yoongi doesn’t fully think before moving.

He leans forward slightly and lets his thumb gently smooth over that tiny furrow between Jimin’s brows.

A small gesture.

Barely anything at all.

But the second he does it, something in his chest tightens painfully.

Jimin relaxes almost immediately beneath the touch, his expression softening as he sinks deeper into sleep.

And God.

That does something to Yoongi.

Something he doesn’t entirely want to examine too closely.

He pulls his hand back slowly and leans against the couch again.

Staring at the ceiling this time.

Because this whole thing is becoming harder to categorize.

At first, it was simple.

Two adults blowing off steam.

That’s all.

Then came the pregnancy.

And suddenly they became partners in something irreversible.

But now—now Yoongi finds himself memorizing the way Jimin takes his coffee.

The foods he suddenly hates.

The tiny annoyed sound he makes when his nausea gets bad.

The way his voice softens around children and patients.

The way he pretends he’s okay long before he actually is.

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly.

“This is insane,” he whispers to himself.

Because it is.

Everything about this is.

But despite the fear—despite the uncertainty—Yoongi can’t deny one thing anymore.

Something about Jimin has rooted itself inside him already.

Quietly.

Deeply.

Irreversibly.

And maybe that should terrify him more than it does.

Instead, he just stays there beside him.

Watching over him in the dim silence of the call room while the hospital continues breathing outside the door.

***

Little by little, Jimin and Yoongi find a rhythm—not a perfect one, not something polished or effortless, but something real. Something that works.

It shows in the small things.

In the way Jimin actually calls now instead of suffering through things on his own.
In the way Yoongi shows up—no questions asked.

They don’t talk about it much. They don’t sit down and define whatever this is becoming.

But they live it.

And somehow, that’s enough.

“I wouldn’t really call you if only…” Jimin trails off, pushing his door open before stepping inside, slipping his shoes off without much thought.

Yoongi follows right behind him, carrying two grocery bags in each hand. He’s been here before—once, maybe twice—but it still feels unfamiliar in that quiet, personal way. Like stepping into a space that belongs entirely to Jimin. A version of him that isn’t guarded by hospital walls or sterile lighting.

“I’m really sorry for the trouble,” Jimin continues, already walking toward the kitchen, one hand absentmindedly resting on his stomach like he’s grounding himself.

Yoongi sets the bags down on the dining table with a soft thud. “It’s no trouble, Jimin-ah. I told you to call me whenever you need something.”

Jimin turns to him, brows furrowed, clearly not convinced. “Yeah, but you’re busy. You have patients, surgeries, an actual life. And I’m here being a whiny pregnant omega who can’t even get out of bed unless he’s fed with a—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated, “—a durian sandwich.”

He makes a face at himself, like he doesn’t even understand it.

Yoongi, on the other hand, just nods like it’s the most reasonable thing he’s ever heard.

“It’s not really that hard to find durian,” he says calmly, already pulling ingredients out of the bags. “But a durian sandwich? That’s… questionable.”

Jimin huffs, folding his arms. “Exactly.”

“So I’ll make you one instead,” Yoongi adds simply. “I brought everything.”

Jimin blinks at him.

Once.

Twice.

“You’re serious.”

Yoongi glances over his shoulder, already moving around the kitchen like he belongs there. “Very.”

Jimin leans against the counter, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Do you even know how to make edible food?”

Yoongi scoffs lightly, washing his hands at the sink. “Food is meant to be edible, Jimin.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“And yes,” Yoongi adds, drying his hands and reaching for a knife. “You shouldn’t underestimate an alpha like me.”

Jimin lets out a quiet hum, clearly skeptical—but he doesn’t move.

He stays.

Right there.

Watching.

The kitchen slowly fills with the unmistakable smell of durian.

Strong. Sweet. Almost overwhelming.

Yoongi’s nose scrunches slightly despite himself, and he exhales through his mouth, trying to adjust.

“…You actually like this?” he mutters under his breath.

Jimin perks up immediately. “I love it.”

Of course he does.

Yoongi shakes his head lightly, slicing the fruit carefully, trying not to think too much about the smell. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re making it for me anyway,” Jimin shoots back, sounding far too pleased.

Yoongi doesn’t argue.

He just keeps going.

There’s something oddly domestic about it. The quiet clatter of utensils, the soft hum of the fridge, Jimin lingering nearby instead of retreating to another room.

He doesn’t sit.

Doesn’t scroll through his phone.

Doesn’t distract himself.

He just… stays close.

Leaning against the counter, watching Yoongi work like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Because Yoongi isn’t just throwing things together.

He’s careful and intentional.

He toasts the bread just enough for a slight crunch, spreads something light to balance the texture, arranges the durian neatly instead of just piling it on.

It looks—ridiculously good.

Jimin blinks.

“Why does that look like it came from a five-star hotel?”

Yoongi shrugs, not even looking up. “Because I have standards.”

Jimin lets out a soft laugh.

And for the first time that day, he looks genuinely happy.

They move to the dining table.

Yoongi slides the plate toward him, watching carefully, like this is some kind of test.

Jimin doesn’t waste a second.

He picks it up, takes a bite—

And his eyes widen.

“Oh my god.”

Yoongi leans back slightly in his chair, trying not to look too invested. “Good?”

Jimin nods immediately, already taking another bite. “It’s so good.”

There’s something about the way he says it—unfiltered and honest.

Yoongi feels something in his chest loosen just a little.

He watches Jimin eat, slower now, taking his time, actually enjoying it.

“Here,” Jimin suddenly says, holding the sandwich out toward him. “Try it.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “I’m good.”

“Just one bite.”

“I don’t like durian.”

Jimin frowns, hand still extended. “You made it.”

“For you.”

“And now you have to try it.”

Yoongi exhales, already knowing he’s lost.

He leans forward slightly, taking a reluctant bite.

The taste hits him immediately.

He pauses.

Chews.

Swallows.

“…It’s not that bad,” he admits carefully.

Jimin beams.

Actually beams.

And for some reason, that feels better than anything else.

“See?” Jimin says, clearly satisfied, pulling the sandwich back to himself. “You just needed to trust me.”

Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

He’s too busy eating.

But there’s a softness to him now. A quiet ease that wasn’t there before.

And Yoongi just watches—warm, steady, and present.

The night settles around them without much notice.

The conversation drifts into nothing important—small comments, quiet laughs, the kind of easy back-and-forth that doesn’t need effort.

And somewhere between bites of a ridiculous durian sandwich and the quiet hum of Jimin’s apartment—something settles again.

Yoongi leans back slightly in his chair, arms resting loosely as he watches Jimin finish the last bite.

Jimin looks up, catching him staring.

“What?”

Yoongi shakes his head lightly.

“Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing.

It’s everything.

And maybe—just maybe—this is what it looks like.

Not perfect or planned but undeniably real.

And theirs.

Chapter Text

“Alright, everyone, let’s do a time-out.”

Jimin’s voice cuts cleanly through the operating room—measured, controlled, and practiced. It doesn’t rise, doesn’t demand attention loudly. It doesn’t need to. The authority is already there.

The room responds almost instantly.

Movement slows. Conversations stop. The low hum of machines continues—steady beeps from the cardiac monitor, the quiet ventilation of the anesthesia machine—but the people in the room shift into focus.

This is protocol.

But more than that—this is safety.

Jimin stands at the head of the table, already scrubbed in, gloved hands held in front of him, careful not to break sterility. His eyes sweep across the entire team—the anesthesiologist, scrub nurse, circulating nurse, residents, and surgical techs—making sure everyone is present, attentive.

No assumptions. Never assumptions.

The patient lies draped, only the surgical site exposed. The left side of the head is prepped, marked, ready.

They confirm it anyway.

Jimin nods once toward the circulating nurse.

“Time-out. Please confirm patient identity.”

The circulating nurse looks down at the chart, then at the patient’s ID band.

“Patient is Kim Haneul, 42-year-old female. MRN ending in 7842.”

Jimin repeats, steady. “Kim Haneul, 42, MRN 7842.”

He shifts slightly. “Procedure?”

“Left frontal craniotomy for tumor resection,” the circulating nurse answers.

Jimin echoes it again, because repetition matters. “Left frontal craniotomy for tumor resection.”

His gaze moves to the marked site.