Ale ♥︎

The silence in Seoul had never actually been silent.

It was always rushed kind of quiet—the quick elevator rides, the muted hum of passing cars seven floors down your small apartment, or the muffled sounds of your neighbor closing their front door at an ungodly hour. It was a silence filled with noise, reminding you that even while you slept, the city was still running.

This, however, was entirely different.

This quiet had crickets in it.

You sat on the warm, weather-worn wooden step of the maru outside your grandmother’s traditional hanok, your bare feet resting against the cool slate floor of the courtyard. The morning air was thick with the scent of dew-soaked earth, sweet pine, and wet grass. Somewhere just beyond the low stone walls of the yard.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

The sun was taking its time, slowly bleeding shades of soft apricot and lavender over the mist-shrouded hills of Busan. You had almost forgotten that mornings could look like this. In the concrete jungle of the capital, a sunrise was just a blurred pastel streak caught out of the corner of your eye through a glass window, usually after an all-nighter spent staring at spreadsheets. It was never something you stopped for. It was never something you waited to watch.

Here, you had woken up before it—not to an aggressive phone alarm, not for a 7:00 AM meeting, and not to clear an overflowing inbox.

You had simply woken up.

And the sheer novelty of that simple fact felt almost unnatural.

Reaching down, you dipped your fingers into the small ceramic bowl beside you and picked up a dark purple grape. Your grandmother had washed them earlier, leaving them on the porch step for you, the skins still glistening with cool water droplets. You popped it into your mouth.

Sweet.

Closing your eyes, you let out a quiet breath.

It was almost absurd, really. It was just a grape. You had eaten hundreds of them at your sleek office desk in Seoul, absently popping them into your mouth while typing emails with one hand and reviewing documents with the other. You couldn't recall the taste of a single one.

But now, the flavor exploded on your tongue. You could hear the satisfying snap of the skin between your teeth. You could savor it, swallow, and then sit in the golden morning light doing absolutely nothing.

Maybe that was what years of relentless exhaustion had done to you. It hadn't made you hate your life—that would have been a much easier problem to fix. It had done something far more subtle. It had stripped away the color, turning every day into a series of hurdles to clear.

Mornings were something to survive.

Breakfast was a task to rush through.

Work was an endless queue to clear.

People were exhausting to manage.

How fast should I reply to this text? How carefully do I need to phrase this email so I don’t sound passive-aggressive? Did I disappoint them? Will my manager think I’m slacking off if I log off at six?

You had spent years sprinting in a race where no one had bothered to mark the finish line. And the most terrifying part was that everyone around you was sprinting, too, pretending it was entirely normal. So, you learned to run faster. You learned to plaster a bright, polite smile across your face while doing it. You learned to say, "I'm totally fine," so convincingly that some days, you almost fooled yourself.

A gentle morning breeze swept through the courtyard, rustling the leaves of the old persimmon tree.

"Are you planning on finishing off that entire bowl before the sun even hits the roof?"

You glanced over your shoulder. Your grandmother was standing in the doorframe, her faded floral apron tied neatly around her waist, arms folded as she surveyed you with an affectionate, knowing look.

"Good morning to you, too, Halmeoni," you murmured, offering a soft grin.

"It’s almost time for breakfast."

"I am eating breakfast."

"You're eating fruit."

"Fruit is a valid breakfast."

"Not under my roof, it isn't."

A lighthearted laugh escaped your chest. Shaking her head with a fondness she couldn't quite hide, your grandmother turned back into the house.

"Up. Come help me."

°

The kitchen was instantly smelling of toasted sesame oil, rich soybean paste broth, and warm rice. Golden sunlight poured through the traditional paper windows, bathing the worn wood floors in a deep honey glow. Neatly organized bowls of fresh vegetables lined the wooden counter.

Tying your hair back into a loose bun, you stepped up beside her. "What's on the menu?"

"Whatever you actually know how to make without burning down the house."

You blinked at her. "That doesn't inspire much confidence in me."

"Then stand there and learn." She pushed a large bowl of crisp green spinach toward you. "Wash this."

Turning on the tap, you let the icy water run over your hands. It felt startlingly real against your skin. You watched out of the corner of your eye as your grandmother moved around the small space with the graceful, unhurried rhythm of someone who had prepared this exact meal thousands of times. She sliced radish with practiced precision, seasoned the fresh fish, checked the bubbling pot, and adjusted the heat, all without a single rushed movement.

"Halmeoni?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you do all of this without feeling like you're in a rush?"

She paused, glancing at you over her shoulder. "What kind of question is that?"

"I mean... you just do things. Calmly."

A tiny smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Things don't have legs, Y/N-ah. They don't run away."

You let out a soft sigh. "That's not always true."

"Work runs away?" she asked.

"No."

"People?"

"Sometimes."

"Deadlines?"

"Definitely."

She set her heavy wooden knife down on the cutting board with a soft thud and turned to face you fully.

"Then let them run."

You froze, looking at her.

She held your gaze for a long moment before simply turning back to her vegetables.

"You can't catch everything in this world, child. You'll break your own legs trying."

The silence settled over the kitchen again, soft and broken only by the comforting sounds of cooking.

You looked down at the spinach submerged in the clear water, the coldness seeping into your fingertips.

"I think..." Your voice dropped, small and vulnerable. "I think I spent a really long time trying to catch everything."

"I know." Her voice was soft, devoid of judgment.

You swallowed past the sudden tightness in your throat. "I thought if I just worked a little harder, stayed up a little later, took on one more project... I’d finally feel like I made it. Like I was finally good enough."

"And do you feel that way?"

You shook your head slowly, a heavy weight lifting off your chest just by admitting it aloud. "No. I just feel hollow."

Your grandmother didn't offer a pitying look or a lecture. Instead, she gently took the bowl from your hands, setting it aside.

"Then perhaps," she said softly, wiping her hands on her apron, "you've just been climbing the wrong hill all this time."

A quiet tearful laugh slipped past your lips. "That's pretty philosophical for seven in the morning."

"I've earned every grey hair on my head," she replied with a sharp wink. "I'm allowed to be wise." She tapped the rim of the bowl. "Now wash those properly."

"Yes, ma'am."

For the next twenty minutes, no words were needed. You rinsed the greens until the water ran perfectly clear. She stirred the savory broth. The electric rice cooker let out its chime in the corner.

Outside, the morning breeze whistled through the pine trees, carrying the faint, distant melody of ocean waves crashing along the Busan coastline.

Suddenly, a golden-brown piece of fresh fried tofu appeared right in front of your face.

"Eat."

You blinked, looking from the tofu to your grandmother. "I thought you said fruit wasn't real breakfast and we had to wait."

"It isn't."

"Then why are you feeding me?"

She insisted.

"Halmeoni, I'm fine—"

"You need to enjoy little treats while you are working. Even if the work is as simple as cooking for yourself."

Unable to fight the warmth blooming in your chest, you took the piece of tofu and bit into it. It was hot, perfectly crispy on the outside, rich and savory on the inside.

Your grandmother turned back to the stove, a small smile gracing her face. "You know... when you were seven years old, you used to stand in that exact same spot and steal food right off the cutting board before I could even set the table."

You looked down at the wooden floor beneath your feet, "I did?"

"You did," she murmured, her tone softening. "You haven't changed as much as you think you have."

You swallowed the bite, feeling the knots in your shoulders finally begin to uncoil.

Not all at once. The exhaustion of years couldn't be washed away in a single morning.

But enough.

Enough to take a clear breath.

Enough to realize that coming back here was the first right decision you had made in a very long time.

°

The old bicycle was still there.

You found it tucked away behind the house, half-hidden beneath the heavy, leafy shade of the ancient persimmon tree. It was leaning heavily against the moss-covered wooden fence as though it had been patiently waiting, for years, just for you to finally remember it.

The metal frame was a faded, washed-out robin’s-egg blue, its once-vibrant paint chipped away in delicate patterns to reveal tiny patches of rust near the pedals. The rubber grip on the left handlebar had rotted away completely, and the wicker basket in the front hung slightly crooked. When you reached out and hesitantly pressed the bell, it chimed loudly.

"You're still alive," you murmured under your breath.

You ran your palm down the sun-warmed metal of the handlebars. Remarkably, so were you.

Wheeling it out from the shadows into the bright morning light, you checked the tires with the toe of your shoe. They were a bit soft, giving slightly under the pressure, but not enough to stop you. You hadn't ridden a bike in years—not since high school, certainly never in the chaotic, traffic-choked streets of Seoul—but something about seeing it resting there made your chest ache with the sudden urge to try.

Maybe it was the crisp morning air.

Maybe it was the heavy silence of the countryside.

Or maybe, deep down, you simply wanted to know what it felt like to go somewhere without needing a reason, a GPS route, or a scheduled appointment.

You swung your leg over the frame and pushed off.

The first few meters were embarrassingly clumsy. The front wheel wobbled wildly, and you had to put a foot down to keep from tumbling sideways into the dirt path.

Then, muscle memory took over. Your body remembered what your mind had long forgotten.

Your hands loosened their white-knuckled grip on the handles. Your feet found a smooth, effortless rhythm against the pedals, and suddenly, the gravel road began to slip away beneath your tires.

An incredulous laugh escaped your lips.

The narrow road outside your grandmother's hanok curved gently through the village, flanked by low stone walls and open fields washed in the soft golden sunlight of early morning. Dewdrops glinted like scattered glass on the grass, and green leaves trembled in the canopy overhead. Somewhere nearby, the wooden shutters of a small corner grocery creaked open. A sleepy farm dog barked once from a yard and then lazily gave up.

You kept pedaling, picking up speed.

The farther you rode, the more the tangled thoughts in your head began to unspool. The sea breeze came rushing to meet you, cool as it swept over your skin. It tangled your hair, whipping loose strands across your eyes, but you didn't even care to push them away.

You didn't need to look presentable here. There was no one watching. No performance to put on.

No meetings.

No deadlines.

No blue-light screen glowing in your palm with urgent notifications.

Just you. The bicycle. And the open road beneath the summer sky.

When the narrow path finally broke through the tree line and the ocean burst into view, you instinctively slowed down.

Blue.

An endless, blinding expanse of deep sapphire that made your breath hitch in your throat. The water stretched all the way to the sharp line of the horizon, glittering as if millions of diamonds were floating on the surface under the morning sun. Far out on the water, tiny white fishing boats bobbed lazily in the tide.

You smiled, a full, involuntary smile that reached all the way to your eyes. You couldn't even remember the last time you had smiled simply because you were happy to exist in a moment.

Pedaling slowly along the coastal road, the sea stayed right beside you like an old friend. Every few seconds, a stronger gust of wind would sweep in off the waves, lifting your hair off your shoulders and cooling your warm skin. You closed your eyes for half a second, inhaling the sharp, clean scent of salt and ozone.

You felt lighter.

Not fixed. Not suddenly, magically cured of the exhaustion that had hollowed you out in Seoul.

Just... lighter. And maybe, for a quiet Tuesday morning in Busan, that was more than enough.

You were just beginning to understand what your grandmother had meant earlier in the kitchen. Some things didn't need to be solved. Some things just needed to be felt.

You were still lost in that thought when the bicycle gave a harsh jerk. The pedals suddenly spun uselessly beneath your feet, locking up with a sharp clatter.

"What the...?"

You braked hard, dragging your sneakers across the gravel to bring the bike to a stop.

You looked down. The black, greasy chain had completely slipped off the gears, dangling uselessly against the back wheel.

You stared at it in disbelief, letting out a heavy, exasperated groan. "Are you serious right now?"

Crouching down in the dirt beside the bike, you pinched the cold metal chain between your fingers, trying to loop it back onto the teeth of the sprocket. It snapped back out of place instantly.

You tried again, pressing harder, but it slipped once more, leaving thick, black bicycle grease smeared across your palm and fingers.

"Come on," you muttered, your frustration rising.

You were just about to throw your hands up and push the heavy bike all the way back up the hill when a soft, hesitant voice cut through the sound of the crashing waves behind you.

"Y/n?"

Your hands froze over the iron chain.

The sound of the wind seemed to drop out completely, leaving the world suspended in a strange stillness.

Slowly, almost afraid that your mind was playing tricks on you, you lifted your head and stood up.

Standing just a few meters away on the coastal path, holding his own bicycle by the handlebars, was a young man.

Messy wavy dark hair fluttered gently in the sea breeze, casting soft shadows across his sharp jawline. He was wearing a simple jacket. But it was the way he stood—that familiar, gentle posture—that made your heart leap into your throat before your brain could even process who he was.

He was staring at you. Really staring.

For a long, agonizing second, neither of you said a word. The long years, the distance, the endless miles between Seoul and Busan seemed to evaporate in the small space between your eyes meeting.

The boy who used to race you down this exact coastal road until your lungs burned.

The boy who used to slyly steal the sweetest peaches out of your lunchbox when you weren't looking.

The boy who always knew when you were crying, even when you hid your face and swore up and down that you were fine.

The boy you had once naively believed would always be a constant in your life, right up until the day you packed your bags for the city.

Jimin.

His expression shifted first. The stunned disbelief in his dark eyes melted, giving way to an overwhelming softness. It was a look so raw, so full of unspoken history, that it felt as though he had imagined this exact coincidence a thousand times over and couldn't quite trust that you were actually standing in front of him.

"Y/n-ah...?" he whispered again, his voice lower this time, almost fragile.

You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Jimin."

Saying his name felt like pulling a warm, forgotten memory out of the dark.

Then, his lips curved. It started small and uncertain at the corners, before blooming into the exact same warm, crescent-eyed smile you had kept tucked away in your heart for years. The smile from summers that had once felt like they would last forever.

And suddenly, as the summer wind swept past you both, the ocean didn't seem quite as vast as it had a moment ago.

Jimin took a step forward, the surprise in his eyes giving way to that familiar, crooked smile. He set his own bicycle against the wooden guardrail before walking over to where you stood, your fingers still coated in black chain grease.

"Some things really never change, do they?" he said, his voice carrying the rich, warm cadence of the south. He gestured toward your greasy hands with a quiet chuckle. "You still can't handle a chain to save your life."

"Hey," you protested, though there was zero bite to it. "This bike is older than both of us combined."

"Fair point."

He crouched down beside the rear wheel without a second thought, completely unbothered by the dirt on the road. Watching him from above felt surreal. The boy who used to scrape his knees climbing trees with you was now a young man with broad shoulders, gentle hands, and a calm, grounded presence that seemed to instantly settle the air around you.

With practiced ease, Jimin guided the greasy metal chain back onto the teeth of the gear, giving the pedal a quick backward spin until it clicked back into place with a satisfying snap.

"There," he said, wiping his thumb against his jeans as he stood up. "Fixed. Though if you take it up the steep hill near the lighthouse, it's going to drop again."

"Thank you, Jimin-ah," you murmured softly.

He looked at you then, his eyes searching your face with an quiet intensity that made your breath catch. Up close, the tender light in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

"You look tired, Y/n-ah," he said gently, skipping the superficial pleasantries. It wasn't a critique; it was an observation filled with pure concern. "Real tired."

You looked down at your shoes, the quiet honesty of his words hitting a nerve you’d been trying to numb for months. "Seoul was... a lot."

"I figured." Jimin reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he lightly nudged your shoulder with his own. "Come on. Let's walk for a bit. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Instead of riding, the two of you walked side-by-side along the coastal path, pushing your bicycles along the gravel. The crashing of the waves against the rocks below provided a soothing backdrop to the silence between you—a silence that, unlike in the city, felt comfortable and entirely unhurried.

"I missed the ocean," you admitted quietly, watching the sunlight dance across the water. "In Seoul, everything moves so fast. If you stop to breathe for even a second, it feels like you're falling behind. I was running all the time, Jimin. And I didn't even know what I was running toward."

Jimin listened intently, his head tilted slightly toward you as you spoke.

"You know," he said softly, his voice carrying over the sound of the wind, "when you left for the city, I wondered how long you'd be able to keep up with a place like that. Not because you aren't strong—you're the strongest person I know. But because your heart wasn't built for a place that forgets how to slow down."

You stopped walking, looking over at him in surprise.

Jimin turned to face you, offering a small, reassuring smile. "It's okay to rest, Y/N. Coming back here isn't a failure. It just means you needed to remember who you were before the world told you who to be."

The words settled deep in your chest, loosening a knot of guilt you hadn't even realized you were carrying. A laugh escaped you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "When did you get so wise?"

"I had a lot of time to think while tending to plants," he teased gently, his crescent-eyed smile blooming again. He gestured up the winding road ahead. "Speaking of which... come home with me. My parents would lock me out if they found out I bumped into you and didn't bring you over."

°

The sight of Jimin’s family property brought a wave of nostalgia that made your throat tight.

It hadn't changed at all. Nestled at the foot of the hill overlooking the sea sat the double-story building, on the ground floor, the cozy, bustling family restaurant, and right beside it, spilling out into a sunlit courtyard, was the vibrant flower greenhouse run by his mother.

As children, this place had been your second home. Whenever your grandmother was busy working late, you had practically lived here—sleeping over on the living room floor with Jimin, building blanket forts, and stealing sweet rice cakes from the kitchen counter.

"Eomma! Look who I found!" Jimin called out as you both walked up the paved path.

A woman with soft features and an apron dusted with dirt stepped out from the glass doors of the greenhouse, wiping her hands on a towel. The moment her eyes landed on you, her face lit up with absolute warmth.

"Oh, my goodness... Y/N-ah?!"

Before you could even speak, she hurried over, wrapping you in a motherly embrace that smelled faintly of soil, fresh lavender, and warm sunshine. You melted into the hug instantly, your arms wrapping around her waist.

"Look at you... you're so pale!" she pulled back, gently cupping your face with hands that were warm and calloused. "Your grandmother told me you were coming back for the summer, but I didn't expect to see you so soon. Come inside! You're staying for dinner. I won't take no for an answer."

"Eomma, let her breathe," Jimin laughed, though his eyes were crinkled with fondness as he watched the interaction.

"Quiet, Jimin. Go tell your father to put extra pork in the stew," she ordered playfully before guiding you inside the cozy interior of the restaurant.

From the kitchen, Jimin's father poked his head out, his face breaking into a wide, familiar grin the moment he saw you. "Y/N! Welcome home, kiddo! Just in time—lunch is almost ready!"

Sitting at the wooden table in the back corner—the exact same table where you and Jimin used to do your elementary school homework—you felt a sense of safety wrap around you like a heavy blanket.

Within twenty minutes, the table was piled high with steaming dishes, grilled fish, savory pancakes, fresh kimchi, and a rich, bubbling pot of stew.

You reached out to spoon some of the stew into your bowl, but before your spoon could touch the pot, Jimin’s hand gently caught your wrist.

"Wait," he said softly.

He took your bowl from you, dipped the ladle into the pot, and carefully served you a generous portion of meat, tofu, and broth—making sure not a single piece of mushroom landed in your bowl.

You stared at the dish in surprise. "Jimin..."

"You still pick around mushrooms like they're toxic, don't you?" he asked, a knowing glint in his dark eyes as he placed the bowl back in front of you.

"I... yeah. I do."

"I made sure jimin's father didn't put any cucumber in the side dishes either," his mother added, placing a plate of freshly fried chicken in front of you with a sweet smile. "I know how much you hate the texture."

You sat there, staring at the spread of food prepared so thoughtfully around a childhood dislike you hadn't even thought about in years. In Seoul, you had spent years ordering lunch for entire teams, remembering everyone else's coffee preferences, dietary restrictions, and schedules—while no one ever thought to ask about yours.

Here, in this noisy, sunlit restaurant by the sea, people remembered.

They remembered that you hated mushrooms.

They remembered that you liked your tofu extra crispy.

They remembered you.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, splashing softly against the wooden table.

"Hey..." Jimin lowered his chopsticks immediately, his tone shifting into pure tenderness. He leaned in closer, his thumb instinctively reaching out to brush the tear away from your cheek with a gentle, feather-light touch. "What's wrong? Did I get it wrong?"

"No," you shook your head, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand and letting out a watery, laughter-laced breath. "No, you got it completely right. It's just... I forgot what it felt like."

"What what felt like?" he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours with unreserved affection.

"To be looked after," you whispered, looking around the table at his parents, who were watching you with gentle smiles, and finally back at Jimin. "To feel like I actually belong somewhere."

Jimin’s hand lingered near yours on the table, his fingers gently brushing against your knuckles.

"You've always belonged here, Y/N-ah," he said softly, his voice steady and deeply sincere. "No matter how far you go, this is always home. And we're always here.”

°

The night air was cool, smelling of sea salt and damp leaves, filled with the soft chorus of crickets and the distant rhythm of crashing waves. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Jimin on the edge of the wooden porch, two green bottles of Soju resting between you, their smooth glass glinting in the faint amber light of the lantern overhead.

"I still can't believe you," you said, taking a small sip straight from the bottle and letting out a soft laugh. "You were absolute terrified of anything with more than four legs. Remember that giant beetle in the garden?"

Jimin groaned, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "Y/N, that thing was the size of my fist. It had horns!"

"It was a harmless stag beetle!" you giggled, nudging his knee with yours. "You screamed like a little girl and hid behind me while I picked it up with a leaf to move it. I was your little bodyguard."

"Okay, fine," he admitted, looking up through his bangs with a grin that made your heart do a strange, familiar flutter. "You were brave. But let’s not pretend you were fearless."

"Hey! I was!"

"Oh really?" Jimin tilted his head, his voice dropping into a softer, more reflective tone. "What about the time you ran away from home in middle school? After your grandmother scolded you for that math exam?"

You froze for a second, a rush of memory flooding back before a soft, incredulous chuckle escaped you. "Oh God. I completely forgot about that."

"I didn't," Jimin murmured softly, looking down at his hands. "You were gone for hours. The sun had set, and it started pouring."

"I remember!" You nodded, the warm buzz of the Soju making your smile turn fond and nostalgic. "You came searching for me in the rain, didn't you? Found me hiding under the old bus stop shelter. You were all drenched, from head to toe, holding that silly yellow umbrella over me instead of yourself."

You picked up your bottle, realizing it was completely empty, and set it down with a soft clink against the porch floor. You looked over at him, the mellow night air and the comfort of his presence loosening the heavy knot that had lived in your chest for years.

"Now that I think about it," you whispered, your voice carrying a rare, raw sincerity, "you were always saving me, Jimin-ah. You were my superhero back then. Whenever things went wrong, you were always right there to protect me."

Jimin’s soft smile slowly faded.

For a fraction of a second, something heavy and achingly tender flickered across his face—a look so profound it made the air between you feel suddenly still. But before you could make sense of it, he quickly covered it with a light, breathless laugh and stood up from the porch step.

"You're drunk," he teased gently, though his voice sounded slightly tighter than before. He turned toward you and offered his hand. "Come on. It's getting late, and your grandmother will kill me if I bring you home stumbling."

"I am not drunk," you protested, though your head was pleasantly light.

You reached out and placed your hand in his. His palm was warm, solid, and larger than you remembered.

Jimin gave a gentle tug to help you up, but your foot caught slightly on the edge of the wooden step. You lost your balance, slipping forward with a soft gasp.

Instantly, Jimin’s other hand shot out, wrapping securely around your waist to catch you.

The momentum pulled you straight against his chest.

Everything went dead silent.

The distance between you vanished. You could feel the warmth of his body, the firm hold of his hand on your waist, and the sudden, rapid thrum of his heartbeat against his ribs.

Jimin tensed instantly.

He didn't step back. He didn't let go. He just stood there, completely rigid, holding you close enough that you could feel his warm breath against your cheek.

Slowly, you tilted your head up.

His eyes were wide, dark, and searching, completely stripped of their playful glint. Up close, under the faint golden glow of the lantern, you could see the tiny flecks of gold in his dark irises, the slight parting of his lips, and the intense gaze fixed entirely on you. It wasn't the way a childhood friend looked at you. It was the look of a man who had been holding his breath for years.

Your mind went completely blank. You got entirely lost in his eyes, your hand lingering against the cotton of his shirt over his chest, feeling the rhythm beneath your palm.

He wasn't just my superhero, a quiet, terrifying realization whispered in the back of your mind.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Jimin’s hand slid reluctantly from your waist, his fingers twitching slightly before falling back to his side.

"I..." You cleared your throat, nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "I should... probably head back. Halmeoni's probably waiting."

Jimin swallowed, his throat moving as he forced his composure back into place.

"Yeah," he said softly, his voice lower than usual as he looked at you with an affection he could no longer fully hide. "Let's get you home.”

°

The wooden door of the old storeroom creaked open, releasing a haze of dust that danced in the dim light streaming through the door.

It smelled of dried lavender, aged paper, and time long gone.

You knelt on the wooden floorboards, gently shifting aside cardboard boxes of old school supplies until your hand brushed against a heavy, velvet-bound photo album. Dusting off the cover, you opened it on your lap.

The first page was a photograph of your parents.

They were young, smiling brightly against a backdrop of blooming cherry blossoms, looking back at the camera with so much life in their eyes. A lump instantly formed in your throat, a sharp, familiar ache tightening in your chest.

You traced the outline of your mother’s face with a thumb.

A memory rushed into your head.

~

It was the first anniversary of the accident.

You had snapped. The pity in the adults' eyes, the quiet whispers, the suffocating stillness of your grandmother’s house—it had all pushed you over the edge. You had run until your chest burned, collapsing onto the muddy grass of the open village field, letting the rain wash over you while you screamed into the open sky, missing your parents so deeply it felt like dying.

A few steps away, a twelve-year-old Jimin stood rooted to the spot.

He didn't try to pull you up. He didn't tell you it was going to be okay, because even at twelve, he knew that would be a lie. Instead, he just stood there in the mud, refusing to take a single step toward the dry shelter of the trees.

The rain stuck his dark hair to his forehead, soaking through his shirt. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering from the cold wind sweeping off the ocean, but he refused to leave your side.

Looking at your small, shaking shoulders hunched over in the grass, tears flooded Jimin’s eyes, mixing hot against the freezing rain on his cheeks. He wasn't crying because he was cold, or because he was scared of the storm.

He was crying because your heart was broken, and his wasn't big enough yet to fix it.

So he just stood in the downpour, crying silently with you, anchored right there so that whenever you finally looked up, you would know you weren't carrying the storm entirely alone.

~

You remembered running away from the house during the heavy storm right after the funeral. You had collapsed in the middle of the open village ground, the downpour drenching your clothes, your tears mixing helplessly with the rain as you screamed into the thunder.

And then, the rain had stopped hitting your face.

You remembered looking up through blurred vision to find a twelve-year-old Jimin standing over you, holding a large blue umbrella. He was shivering violently, his own clothes soaked to the bone because he had held the umbrella entirely over you. He hadn't said a word. He had just sat down in the mud beside you, pulled you into his arms, and held you while you sobbed until you had no tears left.

He had stayed with you in that open field for hours under the torrential rain.

He was always there. Somehow, through every storm of your life, Jimin had been the anchor holding you to the earth.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, landing softly on the plastic sleeve of the album. You wiped your face with your sleeve, taking a deep, shaky breath, letting the past settle back into its quiet corner.

Reaching deeper into the box, your fingers caught on the edge of a worn, pastel-pink notebook with a frayed ribbon marker.

Your old middle school diary.

A tearful laugh escaped your lips as you flipped it open. The pages were a disastrously embarrassing archive of dramatic teenage angst: angry complaints about pop quizzes, furious rants about your grandmother making you eat carrots, and over-the-top declarations that your life was ruined because of a bad haircut.

You turned another page, and your breath hitched.

It was a full spread featuring two faded watercolor handprints—one smaller, neatly painted in yellow, and one slightly larger, smudged around the edges in blue.

Beneath the handprints, written in childish handwriting with a blue ballpoint pen.

We promise to stay best friends forever. And if we are not married by 28, we will marry each other so we don't end up lonely with cats.

- Signed, Y/N & Jimin

You stared at the page, a smile spreading across your face.

Twenty-eight.

You turned twenty-eight last year.

The memory of last night flashed in your mind—the heavy silence on the porch, the beat of his heart against your hand when he held you.

Your heart did a chaotic flip.

Impulsively, before you could talk yourself out of it, you whipped out your phone. You adjusted the lightning, clicked a clear photo of the worn diary page, and opened your chat with Jimin.

You attached the image and typed out a quick, playful message.

[Photo Attached]

Y/N: "So, when are you marrying me then?"

You hit send.

The gray checkmark immediately turned into Read.

For three long seconds, nothing happened. Then, the little text bubble appeared.

Jimin is typing...

It disappeared.

A/n : this two shot was requested by an anon but I recently finished watching 'Welcome to Samdal-ri' and it inspired me to write this healing story. Love that waits even after departure. i also wrote an essay about healing and love on substack. If you are interested to read, here's the link : Eassay

You had been working now a year at a bookstore. It was the best job you could've landed. You didn't even remember the name properly, because for you it was mini splendid. An old 50's theatre, closed at the 00's and re-opened just nine years ago. It was just like the mini (and less fancy) version of the real Ateneo Grand splendid, the one you dreamed to work on when you visited CABA at vacations with your family. When you had just landed, after checking into the hotel, you wandered with your résumé and Google maps open.

As if for fate, you read the sign for searching employees, it was an old place, very lonely, but you entered with a smile and charmed the owner, a man as lonely and old as the bookstore.

He also offered the apartment that he had upstairs, empty. Very cheap, because it wasn't the best in the city and almost too little. But without any thought, of course you accepted, it was cheap, it was a minute from your work and after a short tour, it was enchanting. With a terrace that was a dream and a reading nook that looked like it was from a movie.

With a little help, you already were almost perfect with your pronunciation of Korean, almost mastering it completely, even if you got sweet looks for your efforts by the ajummas that came almost weekly, you needed to sound native, but your accent and almost singing tone of your voice was hard to dissipate.

The day was starting, and as you went down the stairs of your apartment into the bookstore, the little bell on the door rang, letting you know that a costumer was entering.

One you did know, very well.

Your first and best friend here. Min-seo, Minnie for you.

— Good morning!

You saluted, putting your hair up in a ponytail and finishing to put on your heels, some stupid mandatory shoes.

— Hello, Y/nie! How are you?

She came closer, with three books and a suspicious smirk.

— Absolutely perfect, today has to come in the mail my precious food from home. — you gave her a kiss on the cheek, making her blush a little, and taking the books from her hands. — Already finished? You just took them two weeks ago... Your client surely does read a lot, more than me even.

You laughed, going behind the counter to start the computer and all the process for the book loan. She has been coming almost every week since you started, her and the owner had this compromise where she paid half price for every book if she returned it without damage, she worked for some famous people that couldn't collect much books but loved to read, and she was the only one that loaned books from here, otherwise that cranky man would almost laugh at every client that wanted to do that. It was like that before you came, so, you didn't mind. Perks of the job, you supposed.

— What did you buy this time?

She took out her notebook and started searching for the books she was going to get today.

— My beautiful, beautiful, Don Satur, some alfajores, yerba mate... I was thinking of dulce de leche but I can do that at home so I restricted it, and my mom added things without telling me what, half misery box I guess.

When you finished the spreadsheet, you went to restore the books into their shelfs. She was weird, her vibe was off, you almost wanted to light an incense and pass it over her.

— That's cute, I should call my mom... — she laughed a little bit, lost into the shelves at the back, you followed the sound of her voice. — hey! I just remembered this, but you are a translator, right? How many languages do you know?

— Oh! Yeah, I am, I kinda forgot about that... Ehm, of course Spanish, Korean, English and others but I almost don't use them, I don't think I would ever do actually.

As if in a movie, when she picked a book from a shelf, your face appeared at the other side.

— that's actually enough for me.

she shrugged and rounded the corner, with another pile of books in hand. You wondered how someone could read that much and comprehend it, in just a couple of weeks.

— Let me ring those up for you while you tell me why you ask.

Both of you went to the front again, you murmured how much you hated heels at nine am, more when it was such a beautiful morning, cloudy and fresh but not freezing, people passed in the streets and some looked in from the windows. You saluted some old women that passed. The thing you loved the most about working alone was that you controlled the speakers, right now sounding "balada para dos" , by Sandro. A classic, your aunt's favourite.

— Well, the company I work at just fired one of our translators, and needs one right now, would you be interested in the job? —She leaned into the counter, looking at you with puppy eyes— It's for my client, the one that asks for all these books. He's the leader of an idol's group and he's sick of bad translators or having to translate himself into English, so...

— you're telling me I could meet this reading freak? —you shook the book you were ringing besides your face.— Mhm, I could be interested, let me search for my latest resume.

Taking a moment to search for the archive, you murmured the chorus of the song, sighing with his image imprinted in your memory. You printed the document quickly, grabbing a folio to give it to her. Then you gave her the books and she went into her marry way.

You were left alone again after that.

Some clients came and some just looked around, even one couple searching for privacy came to the forgotten café at the back, where you had to serve as a waiter and barista at the same time. It was a shame for you that it didn't offer delicacies, but nobody came regularly anyways and they would go to waste, shame.

When you were alone, you played your favourite tracks, today it was a señora's day, so you went on and started playing everything since "Culpable o no" by Luis Miguel, and going all the way to "La gata bajo la lluvia" by Rocio Dúrcal and ending at some point hours later dancing and singing to Ha-Ash and Miranda!, giggling to yourself while you did your duties.

Your day was perfect when at noon your package came, and you could see your egresada's hoodie right there, wow, it was so long ago it almost made you feel ancient.

You slept in it that night.

Just a week went by, and you already had forgotten that you gave your resume, so clearly it took you by surprise when you were doing grocery shopping that a private number were calling you.

But you picked up anyways, as if you didn't enjoy talking anyways.

But it was someone from HR, who wanted to arrange a date for an interview. Now you had to wake up at dawn tomorrow.

And that you did, at five you were up and at six you were in a taxi with your coffee prepared. Almost shaking for the excitement.

It was nerve-wracking, but you entered saluting everyone as if you knew them decades ago, you went where the girl at the front desk told you with the most confidence your country taught you. It didn't stick in your mind the way she looked at you, you knew it was weird to see a skin brown like yours here, even if at home you were almost called pale. Or maybe it was because you liked a body cream that had glitter on it and she would like to use it too. It didn't matter to you enough to find out.

Anyways. You stayed smiling, excited as a kid on their first day of school. This was such a good opportunity for your career, you wanted nothing more in this world than to be able to use your titles for something more than pride over them.

At 7:45, precisely the hour they requested you to be there, they called for you.

You came prepared, with a binder with all of the documents you could need, your titles from Highschool to your masters degree, and of course, all the certificates from your languages. Your resume had a version in Korean, English and Spanish, just in case.

— It's nice meeting you, miss L/N. Min-seo put a good word for you. — the man was serious, even his tie was pristine, it would be intimidating if you weren't you. — I can assume you haven't done work like ours, since you... Aren't from here.

— Hmhm! I have worked as a translator before, very little, but completely different, I was a translator for a firm of lawyers, and I primarily didn't translate into English, we worked more with native language in my country, like Quechua or Guarani, but at short staffed i had to help when meeting foreign clients.

He hummed, writing on a notebook something. You felt like you were in a therapy session.

— So I can assume you have experience with translating live. What's your native?

— Yes, I have done live translations, in conferences and conversations. I'm a native Spanish speaker and also studied it in university.

Like that time flew for you, talking and joking but keeping yourself in your most professional side. At the end it even could've seen a smirk on the man, you probably nailed it. Or catastrophically failed it.

— Could you do tomorrow same time? We'll call you if something changes.

— Of course, a pleasure to meet you, have a nice day!

You shook hands, his grip wasn't as strong as yours but that was probably a good sign, you hoped.

You went your merry way, or tried, when you ended up in a hall with the elevator blocked by a bunch of guys, young, tall and very obnoxiously not seeing you there.

— Ehm, pipiii.. permiso.. — she waited for them to move, but all they did was look at you weirded out. It took you a minute to track back what you said and where you were.— Sorry! I mean, could you please move out of the way? I need to pass.

— Yea okay..

One of them said, the tallest, and as if you were Moises, they separated into two groups on both sides of the hall. That made you giggle actually.

You just murmured thank you and walked quickly, calling the elevator and taking your cabled earphones out, starting your playlist of the day and missing the way they felt silent looking indiscreetly at you.

Like that passed a minute, and when you entered and noticed that their eyes were still on you, you just saluted them with your hand and gave them a wink while the doors closed.

You left such an impression they were making all day conspiracies of who the hell you were.

and then, because he was “clumsy”, as he claimed, he "accidentally" tumbled through the same window three more times that month until you finally just started leaving the latch unlocked every friday.

the rain was drumming steadily against the glass of that exact same window, blurring the neon glow of the streetlights outside. inside, your bedroom was warm, smelling faintly of vanilla incense and the fabric softener that seemed permanently baked into spiderman's suit.

he was currently sprawled out across the foot of your bed, head dangling over the edge, the red mask was rolled up neatly just above the bridge of his nose, baring a sharp jawline, a pair of slightly parted lips and a dusting of dark stubble.

"so then—hey, are you even listening to me?"

"the guy threw a trash can at your head, you did a backflip off a fire hydrant, and managed to web glue him to a lamppost. riveting stuff, truly oscar worthy choreography," you murmur, not looking up as your black ink pen flies across the paper.

jimin narrows his eyes under the mask, a low, dramatic scoff rumbling in his chest.

"first of all, it was a bin, a big one." he corrects, propping himself up on his elbows. "second of all, hand it over. let me see."

you glare at him over the spiral binding with a defensive squint. "absolute not. artists don't show unpolished drafts to their ungrateful muses."

"unfuckinggrateful?" he gasps. "i give you free, high octane action stories on a silver platter every single week to doodle."

"shut up or i'm drawing you with disproportionately tiny feet."

"you wouldn't dare."

"try me."

jimin laughs before he flicks his wrist and before you even have a chance to blink or tighten your grip, a thin, lightning fast strand of white webbing shoots out from the bed, wrapping itself neatly around the top corner of your sketchbook and violently snatching it right out of your hands.

"hey!" you yelp, lunging forward with a gasp, but it's already too late.

the notebook zips across the room through the air, landing squarely in jimin's outstretched, gloved hand. he catches it smoothly, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his exposed mouth as he flips open the cover to inspect your work.

you slump back against the leather of your swivel chair, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as you shoot him a murderous glare.

"abuse of power." you grumble, watching him flip through the pages with an aggravating pace.

a low, appreciative whistle slips past his lips. "damn. look at the shading on the bicep. honestly, you're making me look like a greek god. though, to be fair, i am."

"hand it back."

"shh, i'm critiquing," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the edge of a page where you'd drawn him mid swing.

"you know," he drawls softly, lifting his gaze from the sketchbook to meet your eyes across the dim room, "if you wanted a closer look at the subject, all you had to do was ask."

"i can see you just fine from here," you counter, raising an eyebrow.

"mhm. doubtful."

his wrist flicks a second time, the chair is sent spinning backward, and you let out a startled shriek as you're catapulted across the room.

you land squarely right on top of him, tumbling onto the mattress in a mess of limbs and soft groans and his annoyingly triumphant, breathless laugh.

"what," you gasp, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, "is wrong with you?"

"everything is entirely right with me, actually," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, smug purr right beneath you. "best view in queens."

the sketchbook slips from his fingers, hitting the rug with a soft thump and his hands instantly find your waist, long fingers splaying out over your ribs.

you let out a breathy huff of sheer annoyance, rolling your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck. "you're insufferable."

you hook two fingers under the rolled up fabric of his mask, yank it upward and let it snap back against his face.

jimin lets out a sharp groan, his head pitching back against the mattress. "hey! violence against superheroes is a federal offense—hmpf—!"

you swallow the protest with a kiss, and his hands, warm and sure against your waist flex before sliding up to cup the back of your head, a melting sigh fans right across your mouth.

he parts your lips with a slow stroke of his tongue that makes a soft, pathetic noise escape your throat. his fingers tangle thick in your hair and you arch into it on instinct, your fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his suit over his chest.

"are you gonna draw this later?" he murmurs, his voice a thick, wet rasp right against your mouth as he gives your lips one last, lazy suck.

you tilt your chin back just an inch, letting out a soft tsk that turns into a sharp hiss when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

"bold of you to assume i haven't already," you murmur back, your fingers curling into the solid muscle of his shoulders.

jimin huffs a quiet laugh against your neck, his hands mapping the path down your spine to cradle your ass in a firm squeeze. "then why haven't i seen it?"

"same reason why i haven't seen your face."

"that's completely different," he counters, his voice dipping into a lighthearted whine as his nose brushes against yours. "my secret identity is a matter of national security, your secret is just hoarding embarrassing sketches of me in a locked drawer."

"they aren't embarrassing." you snap back, though a flicker of heat hits your cheeks.

you don't even know his name. after months of late nights he was still just spidey to you. godawful, cringe inducing moaning of spidey echoing off your bedroom walls while he wrecked your nervous system. you'd complained about it out loud to him once.

he had weaponized it since.

"what?" he drawls, flashing a cocky smile. "shouldn't you be grateful that the world's best superhero is giving you orgasms?"

"with his hands and mouth," you fire back, narrowing your eyes down at him in defiance as you grind your hips down, testing the rigid line of him beneath the red and blue weave. "what about his dick?"

jimin lets out a heavy sigh, his head dropping back against the mattress. "you know i can't."

"why the hell not?" you push, tilting your chin up. "you can keep the mask on for all i care. i don't need your face to see what you're packing."

a low, throaty laugh rumbles in his chest. "sweetheart, you’d have seen literally all of me but my eyes."

"so do we know each other?" you stop dead, your hands flattening against his chest as your brain stalls out. "that's completely impossible. i'd recognize those lips anywhere." you press your thumb firmly right over his bottom lip, dragging it across the seam firmly.

he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head sharply to dislodge your thumb from his mouth. "keep touching me like that and you're not getting any answers."

"no, wait." you mutter, the gears in your head start turning at a million miles an hour. "do we know each other? like, in real life? like, in lecture?"

"i'm not revealing shit."

"fuck," you breathe out, staring down at him. "we know each other."

"mmm," he pretends to hum in thought while he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down the curve of your ass, dragging your underwear right along with them.

"stop." you huff, giving his chest a sharp smack. "you're redirecting the conversation."

"we can continue having it while i eat you out, if you're coordinated enough to talk, that is."

"i hate you," you scoff, though the smile in your voice ruins the threat.

"no, you don't," he murmurs.

he pulls you in by the nape of your neck for a brief kiss and rolls you over onto your back. your bottoms catch on your ankles for a second before he tugs them completely off.

the cool air of the bedroom hits your skin for a split second before his mouth is there, parting you with a slow, heavy drag of his tongue that makes your back immediately arch off the sheets with a sharp, pathetic gasp.

the routine had become as reliable as the rotation of the earth; every single friday night, right around midnight.

except, this friday, midnight came and went.

by two in the morning, you forced yourself to sleep. he had never missed a friday. not once.

and he didn’t, because the window shattered about two hours later.

you sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering against your ribs, scrambling for the lamp. before you could even flick the switch, a heavy, groaning thud echoed from the floorboards near the sill.

"spidey?" your voice cracked, small and sharp in the dark.

you threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed, dropping to your knees beside him.

"jesus christ—" you gasped, your hands hovering uselessly over him, not sure where to focus on first.

the famous suit was shredded open across his left shoulder and ribs, dark crimson soaking rapidly through the torn spandex. and the mask, it was torn completely away from the left side of his face.

whoever he had been fighting had torn it right off him, and he’d had to bolt before they could see his face, dragging his bleeding body through the city just to reach the one place he knew was safe.

he was breathing hard, a wet, rattling sound, his eyes squeezed shut in agony as he leaned his head back against the edge of your mattress.

"hey—look at me," you stammered, your hands trembling as you reached out, panicking over the massive, ugly gash bleeding down his side. "are you out of your mind? you’re bleeding out—should i call someone? can i take the rest of it off—?"

"no." he groaned, a gloved hand weakly batted at your wrist, though he didn't have the strength to push you away. "no hospitals."

"you need stitches." you grabbed a discarded tshirt from your laundry basket, pressing it desperately against the torn flesh of his ribs. he hissed sharply through his teeth, his hand flying up to grip your forearm.

"fuck," he breathed out, his head lolling to the side.

you stared down at him, completely unsure what the proper reaction was to finding out that your classmate of three years, whom you’d barely exchanged three words with, was the spiderman you’d been secretly hooking up with this whole time.

"this face reveal is so anticlimactic."

jimin cracked one eye open, wincing heavily as he fought for breath against the crushing weight of his injuries. "what...?" he wheezed out, panting through gritted teeth.

"never mind," you huffed, shaking your head to clear the shock. you looped a strong arm around his good shoulder, hauling upward with a grunt. "come on. get up."

"i'm dying, y/n," he groaned, his tall frame dragging heavily against you as you half carried, half dragged him toward the adjoining bathroom. "at least let me write my last will..."

"help me out." you snapped back, guiding him past the bedroom door and straight into the bathroom, leaning him heavily against the sink counter.

he looked like an absolute, unmitigated mess. the suit was shredded, caked in dried asphalt, soot, and sticky, dark blood, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat as he basically yanked the mask, or what was left of it, off.

"strip," you ordered, grabbing the hem of the ruined suit.

jimin managed a weak, pained cough that sounded like a chuckle. "buy me dinner first."

"jimin, i swear to god, if you don't take this off right now, i'm getting the kitchen scissors and cutting it off you," you threatened, though your fingers were already carefully peeling the ruined fabric away from his torn shoulder.

he grumbled, helping you peel the spandex down his arms and past his waist until he was standing there in just his ruined undershorts, swaying slightly on his feet. you shoved him gently into the glass enclosed shower stall, turning the knob to warm water. steam immediately billowed up, washing away the copper stench of blood as the crimson water swirled down the drain, taking the soot and grime with it.

you stood by the sink, grabbing a towel while he leaned his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower, eyes closed, letting the warm water wash the nightmare of the night off his skin.

twenty minutes later, after digging through your clean laundry to pull out a pair of oversized sweatpants, you had him sitting on the edge of your mattress. the first aid kit was open wide between your knees.

you dabbed a soaked cotton ball against the jagged gash along his ribs. jimin’s fists twisted into the sheets, his muscles drawn taut as he fought to keep his breathing steady.

"easy," you murmured, softening your tone despite yourself as you blew a gentle stream of air over the stinging wound. "you're lucky you didn't puncture a lung, you absolute idiot."

jimin looked down at you through his damp hair, all exhausted. he looked like the college student he pretended to be during the day.

"thought i wasn't gonna make it back to this window tonight," he whispered hoarsely.

you let out a quiet breath, finishing up the last strip of medical tape across his ribs and giving it a light pat. "well, you did. somehow."

you went to pull away, gathering up the cotton balls and the antiseptic bottle to put the kit back on your desk, but gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist.

you looked down. jimin was staring up at you with those heavy lidded eyes, giving you a subtle tug, nodding his head towards his lap.

you raised an eyebrow at him. "you can barely breathe."

he let out a pathetic grumble, tipping his head back and letting his hand slide down to lightly hook his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, giving another stubborn little tug. he didn't have the energy to argue, so he just stared up at you with maximum puppy eyes.

you let out a soft laugh at the sheer audacity of him. still, you did as told. you straddled his hips carefully, making sure not to put any weight near his bandaged ribs.

jimin let out a long sigh the second you settled against him. his shoulders instantly slumped, burying his face right into the crook of your neck. his warm cheek pressed flat against your skin, and his arms wrapped loosely around your waist.

you sat there for a second, staring blankly at the wall while his breath fanned against your collarbone.

"this is so weird," you muttered, your hands resting awkwardly on his bare shoulders.

jimin turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against your skin as he mumbled, "what is?"

"you," you gestured vaguely into the empty air with one hand. "because you're out of costume. and because you're...you know. jimin from college. who asked to borrow my sharpener last week and looked like he was gonna cry."

"i didn't look like i was gonna cry," he mumbled defensively, his arms tightening just a fraction around your waist.

you smiled, running your fingers absently through his damp, soft hair that you would wish to be able to tug on when he had you pinned to this exact mattress. "and now you're telling me you spend your nights getting thrown through brick walls by supervillains."

"wild hobby," he whispered, sounding thoroughly exhausted. "good thing i have a very nice friend who patches me up."

"a very nice friend," you echo flatly. "who you sneak into bed with four times a month."

"technically that was spiderman doing those things. jimin from college is a total angel who would never."

you let out a dry, disbelieving scoff, though a fond smile tugs at your lips. "truly. an angel."

jimin sighs through his nose, and shifts upward just enough to turn his face, pressing his lips against the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw.

"mhm," he hums, his lips moving lazily against your neck as he drops another slow, warm kiss right over your pulse point. "a certified angel. who is currently exhausted, but willing to make exceptions."

"a true superhero," you chuckle as his tongue traces a slow, wet path up your jawline, right to the corner of your mouth and you tilt your chin down, meeting him halfway.

There's something trance-like about what you're witnessing. Its already foreign enough that you're deep enough in the ocean to touch the floor. You're caught up in your own head, too preoccupied to listen as his companions flock around you and inspect their first human up close. Your mind swirls with their strange observations.

“She has no fins…”

“How do humans balance on these?” You feel one brush your leg.

“No patterns. No scales, no color….” Another touched your shoulders. “This covering is strange,” hands tug at the soaked fabric of your clothes.

Jimin must've gotten impatient, because in a flash of bubbles and foam he's warned them to back off.

“Enough. Shes my catch.”

The fins along the length of his tail are flared wide like a betta's. You flinch slightly at the motion. All of the other siren scatter at his show of dominance.

“What… does that mean?” You inquire hesitantly, hoping it’s not what the folklore usually insinuates.

“It means I don’t want to share. If they want a human they catch it themselves.”

Not… helpful. He extends his webbed hand to you and you take it. What else were you going to do, try and swim away?

Further into the tangles of plants and coral is an alcove you can only assume is his. He lets go of you and disappears inside briefly only to return with.. you gaze down at his open palms.

Pearls. Lots of them. He strings them up nicely around your neck.

“For me?” You ask, rubbing the individual pearls between your fingers. He nods. “Do you like them?” He lashes his tail slightly, his fins flared. He was expecting approval.

“I mean… they’re beautiful, thank you, I guess I just don’t understand.”

He furrows a brow. You watch, fascinated as he lashes his tail, the fins flaring a different, richer color.

“They’re for you,” he expresses, desperate. “I want you— I love you. I want you to want me.”

He was courting you. Of course— it’s starting to make sense now.

“Jimin, that is so, so sweet but…” you try to let him down gently. He keens: a sharp, dissatisfied sound like a dolphin as he crowds your space again. He takes your face between webbed fingers and you panic.

“Why not?” His gaze is locked on your lips. “You wait for me at the shore!” He expresses. “You wait for me every night…” he frets.

“I’m not a siren.” You reason, placing one hand over his. You can see the discomfort in his eyes.

“I don’t care.” He thumbs over your bottom lip. “There’s nobody else- none of my kind compare to you. My songs are for you, my… my treasure is for you, my nest is for you,” he expresses. You look just past his features at the alcove he came from. All this time you’ve been visiting him, he thought you wanted to be with him. His song wasn’t just for luring prey- it was to find someone.

“Please?”

The silence you offer him is worse than rejection. His fins flare, ego bruised, as his loving hands move to your neck instead. You’re losing the ability to breathe.

“Jimin-“ you protest, bubbles stealing your breath as water enters your lungs. “Wait!” You choke out. He’s watching you drown.

You grasp at him and, after several long minutes of struggling he finally presses his lips to yours for mercy.

“Ill do it,” you gasp, out of breath. “Ill do it, I accept-“

His arms find their way around your waist, his soft, cold skin eagerly pressed against yours. When he kisses you again you don’t fight it, you kiss back. Your arms find comfort snaked around his shoulders as he practically devours you in a state of need.

The taste of him becomes your entire world: salt, aloe, and a desperate, consuming hunger.

The pearls he gave you clink softly against each other between your bodies as he drags you closer, eliminating every inch of space. His tongue flicks against yours, tasting the surrender in your mouth. Despite yourself, you find it easy to respond with equal fervor, your fingers digging into the slick scales of his shoulders. The fear that once paralyzed you has twisted; its easy to forget what he is if you close your eyes and let it happen.

"My human," he breathes against your mouth, the words vibrating through your lips. "My beautiful, perfect human." His tail wraps around your legs. His touch becomes bolder, his webbed fingers sliding beneath the hem of your shirt to explore the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Jimin walked into the hotel room with his sweet singsong voice, greeting you with a kiss.

“Did you see? Artist of the year!” He said excitedly, leaning down to give you another charged kiss. Little did he know, you had been waiting all night. Ever since he stepped out of the hotel room, since you saw him on screen in that MJ-esque attire, winning an award he so deserved—it had your thighs clenching all night.

“I saw, Ji. I’m so proud of you.” You kissed the corner of his mouth before making your way down to his neck, and he quickly understood where this was going.

“Oh yeah?” You could hear the smirk in his voice without having to look up. You hummed against his skin, pulling away and seeing the red mark that started to adorn his skin.

“Can I show you?” You walked him back just a few steps until his back hit the wall behind him, then slowly lowered to your knees. He watched, eyes half lidded as you reached for his belt.

You pulled his pants down his thighs and reached for his length through his boxers. A moan escaped him, his head falling back against the wall. He was already half hard, and every touch you gave him rushed blood straight down his body.

“I have to meet the guys for a livestream.” He said, his voice breaking throughout. He didn’t want you to stop, but he knew he had places to be.

“I’ll have to make this quick then.” You tugged down his boxers and wrapped your hand around his girth. “You looked so good, so pretty on that stage.” That did something to him. Pretty.

Your hand that was slowly stroking him started to speed up as your tongue teased the head.

“Fuck—please,” he said, wanting more, needing more.

“Please what?”

“Your mouth,” a shameful moan followed as you finally wrapped your lips around him, and slowly started to bob your head.

You took him inch by inch, your tongue tracing in the process. His noises and fingers lightly gripping your hair only spurred you on. Your hand on him stroked what you couldn’t reach as you took him as deep as you could, before pulling back and swirling your tongue around the head.

“Even your dicks pretty, Ji.” You said sweetly, a breathy whimper coming from above you. “You like that?” You asked, looking up at the already wrecked blonde. His face was flushed, lips parted, desperate for whatever you’d give him.

“You like when I call you pretty?” You ask in a teasing tone while stroking him. After a particularly slow stroke he caved, throwing his head back with a groan before nodding frantically.

“Ah—mhm, yes—“ your hand started to speed up, sending him closer to his finish. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he said, words almost a whisper.

“Come for me, Jimin.” Your tongue traveling up and down, swirling and sucking combined with your hand wrapped tightly around him, he did just that—right in your mouth.

You swallowed all of it, Jimin could’ve came a second time just from that.

“‘M so proud of you, Jimin.” You said with a smile, rising up onto your feet and planting a sweet kiss on his plump lips, his chest heaving beneath your palms.

“I’ll take care of you when I get back.” He said with a telling smirk as he made himself decent. He didn’t have to tell you, you were already sure of it.

After he left you put on the live, growing impatient watching him act normal in front of his members and thousands of fans, like nothing had happened previously and nothing was about to happen when he returned.

for the majority of the night, he does a great job at pretending that he’s not affected by how breathtaking you look and how even your subtle touches drive his brain to haywire. whenever you’re talking to him, he has to remind himself not to fixate on your mouth too much or appear like a lovesick fool either because if you noticed one of those things—you’d tease him to death, and that might make everything harder for him who’s already on the brink of giving in.

and fyi, he does give in to his inner desires at one point, pulling you along with him inside a guest room while a cousin of his is belting a song in karaoke, attracting all the attention of his relatives that gives him the opportunity to have you while everybody’s distracted.

“you’re crazy,” you tell him as he hungrily kisses you, a hand cupping your sex that makes you understand what his intentions are in leading you to the enclosed space. he only halts to stare at you, like he’s asking if you want him to continue, and when you’re the one who’s dragging his face down so he can carry on, he grins against your mouth, rubbing his fingers along your clothed entrance, groaning at how wet you are and how much he fucking wants to make you cum.

“can i eat you out?” he asks after he hears the first song being sang by his cousin ending, your back still pressed on the door with your dress being hiked higher by his clumsy hands. “been dreaming of tasting you since earlier, baby. you’re driving me nuts,” he adds.

you nod and he immediately falls on his knees, ducking his head under your dress and licking you through your panties. it’s erotic, it’s hot, it’s turning you on—and you’re doing the best you can to not make any alarming noises while he’s eating you out like a starved man, hauling your panties down to your knees in order to directly kiss your pussy.

you don’t last long. it doesn’t even take three minutes before you’re finishing above him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and shoving his face closer to your core, feeling the muscle of his tongue slide in and out as your thighs shake and your vision blurs in absolute pleasure. a third song in the karaoke plays, slightly bringing you back to your senses, and when he’s sure you’re done riding out the last waves of your orgasm, he stands up and kisses you on the mouth, letting you get a taste of yourself that heightens your need of him.

“your turn?” you ask, a hand already squeezing the tent evident on his pants but to your surprise, he shakes his head. he explains that his family will notice the two of you disappearing from the party; he starts insisting then that you can just continue where you left on once he drives you back home, teasingly stating that he won’t forget to remind you that you still owe him a small favor in return.

before he instructs you to leave the room first to avoid suspicion, he crouches down and helps you wear your undergarment again, smoothening your dress as well. he gives you a smile, a long kiss, and opens the door like a true gentleman, as if he isn’t the reason your legs are wobbly while you walk back to the living room area.