Chapter Text
Park Jimin did not cry when it ended.
That was the first thing he noticed. Not the silence stretching between him and the man standing across from him. Not the half-empty coffee cup cooling on the table between them. Not the way the late afternoon light spilled through the café window and made everything look softer than it felt.
No.
What Jimin noticed first was that he did not cry. He sat very still, hands folded neatly in his lap, back straight, expression calm enough that anyone watching might have mistaken him for composed. Inside, something had gone horribly quiet.
Across from him, Minjae exhaled like Jimin’s silence inconvenienced him. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he said.
Jimin blinked once. “What?”
“This.” Minjae gestured vaguely at him. At his face, his hands, his body, his careful stillness. “You make everything feel heavy. Even now.”
Jimin’s fingers tightened against each other beneath the table. He had expected the breakup. Maybe not today. Maybe not here, in the small café near his workplace where the staff already knew his order and smiled at him like he was someone easy to like. But he had expected it eventually.
There had been too many unanswered messages. Too many sighs whenever Jimin asked if something was wrong. Too many evenings spent beside someone who made him feel lonelier than being alone. Still, expectation did not make the words softer.
Minjae dragged his hand through his hair. “I can’t keep doing this, Jimin-ah. I’m tired.”
Jimin swallowed. “Of me?”
He hated that the question came out so quietly. Minjae looked away. That was answer enough. A faint laugh escaped Jimin before he could stop it. It did not sound like amusement. It sounded like something cracking politely.
“I see.”
“You don’t,” Minjae said, sharper now, as if Jimin’s calmness had offended him. “That’s the problem. You never see it. You always need something.”
Jimin stared at him and suddenly realized… Need. There it was. The word landed with old weight.
“You need reassurance all the time,” Minjae continued. “You need me to tell you we’re fine. You need me to notice when you’re upset. You need praise for every little thing, and if I don’t give it to you, you get quiet and sad and make me feel like I’ve failed you.”
Jimin’s throat tightened. He wanted to say that was not true. He wanted to say he had never asked for much. He wanted to say that sometimes all he had wanted was for Minjae to look at him and say, I’m glad you’re here. But the words stayed trapped somewhere behind his ribs.
Minjae leaned back in his chair, exhaustion written across his face like Jimin had been a storm he had survived. “You’re too sensitive,” he said. “Too emotional. Too hungry for things I can’t keep giving you.”
Jimin breathed in. Slowly and carefully. Because he had been taught early that making a scene only made things worse. “I didn’t realize I was asking for so much,” he said.
Minjae’s expression softened for half a second, but not enough to become kindness. “That’s the thing, Jimin-ah. You never do.”
The café noise continued around them. Cups clinked. The espresso machine hissed. Someone laughed near the counter. A woman by the window turned a page in her book. The world did not pause just because Jimin felt humiliated.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
Minjae frowned. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
Jimin almost smiled.
Something. That was always what people wanted from him. Not too much. Not too little. Not silence. Not need. Not tears. Not questions. Something perfectly measured and easy to digest. He stood, reaching for his coat.
Minjae looked startled. “Jimin—”
“It’s fine.” The lie came out smoothly, maybe too much so.
Minjae’s mouth tightened. “See? This. You do this. You act like you’re fine, but I know later you’ll go home and fall apart.”
Jimin looked at him then. Really looked at him. There had been a time when he thought Minjae’s ability to notice those things meant he cared. Now Jimin wondered if it had only made him easier to resent.
“Then you don’t have to watch,” Jimin said.
Minjae went silent. Jimin put on his coat. His hands did not shake. He was proud of that, although he knew pride was a strange thing to feel while being left. He bowed his head slightly, polite even now, because some habits were carved too deep to remove.
“Take care of yourself.” Then he walked out before Minjae could answer.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting. Jimin made it three blocks before he stopped in front of a closed flower shop, one hand pressed to his chest like he could hold himself together through pressure alone.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark glass. Soft mouth. Tired eyes. Hair falling slightly out of place from the wind. He looked exactly like himself. That felt unfair. Something this painful should have changed him visibly. He should have looked ruined. Instead, he looked like Park Jimin on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. Maybe too sensitive, too emotional and too hungry.
Jimin closed his eyes. For one foolish second, he wished someone would stand in front of him and say Minjae was wrong. Not because they had to. Not because Jimin asked. Maybe… because they saw him. But no one did. So Jimin opened his eyes, fixed his scarf, and went back to work.
By the time he reached the children’s art center, his face had remembered how to be pleasant. That was another thing he was good at.
The center occupied the second floor of an old renovated building with wide windows and uneven wooden floors. The walls were covered in children’s paintings: blue suns, purple trees, houses with crooked roofs, family portraits where everyone smiled too widely.
Jimin loved it there. Not because it was always happy. It wasn’t. Children came to him carrying all kinds of quiet hurt. Divorce. Grief. Anxiety. Anger too large for their small bodies. Fear they did not yet have words for. But in the art room, no feeling had to behave perfectly.
Paint could be angry. Clay could be sad. Crayons could press too hard and break. Paper could tear. Glue could spill. Nothing had to be graceful to be understood.
Jimin took off his coat in the staff room, washed his hands, and checked his face in the small mirror above the sink.
His eyes were a little red. Not from crying but from holding it back. He smiled at his reflection. It looked convincing enough.
“Jimin-ssi?” He turned.
Hoseok stood in the doorway, holding a stack of colored paper against his chest. His expression was bright as always, but his eyes were too sharp to miss things.
“You okay?”
Jimin’s smile widened automatically. “Of course.”
Hoseok tilted his head.
Jimin reached for the apron hanging beside the cabinet. “I’m just a little tired.”
“Mm.” That sound meant Hoseok did not believe him. Thankfully, he did not push. “The little monsters are energetic today,” Hoseok said instead. “Minseo already tried to convince me glitter is a basic human right.”
Jimin laughed softly despite himself. “It might be.”
“Don’t encourage her. I barely survived the last glitter incident.”
Jimin tied his apron around his waist. “I’ll handle it.”
“That’s what scares me. You’re too soft with them.”
The words hit strangely.
Too soft.
But Hoseok said it with affection, not accusation.
Jimin let himself breathe. The first group arrived ten minutes later in a rush of small shoes, loud voices, and winter-flushed cheeks.
“Teacher Jimin!” A girl named Minseo barreled toward him with both arms full of markers.
Jimin crouched immediately, smiling for real this time. “Careful, careful. If you run with markers, they’ll become weapons.”
Minseo gasped dramatically. “Art weapons.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
Jimin accepted the markers from her and placed them on the table. “Then we’ll use them wisely.”
Today’s session was about drawing safe places. Not perfect places. Not happy places. Safe ones. Jimin explained it gently, standing in front of the low tables while eight children looked up at him with varying levels of interest.
“A safe place can be real,” he said. “Like your bedroom, or your grandmother’s kitchen, or a park you like. Or it can be imaginary. A castle. A cloud. A house underwater. Anything.”
A boy named Hajoon frowned down at his blank paper. “What if I don’t have one?”
Jimin’s chest tightened. He lowered himself onto the chair beside him. “Then we can make one today.”
Hajoon glanced at him. “What if I make it wrong?”
“There’s no wrong safe place.”
“What if it’s ugly?”
“Safe things don’t have to be pretty.”
The boy considered that. Then, slowly, he picked up a green crayon.
Jimin watched him draw the first uncertain line. “That’s good,” he said softly. “Start there.”
Hajoon’s shoulders relaxed. Across the room, Minseo had drawn what appeared to be a castle with six suns and a dragon sleeping on the roof.
Jimin moved to her table. “Tell me about this.”
“This is my house. The dragon keeps bad dreams away.”
“That’s a very strong dragon.”
“It bites.”
“I can tell.”
Minseo beamed.
Jimin leaned closer. “I like how you used red here. It makes the dragon look brave.”
Her smile widened so quickly it almost hurt to see. Praise was such a small thing. A sentence. A noticing. A hand offered without grabbing. And children bloomed under it like flowers turning toward light. Jimin knew how to give that. He gave it easily, naturally. Again and again, all afternoon.
“That color choice is beautiful.”
“You worked really hard on that.”
“I can see you were thinking carefully.”
“You were brave to try again.”
“You don’t have to finish today. Resting is allowed.”
The children accepted the words with varying degrees of embarrassment and delight. Some smiled openly. Some ducked their heads. Some pretended not to care while quietly sitting taller. Jimin saw all of it. He always saw it.
Near the end of the session, Hajoon tugged lightly on Jimin’s sleeve. “Teacher.”
Jimin turned. “Yes?”
The boy showed him his paper. It was mostly green. A small room, maybe. Or a box. Or a house. The lines were shaky, pressed too hard in some places. Inside the green space, Hajoon had drawn a tiny figure curled beneath a blanket.
Jimin looked at it carefully. Then he looked at Hajoon. “You made a place to rest,” he said.
Hajoon nodded once.
“It’s very safe,” Jimin continued. “I can tell because the person inside doesn’t have to stand up yet.”
Hajoon’s lower lip trembled. For a second, Jimin thought he might cry. Instead, the boy whispered, “Can I keep it?”
“Of course.”
“Can I make another one next time?”
Jimin smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
Hajoon looked down at the drawing again. Then, very quietly, he said, “You’re good at this, teacher.”
Jimin froze. It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. A child had said something kind. That was all. A small, simple sentence from a seven-year-old with green crayon smudged across his fingers. But Jimin’s throat closed like the words had found a place inside him no adult had touched in years.
You’re good at this.
He forced himself to smile. “Thank you,” he said softly. “That means a lot to me.”
Hajoon nodded, satisfied, and ran off to put his drawing in his folder. Jimin stayed crouched beside the table for a moment longer, hands resting on his knees. He felt strangely unsteady. Hoseok caught his eye from across the room. Jimin stood too quickly and began gathering scattered crayons. He was fine. He was always fine.
His father called at 8:17 p.m.
Jimin knew because he stared at the phone for three rings before answering. The apartment was quiet around him. Too quiet. He had changed into soft gray sweatpants and an oversized sweater. His dinner sat untouched on the small table near the window: rice, soup, vegetables he had reheated without appetite.
His phone buzzed again in his hand.
Father.
Jimin considered letting it go to voicemail. Then guilt moved faster than self-preservation. He answered. “Appa.”
There was a pause on the other end, brief but weighted. “You sound tired.”
Jimin sat straighter automatically. “I’m okay.”
“I didn’t ask if you were okay.”
Jimin closed his eyes for one second. “How are you?” he asked.
His father ignored the question. “I spoke with Director Han today.”
Jimin’s stomach sank. Director Han was an old acquaintance of his father’s. He ran a private rehabilitation clinic on the other side of the city. Expensive. Prestigious. Cold in the way expensive places often were.
“He said they’re still looking for someone to coordinate patient activity programs,” his father continued. “It would be a much better position than what you’re doing now.”
Jimin looked toward the corner of his living room, where a stack of children’s drawings waited in a folder for tomorrow’s documentation. “What I’m doing now is important.”
His father sighed. Jimin hated that sigh. It had followed him since childhood. Through report cards with one point missing. Through dance performances where he had smiled too brightly. Through university choices, job choices, relationship choices. Through every version of himself that had been almost acceptable but not quite.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t important,” his father said. “But you’re wasting your potential.”
Jimin pressed his thumbnail into the side of his finger. “I like my work.”
“You like being comfortable.”
Jimin’s jaw tightened.
His father continued, voice calm, reasonable, merciless. “You’ve always been like this. You choose environments where people praise you for being kind instead of challenging you to become better.”
For a moment, Jimin could not speak. The apartment felt smaller. “I work with children who need support,” he said carefully.
“And I’m sure that feels very meaningful.” The words were not cruel on the surface. That made them worse. They came dressed as concern. As wisdom. As parental guidance.
Jimin had spent most of his life being cut open by sentences that sounded respectable.
“You’re too emotional about these things,” his father said. “You always have been. Emotion is useful, Jimin, but it cannot be the foundation of a life.”
Jimin stared at his untouched dinner.
Too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too hungry.
Different voices. Same shape.
“I understand,” he said. He did not. Or maybe he did too well.
His father softened slightly, which only meant the blade changed angle. “I’m telling you this because I want better for you.”
Jimin swallowed.
Better.
That word had never meant happier. It had meant quieter. More impressive. Less embarrassing. Easier to explain to other people.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Jimin’s eyes burned. He looked up at the ceiling and breathed through it. His father hated tears. Not loudly. He had never shouted about them. He simply went still when Jimin cried, face closing with disappointment so complete it felt like punishment. So Jimin had learned not to cry where he could be seen.
“I’ll think about the clinic,” he lied.
“Good.”
There was approval in that one word. Not warmth. Not pride. Just approval because Jimin had bent in the correct direction. It should not have felt like relief. It did anyway.
“I have to go,” his father said. “Send me your updated resume tomorrow. I’ll forward it.”
Jimin’s hand tightened around the phone. “Tomorrow?”
“No reason to delay.”
“I have work.”
“Then after work.”
Jimin closed his eyes again.
“Yes, Appa.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The call ended.
For a while, Jimin did not move. The phone screen went dark in his hand. His soup cooled completely. Outside the window, the city carried on in distant headlights and muffled traffic, indifferent to the quiet collapse happening inside his chest.
Jimin set the phone down carefully. Then he stood, took his dinner to the kitchen, and poured the soup away. He was not hungry anymore. In the silence, his father’s voice lingered. You choose environments where people praise you for being kind.
Jimin gripped the edge of the sink.
Was that true?
Did he want praise that badly?
The thought made shame rise hot under his skin. He remembered Minjae’s face that afternoon.
You need praise for every little thing.
He remembered Hajoon’s shy voice.
You’re good at this.
His throat tightened. Jimin turned on the tap and watched water rush uselessly over the empty bowl. He wanted someone to tell him he had done well. Not because he had obeyed.
Not because he had made the right choice. Not because he had swallowed his own hurt and called it understanding. Just because he had tried. Just because he was tired. Just because he was still standing there, hands damp, heart aching, trying not to fall apart over things other people seemed to survive easily.
The shame of wanting it was almost worse than the wanting itself. Jimin turned off the water. The apartment went quiet again. He leaned against the counter, lowered his head, and finally let one tear fall.
Only one.
Then he wiped it away quickly, even though no one was there to see.
The knock came twenty minutes later. Jimin almost ignored it. He stood in the kitchen with the empty bowl still in the sink, one hand braced against the counter, the other pressed flat over his mouth like he could keep the rest of himself inside by force. The apartment was dim around him. He had not turned on the overhead light after sunset, only the small lamp near the sofa, warm and weak, throwing gold across the rug and leaving the corners soft with shadow.
The knock came again.
Three quick taps.
Then a pause.
Then two more, louder this time.
Jimin closed his eyes.
Taehyung.
No one else knocked like the door had personally offended them by being closed. “Jimin-ah,” Taehyung called from the hallway. “Open up before I start being dramatic.”
Jimin inhaled, wiped both hands on a towel, and checked his reflection in the dark window. His eyes were still a little red.
Not much.
Enough.
He pinched his cheeks lightly, hated himself for doing it, then walked to the door.
When he opened it, Kim Taehyung stood on the other side with a paper bag tucked against his chest, his long coat falling open over an outfit that looked effortless in the way only Taehyung could manage: loose black trousers, cream sweater, scarf half undone, hair falling into his eyes like he had been styled by wind and expensive sadness.
He took one look at Jimin and stopped smiling. That was the trouble with Taehyung. He just saw things. Not always the practical things. He could forget appointments, lose his keys twice in one day, and once had left his phone inside Jimin’s refrigerator because he had been “thinking creatively.”
But feelings?
Taehyung saw those like color.
Jimin smiled before Taehyung could say anything. “Hi.”
Taehyung’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.” Taehyung lifted one finger and pointed at his face. “That tiny tragic customer service smile.”
Jimin’s smile twitched. “I don’t have a customer service smile.”
“You absolutely do. It says, ‘Thank you for emotionally devastating me, please come again.’”
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out of Jimin. It was small. Broken around the edges. But real enough that Taehyung’s expression softened. He stepped inside without waiting for permission, toeing off his shoes and moving past Jimin like he owned the place. In some ways, he did. Taehyung had been entering Jimin’s apartment uninvited for years, usually carrying food, clothes Jimin never asked for, or gossip delivered with the gravity of national security.
Tonight, it was food.
He lifted the paper bag. “I brought dumplings.”
Jimin closed the door. “I’m not hungry.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you bring food?”
“Because you’re lying.”
Jimin stared at him. Taehyung stared back. Then he walked into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. His gaze dropped immediately to the sink, to the washed bowl sitting upside down in the drying rack, to the untouched rice still in its container beside the stove. His mouth tightened.
“You threw away dinner.”
Jimin looked away. “It got cold.”
“You own a microwave.”
“I didn’t feel like eating.”
“That’s not better.”
Jimin crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “Tae…”
“No.” Taehyung turned to him fully, all softness gone from his face now. “Don’t Tae me in that tone. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Taehyung blinked once. Jimin knew that look. It was the look Taehyung gave photographers who tried to make him wear ugly sunglasses for “conceptual reasons.” The look he gave rude waiters, slow elevators, and anyone who insulted people he loved.
“Park Jimin,” he said. “You are standing in your kitchen with red eyes, pretending you didn’t cry, and you threw away food. That is at least three somethings.”
Jimin looked down at his hands. He had washed them after the call, but they still felt damp somehow. Cold at the fingertips.
“It’s been a long day.”
Taehyung’s expression changed again.
Less sharp.
More careful.
“Minjae?”
Jimin hated how quickly his chest tightened around the name. He said nothing.
Taehyung exhaled. “Oh, Jimin.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I will be.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Jimin looked up then, irritation flashing through the tiredness. “What do you want me to say?”
Taehyung did not flinch. That made it worse. Most people stepped back when Jimin’s voice sharpened. They took it as proof that he wanted space. Proof that he was difficult, moody, dramatic. Taehyung never did. He simply stood there, patient in the infuriating way of someone who knew Jimin’s anger was usually grief with its coat on.
“I want you to say the truth,” Taehyung said.
Jimin laughed under his breath and turned away.
The truth.
The truth was ugly and small.
The truth was that Minjae had left him and Jimin still felt guilty for being left. Like maybe if he had needed less, asked less, wanted less, he would have been easier to keep.
The truth was that his father had called, and Jimin had become ten years old again, waiting for one sentence that never came.
The truth was that a child had told him he was good at his job and Jimin had almost cried because apparently that was all it took.
One kind sentence.
One.
How pathetic was that?
“Minjae broke up with me,” he said finally.
Taehyung’s face went still.
Jimin shrugged, because if he did not make it casual, it would become unbearable. “It was expected.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was.”
“Jimin—”
“It was,” Jimin repeated, too quickly. “He’s been unhappy for a while. I knew. I just didn’t want to make him say it.”
Taehyung’s eyes softened with something dangerously close to pity.
Jimin looked away before it could touch him.
“What did he say?” Taehyung asked.
Jimin almost lied. Then he was too tired. “That I need too much.”
The apartment went very quiet.
Taehyung’s expression darkened. “He said what?”
Jimin regretted answering immediately. “Tae, don’t.”
“No. What exactly did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate for both of us, because it does.”
Jimin pressed the heel of his hand against one eye. “He said I need reassurance all the time. That I’m too sensitive. Too emotional. Too hungry for things he can’t give.”
Taehyung did not speak. Jimin lowered his hand and found him staring with a kind of cold fury that almost made him smile.
Almost.
“And then appa called,” Jimin added, because apparently the part of him that liked pain had decided the night was already ruined. “He wants me to apply for a position at Director Han’s clinic.”
Taehyung’s fury sharpened. “Of course he does.”
“It’s a good position.”
“Do you want it?”
Jimin was silent.
Taehyung’s mouth tightened. “There’s the answer.”
“He thinks I’m wasting my potential.”
“Your father thinks joy is suspicious unless it comes with a certificate.”
Jimin huffed weakly. “That’s not fair.”
“It is extremely fair. I’m being generous.”
Despite himself, Jimin’s mouth trembled toward a smile.
Taehyung saw it and pounced. “Exactly. I’m hilarious. Now sit down.”
“Tae—”
“Sit.”
Jimin blinked.
Taehyung pointed toward the sofa with the authority of someone who had no formal training but excessive confidence.
“Park Jimin. Sofa. Now.”
Jimin stared at him for another second, then obeyed mostly because resisting required energy he did not have. He sank onto the sofa, pulling one knee up beneath him.
Taehyung moved around the apartment with the aura of someone who had done that so many times. He turned on another lamp. Put the dumplings onto a plate. Found chopsticks. Poured water. Opened Jimin’s fridge, made a wounded noise at its contents, then closed it with visible restraint. When he returned, he placed the plate on the coffee table and sat beside Jimin, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
“Eat one.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“I heard you. Eat one anyway.”
Jimin looked at him. Taehyung picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks and held it toward him. Jimin sighed, but accepted it. The food tasted better than he wanted it to. Taehyung looked satisfied in a deeply annoying way.
They sat in silence for a while. Jimin ate three dumplings under Taehyung’s watchful eye. Then four. Then half the plate because apparently his body had decided to betray his dramatic grief by needing food.
Taehyung did not comment. That was how Jimin knew he was worried. Usually, Taehyung had commentary for everything. When the plate was nearly empty, Jimin leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” he said. The words came out before he could stop them.
Taehyung’s shoulder pressed lightly against his. “Nothing is wrong with you.”
Jimin laughed once, bitterly. “You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t. I could say many things. I often do.”
Jimin opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “What if they’re right?”
“They?”
“Minjae. Appa.” His voice became quieter. “Everyone.”
Taehyung shifted beside him.
“What if I do need too much?” Jimin asked. “What if I’m exhausting? What if I want things people don’t know how to give because normal people don’t need them so badly?”
Taehyung did not answer immediately. For once, he did not rush in with comfort. He sat with the question like it deserved space. Then he said, “Wanting to be loved gently does not make you exhausting.”
Jimin swallowed.
“And wanting praise does not make you childish,” Taehyung continued. “Or needy. Or whatever other boring word emotionally constipated men use when they don’t know how to care for someone properly.”
Jimin turned his head slightly. Taehyung looked genuinely offended on his behalf. It made something in Jimin ache.
“I’m serious,” Taehyung said. “You spend your entire life making everyone else feel safe, and then the moment you want someone to do the same for you, suddenly you’re too much?”
Jimin’s eyes burned again. He looked away quickly.
Taehyung softened. “Oh, Jiminie.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Be kind like that.”
Taehyung’s face changed. Something wounded passed through it, not for himself but for Jimin. “Why?”
Jimin pressed his lips together.
Because kindness made him weak.
Because if Taehyung was kind, Jimin might believe he deserved it.
Because if he believed that, then Minjae’s words and his father’s voice would hurt even more.
Because wanting kindness was already humiliating enough without receiving it.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Taehyung reached out slowly, giving Jimin time to pull away. When he did not, Tae took his hand. His fingers were warm.
“You’re allowed to be sad,” he said.
Jimin closed his eyes. “You’re allowed to be angry too.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You should be.”
“I’m tired.”
“That too.”
Jimin let out a shaky breath. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The city hummed outside the window. Somewhere upstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. The refrigerator clicked softly in the kitchen. Small, ordinary sounds. Jimin clung to them. Then Taehyung squeezed his hand.
“Okay,” he said.
Jimin opened his eyes. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It should.” Taehyung sat up straighter, decision settling over him like a coat. “We’re going out tomorrow.”
Jimin stared. “What?”
“Out.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Tae, I just got dumped.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not a reason to go out.”
“That is the classic reason to go out.”
“I don’t want to drink in some loud club while strangers sweat on me.”
Taehyung wrinkled his nose. “First of all, my taste is better than that. Second, I didn’t say we were going to that kind of club.”
Jimin narrowed his eyes. Taehyung looked suddenly too innocent.
Jimin knew that face too. “What kind of club?”
“A private one.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“That’s why I’m saying no.”
Taehyung grinned, and it was the first time all night he looked like himself again. “Good. Mystery is healthy.”
“Tae.”
“It’s beautiful. Very controlled. Very safe. Very expensive-looking but in a tasteful way.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“It tells you I would never take you somewhere ugly.”
Jimin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t want to go out.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“I’m not asking.”
Jimin looked at him.
Taehyung smiled sweetly. “I’m rescuing you from becoming one with your sofa.”
“I like my sofa.”
“Your sofa is enabling you.”
“My sofa has done nothing wrong.”
“It watched you throw away soup and said nothing.”
Despite himself, Jimin laughed.
Taehyung’s smile softened at the sound, like he had been waiting for it. “There,” he said quietly. “That’s the real you.”
Jimin’s laughter faded.
Taehyung leaned closer, voice gentler now. “I’m not saying you have to feel better tomorrow. You don’t. Feel awful if you need to. But don’t sit here alone with his words and your father’s voice until they start sounding like truth.”
Jimin looked down at their joined hands. “What if I ruin the night?”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because you’ll be with me... and Jungkookie.” Taehyung said it like the matter was simple. “And if you hate it, we leave. No questions. No guilt. No pretending.”
Jimin hesitated. That sounded too easy. No questions. No guilt. No pretending. He was not sure he knew how to exist like that. Taehyung tilted his head, studying him.
“Just one night, Jimin-ah. Something different. Somewhere nobody knows Minjae. Somewhere your father’s opinion doesn’t matter. Somewhere you can just… look around.”
“Look around?”
“Yes.”
“At what?”
Taehyung’s mouth curved, secretive and bright. “Possibilities.”
Jimin should have said no. He was tired. His heart hurt. His father wanted his resume by tomorrow. His ex-boyfriend’s words still clung to him like smoke. The responsible thing would be to sleep, wake up early, go to work, and continue being a person. Instead, he looked at Taehyung.
At his best friend’s hopeful, stubborn face.
At the plate of dumplings he had not wanted but had needed.
At the hand still holding his.
And something in Jimin, small and bruised and desperate for air, whispered that maybe one night outside himself would not destroy him.
“Fine,” he said.
Taehyung’s eyes lit up.
“But if it’s weird—”
“It might be.”
“Tae.”
“In a good way.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It will be safe,” Taehyung said, and for once all playfulness left his voice. “I promise.”
Jimin studied him. There was something Taehyung was not saying. Jimin knew that. But he also knew Taehyung would never take him somewhere dangerous. Strange, maybe. Unexpected, definitely. But not dangerous.
“Okay,” Jimin said softly.
Taehyung squeezed his hand again.
“Okay.”
Jimin leaned back into the sofa, exhaustion washing over him at last. For the first time that day, the apartment did not feel quite as cold. Taehyung reached for another dumpling and held it out.
“Eat one more.”
Jimin groaned. “You’re so bossy.”
Taehyung smiled around his own bite.
“You have no idea."