Mikro Love

I'll edit this a bit better when I have time

BTS Fics

Ateez Fics (more fics coming soon)

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

All works written by me do not copy, translate or repost my works without my given consent.

**Disclaimer: All characters in these stories are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the members.

-Masterlist is updated regularly

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 5.7k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter

The house settles around you as the night deepens, the soft tick of the hallway clock, the low hum of the boiler, the occasional creak in the pipes like the walls are shifting in their sleep.

It’s the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel amplified, sharper at the edges.

Haneul is curled in his little bed beside yours, one hand tucked under his cheek, lashes resting on flushed skin. His breathing is slow and even, the kind of rhythm that usually calms you. Tonight it barely touches the surface.

Your phone on the bedside table, screen dim. You keep glancing at it even when you’re not meaning to, like your body is checking for danger before your mind catches up.

Two photos now. This definitely wasn't a prank. Someone had been close enough to take it, someone that you didn't notice watching you.

A cold ripple moves through your stomach.

You pull your hoody sleeve down, over your hands, as if it could hide you further from the outside danger. The room feels cooler than usual, the kind of chill that settles in the joints.

You shift your weight, careful not to disturb Haneul, and sit upright against the headboard. The landing light spills a soft glow through the half‑open door, stretching long shadows across the carpet.

You unlock your phone before you can talk yourself out of it.

Yoongi answers on the third ring.

“What,” he says in a flat tone, unimpressed, like you’ve interrupted him from judging humanity.

Your throat tightens. “Are you busy?”

“I’m horizontal and questioning my life choices,” he says. “So no. What’s wrong?”

You swallow, tongue dry. “I… got another weird photo today.”

“How weird?” he asks sounding more alert than a second ago.

Your gaze drifts to Haneul’s small shape under the blankets. “Me in the office with Jimin, we were working late, alone.”

You hear the shift in his breathing.

“Another?” he repeats, voice lower now. “Send it.”

Your fingers hesitate for a heartbeat before you forward them. You hear the ping of his phone receiving them.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “This…is worrying.”

Your pulse jumps. “What do you mean?"

“The first one was close,” he says. “Too close. That one bothered me.”

You press your lips together, jaw tight.

“But this,” he continues, “this tells me it wasn’t a one‑off. Someone didn’t just stand behind you in a lift. They watched you at work, waited for another photo opportunity”

Your breath catches. “Yeah, that's what I thought”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “This is someone paying close attention.”

You rub your forehead, skin warm under your palm. “Yoongi…”

“I know,” he says. His tone softens, just a fraction. “It's a pattern.”

Your breath stutters. “So I’m not overreacting.”

“No,” he says. He studies the photo again, you can hear the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts, probably sitting up properly now.

“Angle’s high,” he says. “Someone standing on something or they're tall. Someone who knows how to stay out of your line of sight"

“That’s half the building.”

“Mm,” he says. “But not half the building has your number.”

You close your eyes. “What do I do?"

“First,” he says, “don’t reply. Don’t block or delete. Keep everything just in case”

"Second,” he adds, “tell me if you get another one.”

“I will.” you swallow softly, watching Haneul again. His little chest rises and falls, steady and safe as you tuck the blanket around his foot, your fingers lingering for a moment.

“I don’t like this,” you whisper.

“Me either” Yoongi agrees. “But you’re not alone. If it escalates, we escalate. For now, we watch.”

You nod, throat tight.

“And keep your phone where you can hear it,” he adds.

“Why?”

“Because if someone’s watching you,” he says, “I’d rather you didn’t miss the next move.”

A shiver crawls up your spine, settling at the base of your neck.

“Yoongi?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

He exhales. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s late.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“Call me if anything happens,” he says. “Even if it’s stupid. Especially if it’s stupid.”

“Okay”

“Good. Now try to sleep before you start seeing faces in the wardrobe.”

You glance at the wardrobe. At the curtains. At the faint glow of the landing light.

“I’m not imagining anything,” you say quietly.

“That’s why I’m telling you to sleep.” Yoongi says, then the line clicks off.

You place your phone beside you, close enough to reach without fumbling. The house settles again a soft creak in the hallway, the distant hum of a passing car, the whisper of wind brushing the siding.

You lay down listening to Haneul's breathing, the sound of your parent's watching tv, the faint pulse in your own ears.

But the unease doesn’t fade.

It sits low in your chest, cold and heavy.

-

The end of the day settles over the floor in that tired, familiar way. People are still moving around, but the energy is gone. Conversations happen in half‑sentences. Someone apologizes to a garment bag. Someone else sighs at their screen. It’s the usual end‑of‑day chaos, just quieter.

You take the revised document upstairs. The executive level always feels different, too quiet, like everyone’s holding their breath.

His door is half in shadow.

You knock lightly. If he’s focused, you don’t want to interrupt.

Nothing.

You wait a second, then knock again, firmer. Still nothing. You try the handle.

He’s by the window, one hand on the glass like he needs it to stay upright. His back is half turned, shoulders tense.

“Did you need something?” he asks without looking away. His voice is still his, but thinner around the edges.

You hold out the folder. “Revised layout for Durand.”

He takes it. His fingers brush yours quick, nothing dramatic but his hand is warm enough that you notice.

He flips the folder open. His brows pull together for a second, then smooth out. He swallows, and the muscle in his throat jumps. His jaw tightens like it hurts.

“Print the second version,” he says. “Send it to design. Copy me.”

There’s a pause. Longer than he usually allows. His eyes drift past you, unfocused for a moment, then snap back like he had to force it.

“Anything else?”

The question is normal. His face isn’t, that's when you look at him properly.

His cheeks are flushed. His eyes look too bright. His hair is slightly out of place, like he’s been running his hands through it. The heater under his desk hums quietly, and the room feels warmer than the hallway.

“No,” you say, but your eyes flick to the orange bottle near his computer. Cold medicine, the kind you bought at the pharmacy when you wanted to look functional. A half-torn packet of something else lay beside it, the foil peeled back.

He follows your gaze. Something tight flashes across his mouth, then disappears.

“It’s nothing.”

You don’t argue. You take the folder back and turn to leave.

Halfway to the door, you hear a short, rough exhale behind you. Not a cough, not a word just a breath that didn’t come out clean.

You look back. He’s sitting now, posture straight, but one hand is pressed to his stomach under the desk. His eyes narrow when he sees you noticing.

The look is clear: drop it.

You do. You step out, and the door clicks shut behind you, you knew your place enough to not push it.

Back downstairs on the office floor, phones ringing. People arguing quietly. Assistants rushing around with stacks of things that look too heavy. Someone wheels in boxes that smell like dust and tape.

As the hours went by, the overhead lighting shifted when the sun dropped behind the surrounding towers, the windows going from grey to black.

People start leaving. Coats go on. Computers shut down. Someone laughs on their way out. Someone else groans. The office empties the way it always does, slowly and unevenly.

Your phone buzzes with a message from Yoongi asking if you’re still there. You stare at the screen for a moment before replying that you’re working late, which is easier than explaining anything else.

You stand, and the chair gives a small squeak that sounds louder than it should in the quiet office. Gathering your things, you tell yourself that you should go home, that you’ve done enough for the day, that whatever is up with Jimin is not your concern.

But you’re already walking toward the executive corridor before you finish convincing yourself.

The hallway feels colder now that everyone’s gone as you walk quietly toward his office. The light is still on, spilling softly through the gap beneath the door. You stop outside, teeth sinking into your lip as you hesitate, unsure if you should check on him.

Then you hear it.

A muffled sound from inside. A cough, low and rough, like it’s been dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.

That’s all it takes.

Raising a fist to the door, you knock before entering.

He’s slouched against the sofa, head tipped back, one arm stretched along the cushion like even sitting upright takes too much effort. When he turns to look at you, the movement is slow. Too slow.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rough and scratchy.

“I came to check on you.” You lift a hand before he can cut in. “I know. Not my business. And I know you’re going to say it’s nothing, but I’m being blunt here, Jimin. You look like shit.”

Your voice comes out firm, leaving no room for argument.

His eyes drop to the bag in your hand, then lift back to your face. The corner of his mouth twitches, faintly amused by how direct you are.

“I’m fine,” he says.

The words sound like a lie the second they leave his mouth.

He pushes himself up, reaching for the orange bottle on the coffee table. As he twists the cap, his shoulders hitch. He swallows quickly, then winces, so fast most people would miss it.

You don’t.

His lashes flutter once before he forces his expression steady again, chin lifting with that same stubborn pride that always makes him think he can outlast his own body.

“See? I’m fine.”

You stare at him, taking him in properly now. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, his cheeks flushed an unhealthy pink. Before you think better of it, you step closer and press your hand to his forehead.

He jerks slightly at the touch, and you pull back at once.

“You have a fever,” you say, quick but firm.

“Don’t start,” he murmurs, his voice softer without meaning to, worn down by exhaustion.

“You should be in bed.”

“It’s a cough. I have work to do.” He nods toward the papers scattered across the table, like they matter more than the way his body is clearly giving out.

“I can help. Whatever needs finishing, I can. I just need to know what, I just need to know where everyth—”

“No.”

The word snaps out, immediate. You see his nostrils flare, watch him steady himself, watch him pull authority back over his face like a mask. It doesn’t fit properly tonight.

“You go,” he adds, calmer. “I don’t need—”

A cough cuts him off.

He turns his head like he could hide it, but the sound still tears through the room, low and raw enough to make your chest tighten.

You move before he can protest, crossing to the mini fridge. You grab a bottle of water, find a clean glass, the cold biting against your fingers.

When you bring it back and hold it out, he stares at it for a second like he can’t process what you are offering.

“I’m not a child,” he says.

“I know that. Just drink.” Your sigh comes out sharper than you mean, patience wearing thin under the weight of his stubbornness.

He takes the glass with obvious reluctance, fingers curling around it. The tendons in his wrist stand out. His hand trembles barely noticeably, and he tightens his grip like he thinks it will hide it.

The rim touches his lips with a soft clink.

He swallows slowly, throat working with visible effort. When he sets the glass back down, his lips are damp, and for some reason, the sight makes your breathing catch.

Then he looks at you.

Not with his usual sharp, unreadable stare. Not guarded. Not distant. He looks at you like he is trying to figure you out. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact you are still there.

He stands too quickly.

One second he is still on the sofa, stubborn and tense, and the next he is on his feet, reaching for his jacket like the conversation is over. Like he’s already decided. Like if he keeps moving, neither of you has to acknowledge how bad he looks.

Then he stops.

His body sways.

The motion pulls you forward before you think. Your hand shoots out, fingers closing around his arm just above the elbow, steadying him before he can lose his balance completely. The fabric of his sleeve is warm beneath your palm, warmer than it should be, and faintly damp.

He goes still.

Not just his body. Everything.

The stillness travels through him, sharp and sudden, until it settles between you like a held breath. His eyes drop to your hand, then slowly lift to your face, as if he needs a second to understand why you are touching him at all.

For a moment, something about him shifts.

He looks younger somehow. Not softer, not quite. But stripped down. The usual edge in him dulls. Pride, cold control, all of it slips for one fragile second, leaving behind a man who feels awful and hates being seen like this.

Your fingers loosen at once, ready to pull away.

“You’re not driving like this,” you say quietly.

His brows draw together. “I can drive.”

“You almost fell over standing up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Your voice sharpens before you soften it again. “Jimin, if you get behind the wheel like this and pass out, you could crash. You could hurt yourself. Or someone else.”

He says nothing.

Another cough tears out of him, rough enough to bend him slightly at the waist.

When he straightens, slower this time, his expression tightens with frustration more than anything else.

“I’ll take you home,” you say. “I’ll drive.”

His jaw flexes.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good,” you say, stepping closer before he can move away. “Because I’m not asking.”

His eyes narrow at you, tired and annoyed and in no condition to win the argument.

For a second, you think he’ll refuse anyway, purely on principle.

Then his shoulders drop, only a little, but enough.

“…Fine.”

The word comes out flat, reluctant, dragged from him like it hurts.

Relief hits you so fast it almost makes your knees weak.

“Okay.” You reach for his jacket before he fumbles with it again. “Put this on.”

He looks like he wants to protest that too, but the fight has clearly left him. He lets you help him into the jacket, one arm at a time, movements slow and uncoordinated with fever and exhaustion. When his hand misses the sleeve the first time, something in your chest twists painfully.

By the time you get him out of the office, most of the building has gone quiet.

The hallway lights feel too bright. Silence presses against you both.

He makes it a few steps before his pace falters.

You feel it before you see it, the subtle drag in his stride, the way his breathing turns heavier, rougher. His hand brushes the wall once, like he thinks you won’t notice.

“Jimin.”

“I’m walking,” he mutters.

“Barely.”

He gives you a look, but it lacks any real force.

You step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

His stare holds yours for a beat too long, offended on instinct.

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you want to collapse in the middle of the hallway?”

“I’m not going to collapse.”

“You nearly did five minutes ago.”

He opens his mouth, probably to argue again, then shuts it when a wave of dizziness hits him. His eyes flicker, body tensing.

You soften your voice. “Jimin. Stop being difficult.”

Something in your tone gets through.

With obvious reluctance, he lifts his arm.

You step in under it, guiding it across your shoulders. The weight of him settles over you slowly, heavy and warm and far too familiar. Your hand finds his waist on instinct, steadying him as his balance shifts into you.

The second your palm presses against his side, your heart slams hard against your ribs.

You haven’t been this close to him since Paris.

His chest brushes your shoulder when he exhales. Body heat soaks through your clothes. Even sick, even half out of it, he still feels devastatingly familiar.

You tighten your grip before your hands shake.

“Lean on me,” you say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

“I’m not that heavy,” he mutters.

A breath of laughter escapes you. “You’re insufferable even with a fever.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the faintest shift of his mouth near your temple. Not quite a smile, not quite.

Together, you move down the hallway in slow, uneven steps.

Every few paces he stumbles slightly, and every time you adjust, pulling him closer, your hand pressing firmer against his waist as if sheer will could hold him upright. By the time you reach the lift, your pulse races in your throat, wrists, and stomach.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s sick. Because he needs help. Because it means nothing.

Your heart doesn’t seem interested in listening.

The cold night air hits both of you the moment you step out of the car.

He shivers.

“See?” you murmur as you open the passenger door. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m burning alive,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Dramatic.”

You help him lower into the seat, one hand still at his side so he doesn’t tip forward. For a second he looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed, lips parted with the effort of breathing.

Something in your chest tightens almost painfully.

“Jimin.”

He blinks up at you slowly. “What.”

“I don’t know where you live.”

For a second, he only looks at you, dazed and unfocused, like the question has to travel through layers of fever.

Then the corner of his mouth twitches.

“You dragged me all the way down here,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, “without knowing my address?”

Your face heats instantly. “I was a little distracted trying to stop you from dying.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You say that, but you look like you’re losing a fight with gravity.”

A faint, breathless sound escapes him, almost a laugh, almost a cough.

You crouch slightly so he can hear you properly. “Address, Jimin.”

He lets his head fall back against the seat for a second, eyes fluttering shut like speaking takes too much effort.

Then he recites it slowly, pausing once in the middle as if he has to remember his own building number. You pull your phone from your coat pocket and type it in as fast as you can.

“Okay,” you say softly once the route comes up. “Got it.”

You reach for the seatbelt and pause. “Can you manage?”

He stares at the buckle like it has become a complicated machine.

With a quiet sigh, you lean in and pull it across him yourself.

The space inside the car shrinks instantly. Too close.

His breath brushes your cheek. Your hair slips over your shoulder, and you catch the way his gaze flicks to it, unfocused but intent. Your fingers fumble slightly at the clasp before it clicks.

“There,” you whisper, though you’re not sure why your voice drops.

You pull back too quickly and shut the door with more force than necessary, standing for a moment in the cold, hand still on the frame, trying to steady the chaos in your chest before walking around to the driver’s side.

The lift ride up is painfully quiet.

Not because there’s tension. There is, obviously. Enough to choke on.

Mostly because Jimin leans against the mirrored wall, eyes half closed, one breath away from collapsing, and you try very hard not to stare at how unfairly good he still looks while half-delirious with a fever.

The doors slide open with a soft ding.

You step out first, adjusting your grip on him as he follows, one arm still slung over your shoulders, your hand firm around his waist. His weight settles heavier against you the second his feet hit the floor, and your heart gives another stupid, traitorous thud.

“Which way?” you ask, glancing down the corridor.

Jimin blinks slowly, like the question has to fight through fog. “…Left.”

“Okay.”

You nod and guide him.

The hallway is warm, quiet, lined with identical doors and low lighting. Too polished. Too neat. The sort of building that looks expensive in a deliberate way.

You make it several doors down before Jimin’s steps slow. Not enough to stop, but enough that you feel the drag of his weight shift more heavily into you.

Then, low and rough beside your ear, he mutters, “Wrong way.”

You stop dead.

“What?” you hiss, tightening your hold as he leans more of his weight onto you.

He keeps his eyes half on the floor, like speaking takes effort. “It’s the other side.”

You stare at him for a beat.

“You said left.”

“I know.”

“And now you’re saying right.”

Then, with the driest voice imaginable for someone halfway to collapse, “…I changed my mind.”

Despite yourself, a laugh slips out.

“That is not how directions work.”

His mouth twitches, faint and fleeting.

“It does tonight.”

You shake your head, already turning him carefully back the way you came.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m ill,” he mutters.

“Oh now he admits it,” you say drily.

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the faintest shift near your temple, like he’s quietly amused.

You guide him back across the corridor, steps slower now, uneven. Every few feet he leans harder into you, and each time your arm tightens around his waist, steadying him before he can stumble.

Your heart beats too hard.

The warmth of him seeps through every layer between you. His chest brushes your shoulder with each exhale. His heavy hand flexes once on you like he’s grounding himself.

“Which one?” you ask when you reach the other side.

Jimin lifts his chin slightly toward the far end. “Last one.”

You guide him there, slower now because his body seems to lose the argument with gravity inch by inch.

When you finally stop in front of the door, you ease him carefully back against the wall, keeping one hand firm at his waist so he doesn’t tip sideways while you look at the keypad.

“Code?” you ask.

Jimin’s eyes stay half closed. “Mm.”

You wait. Nothing.

“Jimin.”

He exhales slowly, like even numbers are asking too much.

Then he gives you the code, low and rough, each digit spaced out with the kind of reluctance that suggests he resents needing help.

You punch it in. Error.

“You pressed it wrong,” he murmurs, eyes still shut.

“You’re barely conscious.”

“And yet,” he says, “…I still know my own door code.”

You shoot him a look he doesn’t see, then try again. Same code. Same angry beep.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

His eyes crack open, slow and unimpressed. He reaches past you, presses one extra number at the end. The lock clicks.

You go still.

Then slowly, you turn to him.

“You forgot a digit,” he says.

“You gave me the wrong code.”

“I gave you most of the code.”

“Most of the code?”

His expression doesn’t change.

A disbelieving laugh escapes you. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he mutters, voice dragging with exhaustion, “you’re still here.”

“Yes sir,” you say drily.

He toes off his shoes with a slight wince, even that small movement painful. He shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it carefully, smooth and precise, the same controlled habits as at the office.

You step further into the apartment, eyes widening before you can stop yourself.

The place is sleek, modern, yet warm. White walls catch the soft glow from strategically placed lights, stairs lead up to the bedrooms like a quiet statement of space and order. The kitchen gleams, clean and minimal, understated luxury. Nothing feels flashy. Everything feels him.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should, drawn to subtle personal touches: a small stack of books on the counter, a coffee mug drying by the sink, a throw casually draped over the sofa. For the first time, you see a part of him that never belonged to you before.

“I’ll get you water,” you say, stepping toward the kitchen.

“I can do it,” he replies too quickly, voice rough.

“Sit,” you say again. He doesn’t argue. Shoulders tight, hands clasped like he’s bracing for a meeting, he lowers himself onto the sofa. Eyes track your every move.

The kitchen is as orderly as the rest of the apartment. Cups stacked neatly. A kettle waiting. A tin of tea tucked away. A jar of barley tea bags at the back. Even a rice cooker sits empty on the counter, lid open.

You pour water into a glass, hesitate, then reach for the barley tea, instinct pulling you to it. You don’t brew it properly, only let it steep a minute. The faint nutty scent rises, familiar, grounding.

Returning with the glass, he looks at it like you handed him something intimate.

“What is that?” he asks.

“Bori-cha,” you say evenly. “It’s easier on your stomach.”

A flicker crosses his face. Softening around the eyes. Then gone, swallowed by pride.

He takes it anyway. Fingers brush yours for a moment, heat shooting up your arm. He swallows, eyes closing fractionally, throat working.

“You should be in bed,” you say.

“I’m fine,” he says, smaller this time, the lie thinner.

You move to the counter, grab the medicine packets.

“I can take my own medication,” he says sharply.

“I’m not taking it for you,” you reply. “I’m just checking what you’ve already had.”

His gaze narrows. He watches you as if you are crossing a line, and perhaps you are. You read the packets anyway. The dosage. The timing. The half-torn foil.

“You’ve doubled up,” you say quietly.

His eyes flash, annoyed at being caught.

“It wasn’t working.”

“It doesn’t work faster because you take more,” you say.

He stares. Bloodshot eyes, skin faintly bruised with exhaustion. The way he looks at you is too direct, too intense. Your mouth goes dry.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re—” He trails off, throat working, swallows, winces, hand going briefly to his neck.

You soften. “Lie down.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

You step closer, hand toward his shoulder, intending to guide him.

His reflex is immediate. Hand wraps around your wrist with heat and strength that steals your breath. Thumb presses into your pulse. Your chest hitsched.

He catches your wrist.

Face close. Sweat near his hairline. Shallow, uneven breathing. Rasp in his voice.

“Stay,” he says. Hoarse, almost broken.

Your lungs forget what to do for a second.

The room is quiet enough to hear the humidifier click and fail. Outside, distant traffic hisses along wet roads. His grip holds steady, as if you are the only thing that feels real.

He looks up at you like he doesn’t understand why you are there and needs you anyway. Brows draw together, eyes searching your face.

“Don’t go,” he adds, softer.

Need. The word hits harder than anger. Pulse thuds. Hand hovers between retreat and steadying him.

Recognition hits him. Flash of shame and anger. Nostrils flare, jaw clenches. Grip loosens, falling away. Hand drops to lap, empty, but tension lingers.

“I meant,” he starts, then stops, breath catching. “I meant… I’m not well enough to be alone right now.”

Your wrist still tingles where his hand brushed yours.

“I’ll stay until you’re settled,” you say. Steady words, though your body refuses to believe them.

He nods once, eyes dropping. Lashes lower. Face softens, slackens briefly, then tightens again, reclaiming control.

You guide him toward the bedroom slowly, careful. Floor under your socks warm. Ondol heat rising, comforting in a space holding so little comfort.

He sits on the edge of the bed, exhaling, shoulders dropping. His face tightens with a wave of nausea, palm pressing against his stomach.

“Breathe,” you say.

Your hand hovers near his temple. Heat rolls off his skin, making your fingers ache. You press the back of your hand lightly to his forehead, quick, clinical, then pull away. Too hot.

His eyes follow your hand like it left a mark.

You pull the blanket back. He lies down stiffly at first, then with slow, reluctant surrender. Breathing shallow. Brow furrowed, the line between his eyebrows deepening.

It sounds like a push away, the tone not matching.

“You asked me to stay,” you reply.

His eyes open. The look is sharp, defensive, then softens, then sharpens again, trying to hide behind a wall and failing.

“I didn’t,” he says automatically. The lie weak.

“I shouldn’t have,” he adds quickly, voice tighter, as if racing to justify himself. “It’s not appropriate…” He trails off, unable or unwilling to finish.

You don’t argue. Arguing would make it real.

You sit in the chair by the bed, angled just enough to give him distance while staying present. Hands folded in your lap to stop yourself from reaching again. The room smells faintly of clean linen, medicine, and warm, nutty barley tea.

His breathing steadies gradually. Eyelids flutter. Tension in his jaw eases bit by bit.

After a long silence, his voice slips out again, softer, different. “What time is it?”

“Late,” you say.

A faint sound comes from him, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Of course.”

He turns his head toward you. For a moment, the harshness leaves his face. Eyes half-lidded, lashes heavy. Corners of his mouth soften, almost a smile and not quite.

Then he tightens again, like he caught himself.

“Go home,” he says weakly.

“Alright,” you answer, because staying would make you reckless.

In the hallway, you slip on your shoes and reach for your coat. Your wrist still remembers his grip. Skin too alert.

At the door, you look back. He sits up again, propped against the headboard, refusing to be caught asleep while you’re still in the apartment. Face blank, CEO mask back in place, though it sits crooked on illness.

“Thank you,” he says. Polite, rough, low, carrying something else entirely.

You don’t answer. Answering would invite more.

He drifts off quickly.

One moment he watches you with fever-bright confusion, the next his lashes lower, breath catching once before settling into slow, uneven rhythm. Hand slips from stomach to blanket, fingers uncurling as if the fight has drained out of him.

You stand for a long moment, letting quiet settle.

The room feels different with him asleep. Softer, less guarded, as if the walls themselves have unclenched.

The lamp casts a warm pool of light across the bed, catching the sheen of sweat at his hairline, the faint flush on his cheeks, the tension lingering in the line of his jaw.

You move closer. Slowly. Carefully.

You sit on the edge of the bed, barely shifting the mattress. Breathing doesn’t change. Lips part slightly on exhale, soft, vulnerable in a way he would never allow awake.

Your hand lifts before you can stop it.

You brush a strand of hair off his forehead, fingertips grazing skin. He doesn’t stir. Heat presses into you, fever making your chest tighten with worry.

You let your fingers linger a second too long.

Then trace the line of his temple, curve of cheekbone, faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

He looks younger like this. Like your Jimin.

Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, warmth sinking into your skin. Breath catches. You shouldn’t be doing this. You know it.

Your hand slides into his hair, slow, gentle, the way you used to when he lay his head in your lap during long conversations. Strands stick to your fingers. He exhales, a small, almost sigh.

Your heart twists.

You lean down before you can talk yourself out of it.

A soft kiss to his forehead. Barely a touch. A memory pressed into skin.

He doesn’t wake. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t know.

You pull back, breath uneven, taste of regret already forming at the back of your throat.

You stay a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the shape of him in this light, in this quiet, in this version of himself he doesn’t let anyone see.

Then you stand.

You turn off the lamp.

You slip out, closing the door with a soft click.

The apartment corridor is silent. The lift takes too long. When it arrives, the mirror inside reflects you too clearly. Eyes wide, lips parted, color high on your cheeks. You’ve done something you can’t undo.

The winter street hits with cold, sharp against your lungs. Exhaust and damp wool mix in the air. A late-night pojangmacha glows orange a few blocks down, plastic sheeting rattling in the wind. Men hunched over steaming cups, laughter muffled behind scarves.

Your breath comes out white. Rain slicks the pavement, and streetlights smear across puddles.

Halfway down the block, a car idles at the curb, engine running, lights off. Ordinary at first, like dozens of cars scattered across Seoul at night, waiting for someone, waiting for nothing.

Then it doesn’t move.

You keep walking. Boots squeak on wet pavement. Shoulders tighten as the strap of your bag digs into your collarbone.

At the corner, a shop window catches your reflection. For a split second, the image lags behind you, like the world has shifted.

A figure stands under the awning of a closed café, hands in pockets, face hidden by shadow. Someone waiting. For what.

You don’t stop. You don’t look directly. You let your gaze slide over it like you haven’t noticed.

Your phone comes out, thumb hovering over the screen, ready to dial Yoongi or the police.

The door to your apartment appears. You slip inside and lock it behind you, soft clicks in the quiet.

Only then do you let yourself exhale.

Previous Chapter |

All rights reserved. © 2026 Mikrokosmos Love

No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Hi, yes of course I remember you! I have no idea why that would be. I only block profiles if they don’t have nothing on them or don’t give an age.

So strange, I can only think, that it was a button pressed by mistake and I never noticed or a glitch 🤷🏻‍♀️

I don’t put those warnings at the end of every story or chapter just for fun.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 5.4k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You pull your phone out a few minutes later, more irritated than anything when you see the same unknown number still sitting there. No name. No follow-up. No stupid “gotcha” message to make it seem like some weird joke between colleagues.

Just the photo.

Your thumb taps back into it before you can stop yourself. It’s still the same. Your back in the lift mirror. The angle too close to be random. Too intentional to feel harmless.

You stare at it for a second longer than you should.

It’s weird. That’s all.

Weird and invasive and honestly kind of annoying.

Someone probably thought they were being funny. Or cryptic. Or whatever people like this think they’re being.

You lift your head and look around, not enough for anyone to notice. Just a glance over the top of your monitor like you’re stretching your neck or zoning out.

The office is the same as always.

Too loud in some corners. Dead quiet in others.

A junior writer is laughing at something on her screen like she’s forgotten everyone else exists. Someone drags a chair back hard enough to make the floor squeal. Two editors are half-arguing near the printer, both pretending they’re being professional when they clearly want to kill each other.

Normal.

No one’s staring at you. No one looks guilty. No one suddenly looks away either.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Your eyes drift over the glass partitions, the reflections, the rows of desks. Nothing jumps out. No big reveal. No obvious creep lurking in the corner with a phone in hand.

Annoying.

You angle your screen a little and type under the desk.

Y/N: Who is this?

Then you force yourself to look back at the document on your monitor, rereading the same sentence three times without taking in a word. Your shoulders are a little tighter now. Not enough to call it nerves. Enough to be irritating.

You glance around once more, slower this time. Phones. Hands. Bags. Faces. Same people. Same mess. Same deadlines. Same fake urgency over things that will be forgotten in a week.

Then your phone buzzes.

Unkown: Someone watching. That's all.

You frown.

That’s it?

No explanation. No name. Just some vague, creepy bullshit like they think they’re in a drama.

You stare at the message, unimpressed and a little more unsettled than you want to admit.

Because okay, maybe it’s stupid.

But someone still took the photo.

And for whatever reason, they wanted you to know they did.

You leave the phone on your desk for now, screen down, as if ignoring it could somehow make the weirdness go away. It doesn’t. You type a few notes, reread a paragraph, check the layout proof again. Everything normal, except your mind keeps flicking back to the photo.

-

Staying late feels easier than leaving, even if it doesn’t make sense.

The floor empties in waves. Interns head out first, shoulders rounded, glancing back as if leaving early might draw attention. Juniors follow, coats draped over chairs, voices rising now that the pressure has eased. Senior staff linger by the lifts, stretching conversations because they can.

By the time the last cluster drifts out, the office feels exposed, the quiet settling heavier than it should.

Your coffee sits cold beside your laptop, a faint ring drying on the desk. You curl your fingers around the mug, more for the weight than the warmth.

You glance at the glass walls and corridor beyond. Reflections multiply, shadows stretch into empty shapes. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. That should calm you. It doesn’t.

You finish your final email with extra care, rereading sentences you’ve checked twice. Closing the laptop, the click sounds too loud, and your shoulders stiffen before you force them down.

You shrug into your coat, adjusting it once, then again, as if the fabric could somehow affect your steps. Your bag slides onto your shoulder, heavier than usual. You shift it closer.

Every step sharpens your awareness. Empty desks. Dark corners. The long walk to the lifts.

You glance back once, tell yourself not to, then do it again. Shadows between desks. Glass reflecting movement that isn’t there.

Inside the lift, you hug the wall, catching your reflection again. The face looking back is the one you wear in meetings: measured, unreadable, steady. Holding it requires effort.

The doors open to the lobby. You walk out evenly, eyes forward. The marble and glass throw back distorted versions of the people moving through the space.

A man scrolls through his phone. A woman waits at reception, arms folded, impatience in her stance. The security guard glances up as you pass, then back to his rounds.

Outside, the city closes in. Engines idle, horns blare, someone laughs nearby. You fall into the flow of pedestrians automatically, fingers tightening on your bag strap, eyes skimming shop windows and dark gaps between buildings.

The image replays anyway. Your back. The mirror. The angle. Why send it?

Who stands that close without being noticed?

Security crosses your mind first, then colleagues. Too many faces, too many people moving through the building. Assistants, editors, contractors drifting in and out with badges hanging loose, eyes trained everywhere except where they should be.

You sigh deeply with frustration, why were you even letting it bother you so much?

-

Sleep comes in fragments, pulled into odd, disjointed images. A masked man looms close, his movements sharp and unnatural, and he lifts a small device, clicking it toward your face.

The sound is tinny, hollow, like it’s coming from far away and too near at the same time. He laughs, high-pitched and echoing, filling the corners of the room that shouldn’t exist. You try to shout to him "Why are you taking photos of me?" but your lips won't move.

A flash blinds you. The man tilts his head, grin widening under the mask. You wake for a heartbeat, gasping, only to fall back into the same scene, the laughter continuing, fractured and strange.

Your chest rises unevenly, heart thumping against ribs that feel too tight, and you finally roll to your side, hoping the next blink will be normal.

Your eyes flash open, chest feeling tight. 'Fuck that was a weird dream' sitting up you rub your face, staring bleary eyed at the digits on the alarm clock, 11pm. You'd only been asleep forty minutes but it had felt like hours.

Reaching the phone, you open your message from the unknown number, without thinking, you forward it to Yoongi. No context. Just the image.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Yoongi : Why are you sending me a photo of your back?

You stare at the words. His dry tone comes through even without the usual sarcasm. You can practically hear the eye roll.

Y/N : I don’t know. 

         Just thought you should see it, someone sent it to me earlier.

A pause. Then:

Yoongi: They sent it you, why?

You hesitate, thumb hovering.

Y/N :  I don’t know, they won't tell me, just....that they're watching me.

Yoongi doesn’t reply again. You set the phone facedown and lie back, trying to sleep. The image lingers behind your eyelids, a ghost you can’t shake.

The bed feels colder than it should. You listen to the distant hum of the city, the weight of the night pressing against your ribs. Sleep doesn’t come.

-

Morning comes pale through the curtains. You lie still for a moment, hearing traffic, delivery scooters, buses rumbling up the hill, someone calling at a taxi.

You get up, get dressed, button your shirt, tie your shoes, sling your bag over your shoulder. Everything feels the same, but you don’t.

Without thinking, your steps take you toward a busier street, more people, more noise, reflections catching pieces of yourself. Your phone buzzes at the crosswalk.

Yoongi.

You answered before the second vibration finished. “Are you on your way?” he asks. His voice is low, steady.

“Yes.”

A long pause follows. Not uncomfortable. Just… aware. “You good?” he asks finally.

You don’t answer right away. The sound of your boots on pavement fills the space between you. “Yeah,” you say, trying to make the word solid. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe you. You hear it in the silence. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Text me when you get to work.”

"I will" You hang up.

The building smells the same as always, a mix of toner, hairspray, and burnt coffee. The familiar scent of a Seoul office at 9 a.m. fades into the background.

The security guard glances up as you pass. He nods. You nod back. No words. Just routine.

The lift doors close behind you, the hum of the machinery filling the quiet. You stand a little away from the mirrored wall, glancing at your reflection just long enough to check you look normal. Close enough.

The air feels heavier today. Thicker. It presses in under your ribs and you shift, tug at your collar, trying to make space for it.

The lift moves up slowly. Floor numbers chime. When the doors slide open onto the editorial floor, everything hits at once. Laughter by beauty. A printer jamming. Someone muttering under their breath. Chairs scraping across tile.

Work doesn’t stop. Phones ring. A junior squeals over a PR package. Another dashes past with proofs clutched like they’re live wires. The office looks the same as yesterday, but it doesn’t feel the same.

At your desk, you type a reply. Delete it. Rewrite it. Your focus comes and goes, uneven, drifting somewhere you’re trying not to follow.

Garam passes by with a stack of folders. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

She continues on, already absorbed in whatever she’s handling. You return to your screen, though your thoughts keep drifting to the noticeable lack of Jimin requiring your presence in well, anything.

After a while, you stand and stretch your shoulders, walking toward the Durand rack.

The metal frame rattles softly when you touch it, pages shifting under your fingers. Someone behind you complains about a missing caption; another asks for a deadline extension. The usual background noise of a team trying to keep up. Your phone buzzes unexpectedly making you jump. Yoongi again.

Yoongi : You in the office now?

You type back:

Y/N : Yeah. Why? frowning at his random question.

Yoongi : Just checking. You didn’t sound great earlier.

You pause, thinking of whether to be honest or not.

Y/N : I’m fine. Just tired, I was probably overreacting . 

A short pause.

Yoongi: Just tell me if something happens again

You slip the phone back into your pocket and return to your desk. The floor moves around you in its familiar rhythm, loud in places, quiet in others, a constant shuffle of people and deadlines.

You sat, adjusted your chair, and tried to settle your breathing. Your thoughts kept drifting upward anyway. You forced your attention back to the document in front of you, anchoring yourself in the work.

By the time lunch rolls around, most of the floor has started to thin out. Chairs scrape back and a small group drifts toward the lifts, still arguing about a headline. You stay at your desk, too on edge to go anywhere.

Your cursor blinks at the end of a sentence you don’t remember writing. The half‑finished draft on your screen feels heavier than it should, like your brain is moving half a beat behind everything else. You check the time twice without meaning to.

Opening a delivery app, you scroll without seeing the options, then lock your phone and push it aside The idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant, making small talk, feels like more effort than you have.

Someone passes you with a tray of convenience store kimbap and canned coffee. Another person laughs about a meme in the group chat. Lunchtime noise rises and falls around you.

Eventually, you force yourself to eat something, a triangle kimbap from the corner store downstairs, unwrapped, the seaweed already softening.

Your mouth chewed mechanically, barely tasting the food, eyes flicking between your draft and the clock. As you sat, the chair creaked softly under your weight.

Eating with one hand, you scroll with the other, though you weren’t really reading. Your attention keeps lifting, skimming reflections in the glass, the corridor visible at the far end of the floor.

The image surfaces again without warning. Your back. The lift mirror. The angle too close. Your shoulders tighten as you swallow.

Who sent it?

Just then, as if to mock you, the afternoon meeting reminder pops up.

Conference Room B Meeting 1pm

Wiping your hands, you close your document, and grab your notebook.

The meeting room holds the kind of quiet that settles before people commit to work.

A few staff are already seated, spaced out along the glass table, attention drifting between open laptops and the floor plan on the screen. Pages rustle softly. Someone adjusts their chair. The low hum of the projector fills the space.

Namjoon sits slightly apart, jacket off, sleeves rolled, brow drawn as he reads through a document. He isn’t speaking to anyone, just absorbing information in the steady, focused way he always does.

Jimin stands near the window with a set of papers in his hand. His posture is straight, shoulders set, a faint tension in his stance like he’s been standing there a while. He doesn’t look up when you enter, his attention fixed on the page. It's the first time you've seen him in days. 

You take the chair closest to the door. The glass table feels cool beneath your forearms as you settle in. The production coordinator adjusts the floor plan on the screen, waiting for the meeting to begin.

Jimin crosses the room and takes his seat last. The chair scrapes softly as he pulls it in. He sets the papers down and folds his hands on the table, gaze fixed on the documents.

The coordinator glances toward the screen again, finger hovering over the floor plan. “If we move the second rail closer, we gain space near the entrance, but it might affect the flow. I’m not sure if it’s worth the adjustment.”

She waits, eyes shifting between the diagram and the people around the table.

You study the layout, letting your gaze travel along the entrance path, the spacing between racks, the way the garments would sit in the viewer’s line of sight. Your pen rests between your fingers, thoughts already forming.

Before you can speak, Jimin answers. “No. The sightline collapses if that rail moves. Keep it where it is.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t look up. He just delivers the decision with quiet certainty. The coordinator nods. “All right. We’ll keep the original spacing.”

The room shifts its attention to you, waiting for your assessment. “If it shifts, the entrance reads crowded,” you say. “The first impression loses its depth.”

Jimin gives a single nod, still focused on the documents.

The discussion moves on. Transport timing, garment order, delivery windows. You contribute when needed, offering details you’ve already memorised.

Each time you speak, you feel the faintest shift in the room, a subtle pause, a flicker of attention that makes you aware of the space you occupy. You try to ignore it, focusing on the logistics, but the awareness lingers.

Jimin sits composed, expression unreadable, attention fixed on the documents. He doesn’t look at you. Not once. Not even in the small, habitual ways he normally does when wanting your input.

He keeps his focus narrow, never letting his gaze drift in your direction. It isn’t casual oversight. It feels deliberate, like he’s holding himself inside a line of focus that excludes you entirely.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it, reading into things because of the photograph. Even so, the thought doesn’t settle.

The meeting wraps with the usual shuffle of chairs and papers, everyone already half‑turned toward the door before the final point is even finished. 

You gather your things a beat slower, still thinking about the last question someone asked, still trying to decide if you should check in with Jimin before he disappears into the rest of his day.

You look up just in time to see him step away from the table. His expression is the same as it’s been all morning focused, unreadable, already moving on to whatever comes next. He doesn’t glance your way.

You shift your weight forward, ready to catch him, ready to ask if he needs anything from you, but he’s already heading for the door. Not fast. Not abrupt. Just… already gone from the moment you try to enter it.

Someone brushes past you on their way out, and you fall into step behind the group, the chance slipping away as easily as it always does. The hallway feels cooler than the conference room, the air moving around you as people scatter toward their next tasks.

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and keep walking. There’s nothing else to do.

-

A few days later..

By the time the floor thins out, the building sounds different. Not quiet, exactly, just stripped back. The lifts chimes less often. Printers stop mid-cycle. Somewhere far below, a cleaning trolley rattles, wheels uneven against tiles.

You're halfway through annotating a layout proof when the message comes through.

CEO Park : Come up to the executive floor. Now.

No greeting. No explanation. Just the clipped tone he used when he’d cut everything down to function. Confusion hit first, lifting your shoulders before you even realised it. 

He hadn’t asked for you in days. Not for meetings. Not for scheduling. Not even as his PA. Everything had been filtered through assistants and emails, like you’d been quietly shifted to the edges of your own job.

You pushed back from your desk and gathered your things, movements too deliberate, like your body was trying to catch up to something your mind hadn’t named yet.

The lift ride up felt longer this late in the afternoon. The numbers blinked past with too much space between them. When the doors opened, the executive floor greeted you with its usual polished quiet,  soft lighting, carpet that swallowed sound, air that smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and nothing human. His office door was ajar. You knocked anyway.

“Come in.”

He didn’t look up when you stepped inside. Papers were spread wider than his usual precision allowed. His jacket hung over the chair. His tie was loosened, collar open, sleeves rolled to his forearms. 

He stood leaning over the desk, one hand braced against the glass, eyes scanning a document like he was trying to force it to behave. The door clicked shut behind you.

“You wanted to see me,” you say.

He nodded without looking up. “Yes.”

You waited. The room hummed with the low machinery of the building, the faint buzz of a city winding down. After a beat too long, you asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

His head lifted,  not fully, just enough for his gaze to land on you, sharp and assessing, like he was checking for damage he hadn’t noticed earlier. “No,” he said immediately.

The speed of it mattered. You held his eyes. “Then why haven’t you called on me? If this is about something Chae‑won—”

“It’s not,” he cut in, then stopped himself. His jaw tightened before he continued, slower. “It’s not about that.”

You nodded, though the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. “All right.”

He finally straightened, pushing away from the desk. A faint smear marked the glass where his palm had been. He didn’t wipe it away.

“There’s an issue with the Q3 advertiser projections,” he said. “Legal flagged something late. If we don’t correct it before morning, the board will freeze the rollout.”

“And you need me,” you said, already moving closer, eyes dropping to the papers. Your fingers reached for a page without asking, muscle memory taking over.

He hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “If you have time.”

You paused, then looked up at him. “I have time.”

Something in his expression tightened at that. Not relief, something smaller, more contained. “I didn’t want to pull you away from your work,” he said. “You’ve been covering a lot.”

The understatement landed strangely, considering he hadn’t asked for that coverage himself.

“I can manage,” you replied.

“I know,” he said quietly, and the way he said it made your stomach turn over.

You moved around the desk, standing beside him now, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension sitting at the base of his throat. He slid a document toward you.

“This clause,” he said. “It contradicts the exposure language we agreed on.”

You skimmed it, brow furrowing. “They cross‑referenced the wrong appendix.”

“Yes.”

“If it goes out like this, marketing will overpromise,” you said. “Legal will tear it apart.”

“Exactly.”

You set the paper down and reached for your laptop. “I’ll rewrite it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you said gently. “It’s faster if I do.”

He didn’t argue. He stepped back, giving you space, watching as you claimed the corner of the desk, fingers already moving.

Minutes slipped by. Then more. The city lights outside brightened as the sky darkened, reflections layering over each other in the glass. 

You worked without speaking, the familiar rhythm of problem‑solving settling your nerves even as your awareness stayed fixed on him, the way he paced in short bursts, the way he stopped himself from hovering too close.

At some point, he said, “You can go if you need to.”

You didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve already stayed late.”

“So have you.”

Silence

Your shoulders ached. You rolled them once, then again, and finally lifted your arms to ease the tension. A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.

He looked over. You reached back and gathered your hair, twisting it into a knot at the nape of your neck. The room felt warmer suddenly or maybe you’d just noticed.

His gaze lingered. You felt it, even without looking. A prickle along your spine. Your breath tightened.

When you glanced up, his eyes snapped away. “I’ll order food,” he said quickly. “You’ll need it.”

“I’m okay—”

“You haven’t eaten,” he said, already reaching for his phone. No room for debate.

You closed your mouth and went back to the screen. Behind you, he spoke into the phone, efficient, clipped  his voice threading through the room, familiar and unsettling all at once.

When he hung up, he didn’t say anything. He just resumed his place across from you, sleeves pushed higher now, forearms resting on the desk as he reviewed your changes.

You worked on, aware of every small thing the scrape of his chair, the faint crease between his brows, the way he leaned in without realising, then corrected himself, stepping back like he’d crossed an invisible line.

After a while, he said quietly, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your fingers paused over the keys.

“I know I didn’t,” you say, the little quip is awarded with a slight twitch of his mouth.

He stands across from you and tells himself to stay where he is.

Jimin tries to focus on the documents. He reads the same line twice, then a third time, the words refusing to settle. Something in the room kept tugging at him, pulling his attention off the page.

He doesn’t realise he's looking at you. Not really. Not consciously. His gaze drifts without intention, the shift of your shoulders, the way your fingers move between keyboard and paper, the quiet concentration that narrows the world around you.

He isn’t aware he’s stopped reading.

He isn’t aware he’s gone still.

He isn’t aware he’s staring until you glance up.

The moment your eyes meet his, something jolts through him, like waking from a dream he didn’t know he’d been having. Heat climbs the back of his neck. He looks away too fast, pretending to adjust a page he hasn’t actually read..

You turn back to your screen, and the relief hits him too hard.

He clears his throat. “I should have asked sooner”, meaning the work, the work, the hours, the distance, all of it.

“It's fine.....it's my job.” you reply.

He watches your hands again, not meaning to, and before he can stop himself, before he even fully registers the thought, he blurts out.

“I missed you.”

The words slip out raw, unfiltered. Your fingers freeze. Your breath catches.

His face drains as the meaning hits him a beat too late. The phrasing. The implication. The way it sounds in the quiet room.

He moves too fast. “I meant—” His voice stumbles. “I meant I missed seeing you work.” 

Silence.

The correction sounds thin even to him. “Oh,” you say softly.

You look back at the screen, but your shoulders hold differently now, higher, guarded. He sees it. He feels it.

Regret hits him like a pulse. He turns away under the pretence of reviewing a document, jaw tight, breath uneven, trying to rebuild the walls he’s spent days reinforcing.

The silence stretches. You force your eyes back to the screen, fingers finding the keys again even though your pulse hasn’t settled. The room feels warmer, the air thicker.

Jimin doesn’t move at first. When he finally steps closer, it’s cautious, measured, the way someone approaches something fragile.

He leans over the desk to read the paragraph you’re editing.

You feel him before you see him, the faint heat of his body, the shift of air when he exhales.

It tightens something low in your stomach, not because of the closeness itself, but because of the words he said, he ones he didn’t mean to say, the ones you wished meant something else, like he'd remembered you.

You keep your face neutral. He pretends nothing happened.

“Here,” he says quietly, pointing to a line. His voice is steady again, but softer. “This clause, the cross‑reference is wrong.”

You nod, adjusting the text. “They pulled the appendix from the old version.”

“Of course they did,” he mutters, leaning in a fraction more. His sleeve brushes your arm accidentally, but the contact sends a small jolt through both of you.

Neither of you reacts. Not outwardly.

“If you anchor it to the Q3 language instead,” he says, “legal won’t have grounds to stall.”

You type the correction, grateful for the clarity of the work.

He watches the screen, not you. Or maybe he’s trying very hard to make it look that way.

The awkwardness thins slowly, replaced by the familiar rhythm of problem‑solving. You ask about exposure limits. He answers. He points out a formatting inconsistency. You fix it.

The tension doesn’t disappear. It just settles.

When you finish the last correction, you sit back slightly. “That’s the cleanest version we’ll get tonight.”

Jimin exhales with relief. “Good. That’s… good.” He straightens, stepping back from the desk. His expression has steadied, but the faint flush at the tips of his ears hasn’t faded.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerity threading through the words. “You didn’t have to stay this late.”

“You needed it done.”

“I did,” he admits. “And you’ve been working overtime all week.”

Your brows lift.  “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he says, firmer than you expect. “Start later tomorrow. Come in at ten.”

You blink. “Jimin—”

“It’s not a request,” he says, but the tone isn’t sharp. It’s something closer to concern. “You’ve done enough today.”

You hold his gaze, searching for any trace of the earlier slip. There’s none. Just exhaustion. Gratitude.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He nods once, like that settles something in him. But when you gather your things and move toward the door, you feel his eyes follow you , not intentionally, just… drawn to you.

And he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.

-

The bus rocks gently as it pulls away from the curb, the city sliding past in streaks of neon and wet pavement. 

You sit near the back, bag pressed against your hip, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass. The hum of the engine vibrates through the window, steady enough that your thoughts finally begin to loosen.

You replay the evening without meaning to. The way he leaned over the desk. The warmth of him beside you. The slip  'I missed you'.

You tell yourself not to read into it. The bus jolts over a pothole. Your hand tightens on your bag strap.

Outside, headlights blur into long white lines. People cross streets with their collars up, shoulders hunched against the cold. Everything looks normal. Ordinary. Safe.

Your phone buzzes.

Once.

Then again.

You pull it out.

Unknown number

Your stomach tightens. and you open the message. An image fills the screen.

For a second, your brain refuses to process it. The angle is slightly elevated, distant, taken through glass or something.  But the subjects are unmistakable You and Jimin. In his office alone.

He’s leaning over the desk, pointing at the screen, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. The lighting makes the space look warmer than it felt. The angle makes the moment look intimate. Too intimate. Your breath catches.

A second message appears.

Unknown : What would people think if they saw you together like this?

Your pulse spikes so fast your vision blurs. You look up instinctively, scanning the bus. No one is looking at you. No one is looking away too quickly. Just commuters, tired and blank‑faced.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You don’t reply. You can’t.

The bus turned, throwing your reflection across the window pale, tense, eyes too wide.

You swallow hard and lock the phone, pressing it face‑down against your thigh as nausea creeps up your throat.

-

Jimin doesn’t go straight to bed.

He tells himself he’s reviewing the corrected clauses again, but the truth is simpler: he can’t settle.

The apartment is too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes his thoughts echo. He loosens his tie, tosses it onto the couch, and sits with the document open on his laptop, though he hasn’t read a full paragraph in ten minutes.

His mind keeps circling the same moment.

' I missed you.'

The sentence hits him again, harder this time. Heat crawls up the back of his neck. He presses his palms over his face, groaning into them.

Why would he say that? Why like that?

He drops his hands and stares at the ceiling, mortification settling like a weight on his chest. The look on your face flashes back, startled, careful, like you weren’t sure what he meant or whether you were supposed to respond at all.

He winces. God. He sounded unprofessional. Worse,  he sounded personal.

His stomach twists. For a split second he imagines HR calling him in, asking him to explain himself, asking why he said something that could be interpreted a dozen different ways, none of them appropriate. He can already picture the email subject line: Meeting Request :  Conduct Clarification.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t even know what he meant. It just slipped out.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The embarrassment sits under his ribs like a weight, heavy enough to make his breath uneven.

He tries to focus on the document again, but the words blur. His mind keeps circling the same fear, that you’ll think he crossed a line, that he’s ruined the fragile professionalism he’s been clinging to.

He’s still spiralling when his phone buzzes. He freezes.

Unknown number

His pulse jumps, irrationally, like HR has somehow manifested instantly to punish him. He swallows, thumb hovering, then answers.

“Hello?”

Nothing. No breath. No background noise. Just a thin, open line.

He sits up straighter, embarrassment momentarily eclipsed by something colder. “Who is this?”

Silence.

A faint static hiss, so soft he wasn’t sure it was real. 

He tries again, voice tighter. "Hello?" Still nothing.

He pulls the phone away, checks the number, then brings it back to his ear. He ends the call frowning at the screen as it goes dark.

He sets the phone down, but his hand stays there, fingers resting against the glass like he’s waiting for it to move again. His pulse thuds once, hard, against his ribs. He tells himself it’s a wrong number. A glitch. Spam.

The phone lights up again. Same number.

He doesn’t answer this time. He just watches it vibrate against the tabletop, the caller ID flashing, the seconds ticking up like someone is waiting for him to pick up.

It stops.

Jimin exhales slowly, locks the phone, and pushes it aside. He tries to return to the document, but the words blur. His eyes keep drifting to the phone, waiting for it to light up again.

It doesn’t. But the unease stays.

He closes the laptop, stands, and turns off the overhead lights. The city glow filters in through the windows soft, distant, but it doesn’t settle him the way it usually does.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

All rights reserved. © 2026 Mikrokosmos Love No reposting or translating without consent.

MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 4.7k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The lift doors slide open onto the main floor and the air hits the way it always does, warm from too many bodies, sharp with hairspray and printer toner, coffee burnt on the hotplate because someone forgot again.

A runner barrels past with a garment bag held above her head, muttering sorry without slowing, the zip catching on a sequinned sleeve.

Your coffee is lukewarm from the train. You drink it anyway. The bitterness sits at the back of your tongue, grounding you as you tap your badge against the reader. The scanner light flickers red, then green, and the door clicks open with that familiar, tired sigh of old hinges.

At your desk, a sticky note clings to your monitor at an angle.

Call legal. Confirm embargo clause. 10am rollout meeting.

You peel it off, fold it once, and slide it under your keyboard so you’ll feel it when your wrists shift. The plastic edge presses into your forearms as you sit—small discomfort, grounding.

Your inbox loads, filling the screen with subject lines stacked like a queue outside a club. You scroll once, not reading yet, scanning for the ones that matter. Red flags. All caps. Exclamation marks. Names that will chase you again if you ignore them.

A chair scrapes behind you.

“Morning,” Jiah says, hovering with a clipboard

You keep your eyes on the screen. “Morning.”

Her perfume hangs too sweet in the air, sprayed heavy to cover four hours’ sleep. She shifts her weight, waiting for you to look up, the clipboard pressed so tight to her chest her knuckles are pale.

“He’s back today, isn’t he?”

You finish your sentence, hit send, then lean back. The chair sighs under you.

“Yes. What do you need?”

Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Marketing wants the embargo draft before lunch. They’re asking if he’ll sign off on the final language.”

“They’ll get the draft before lunch,” you say. “He’ll see it after the rollout meeting.”

She nods, then hesitates. “People have been… asking.”

They always ask you.

Your desk isn’t the centre of the magazine. Namjoon’s office is. Editors run to him when something burns. Stylists run to their leads. Marketing runs to whoever promises them reach.

But when the CEO disappears, none of that matters. People want his time. His approval. His name on the line. And you’re the gate.

“How many?” you ask.

“A lot,” she says, apologetic.

You open your calendar without looking at it. “Send anyone with schedule questions to me. Creative questions go to Namjoon.”

“Okay.” She turns, pauses. “Did he say where he went?”

“No.”

Her mouth opens like she might try again. It closes. She leaves.

The office wakes up around you, printers warming, keyboards clacking, the low murmur of early conversations. The air-conditioning kicks on with a soft thump, sending a cool draft across your ankles.

A marketing manager arrives next, headset still around her neck, breath uneven from rushing. “Morning. Do you have an ETA for Mr Park?”

“He’s in the building. He’ll join the rollout at ten.”

“Thank God,” she blurts, then forces a laugh. “I mean, uh great.”

Ten minutes later, a photo editor leans on your desk, eyes red from screen glare, one sleeve smeared with foundation. “Do we hold the cover approval until he’s back?”

“No. Send it to me. I’ll collate feedback and get it to him this afternoon.”

“Right.” He rubs his eye. “Is he in a mood?”

Your jaw stays still. “I don’t know.”

He nods like that tells him everything and drifts away.

By half nine, your coffee has cooled again. A new one sits within reach, untouched, bought by someone trying to stay on your good side.

You move it closer and take a sip. It tastes like it was poured ten minutes ago and forgotten. Exactly like yours.

You pull the embargo draft closer. Clause three needs tightening. Third‑party contractors. Editing houses. Translators. Anyone who could leak a file for attention.

Your pen scratches across the page. Ink pools where you hesitate.

Paris sits in the back of your mind like a bruise. Not because it hurts. Because it’s dangerous.

Taehyung’s name sits beside it, sharper. You haven’t spoken to him properly since they returned to Seoul. If he’d told Jimin anything, he would have warned you, but that doesn’t reassure you.

You read clause three again. Find two loopholes. Close them.

A rack of jackets clacks past. Someone curses at the printer. A gust of cold air rolls across the floor as the freight lift opens somewhere behind you.

When Jimin returns, you’ll see it.

You’ll see it in his face if anything has shifted. You’ll see it in his eyes if Paris did what you’re afraid it might. You’ll see it, or you won’t, and either way you’ll have to keep breathing.

Not because it hurt. Because it was dangerous.

-

The decision to come back was made before he was ready.

Sitting at home turned into a trap, his mind circling the same dead end over and over.

Paris didn’t give him what he wanted. It gave him worse: flashes without edges, noise under his skin.

In the underground car park, he sits with the engine off, hands on the wheel, waiting for the pressure behind his eyes to ease. It doesn’t. he air is cold, echoing, the concrete walls amplifying every small sound, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant slam of a door, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

He checks his watch instead. Late enough to be noticed. Early enough to take control.

He steps out and shuts the door harder than necessary. The sound echoes, sharp. His jaw tightens. Even noise feels intrusive lately.

Do‑han waits by the lift, phone in hand, posture straight. His gaze flicks over Jimin, quick, assessing.

“You’re back,” Do‑han says.

Jimin adjusts his cuff. “I can’t afford to stay away.”

“Your absence was noticed.”

“They always notice.”

Do-han’s mouth tightens. “More than usual.”

The lift hums upward. Jimin watches the numbers change without seeing them.

He looks fine in the mirror. Same suit. Same hair. Same expression he’s worn into rooms for years.

Nothing on the outside says he spent days walking Paris like a man trying to step into a life he couldn’t reach.

He steps onto the executive floor. The air feels too clean, too filtered, like the building is trying to scrub him back into place.

His office waits, tidy desk, wide view. He drops his phone, scans his inbox, half expecting disaster.

Nothing.

Meetings scheduled. Documents prepped. Questions answered.

His throat tightens. Not relief. Something else, a hot pinch under his collarbone.

Someone made that possible.

He hadn’t wanted to think your name. It forms anyway.

He straightens his jacket, fixes his expression, and steps into the lift again.

-

It happens a little after nine forty.

You don’t need to look up to know he’s arrived. The floor's energy shift is subtle, like people pulling themselves in tighter. Conversations dip. A runner slows mid‑stride and glances toward the executive corridor.

You finish your line, save the document, then lift your head.

There he is.

Jimin steps onto the floor with his jacket buttoned, tie straight, hair neat. His expression sits in place, smooth enough to keep questions off him, hard enough to stop anyone trying.

He doesn’t look for you.

That’s the first thing you notice.

Not the lack of a smile. Not a pause. The way his gaze moves past desks and faces like he’s counting inventory. When his eyes reach you, they don’t stick. They move on.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

You stand because you’re supposed to. Because you’re his PA. Because your body knows the shape of your role.

“Good morning, Mr Park.”

Your voice is steady. You hate that you listen for anything in the sound of him breathing.

“Good morning,” he murmurs.

If anything is different, it’s not in the words. It’s in the absence of the small things, like the nod he used to give you, the flicker of recognition.

You don’t show it. Your face stays neutral as you watch his eyes, waiting for the tiniest snag, anything that says Paris put a hook in him and it caught on you. His face stays the same, eyes never looking at you.

A junior staffer near your desk exhales like she’d been holding her breath.

Looking down at your pen, you pick it up and returned to the embargo draft.

In the meeting room you place the folder for Jimin at the head of the table. The paper edges stuck to your fingertips from humidity and you peeled them apart one by one as you set them down.

Marketing arrives first, bright smiles stretched over nerves. Editorial follows, quieter, shoulders tight.

Namjoon enters with a folder and a face that says he slept in pieces. His eyes soften when they land on you.

“You’ve been covering a lot,” he says quietly.

Your mouth pulls into something like a smile. “I’ve been covering what I needed to.”

Namjoon’s gaze runs over your face. “You look wrecked.”

Your fingers flipped your notebook open. “Thanks.” you chuckle.

The door opened again and Jimin walks in. He takes the seat at the head of the table and places his phone face down beside the folder you’d set out, like he didn’t want it lighting up where anyone could see. 

People sat straighter. Sunmi stopped mid-sentence and restarted with a smoother voice.

You watch his hands while Sunmi speaks. Long fingers. Clean nails. A faint mark on his thumb like he caught it on a zip.

He taps once on the table, stops, then presses his palm flat as if he had caught himself.

Sunmi runs through the rollout plan with slides on the screen. Feature first. Behind-the-scenes held back. Lookbook last. A sequence built to stretch attention without feeding leaks..

Someone asks about influencer teasers. Someone else suggests a clip. Someone shakes their head and says embargo.

As the talk slides into vague marketing talk, your body leans forward before you decide to. The chair creaks softly under you. Your fingers resting on the edge of your notebook, nails pressed into the card.

“Before we go too far,” you say, voice level, “the designs are final. Styling is final. Durand’s atelier built the garments from my originals. What we’re controlling now is handling. Where footage goes, who touches it, what gets cut out when someone outside this room packages it for attention.”

Sunmi’s eyes flick to you, then to Jimin, then back, like she was measuring how much pushback she can afford. “Post production prefers fewer restrictions.”

“It only takes one person,” you said. Your pen clicks once as your fingers tighten, then you force them to still. “One contractor with access to a folder they shouldn’t have. One editor sending a clip to the wrong place. The details vanish first.”

Jimin’s gaze lands on you properly. “She’s right,” he says. “We protect it all the way through delivery.”

Sunmi’s jaw tightens. She types anyway. “All right.”

A junior marketer clears her throat. “External editors, then?”

“Approved access only,” you say. “Named people. Signed terms.”

“And schedule changes?” Sunmi asks, pushing for a win somewhere.

“None,” you reply. “Thursday stays Thursday.”

Chairs creak as people shift. Jimin spoke in short bursts, cutting off anything sentimental before it could turn sticky.

When a young assistant tried to frame it as a story about fate and connection, Jimin’s eyes lifted and the word came out flat. “No.”

The assistant’s cheeks went red. Her gaze dropping to her laptop.

The meeting ends in a scrape of chairs and buzzing phone You gather your things.

“Y/N,” Jimin says.

Your fingers tighten around your folder.

“Stay.”

The room empties. The door clicks shut.

You sit. “Yes, sir.”

Sunmi shot you a glance as she left, curiosity and relief mixed together. Namjoon lingered at the door, then left when your small nod told him it was fine.

The door clicked shut.

Jimin’s eyes drops to the folder, then lift to you. “Board pack. Paris summary. Today

“Already in progress,” you reply.

“And chain of custody,” he says.

“It’s in the appendix.”

His jaw works. His gaze narrows, not at you, at the fact you’re ahead of him.

“Good.”

Silence sits between you, heavy enough that you become aware of the hum in the lights, the distant chatter on the floor outside, the cold bite of the glass table near your wrists.

“You’ve had people asking,” he says, looking toward the window.

“Yes.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Annual leave,” you say. "Back this week. Proceed as scheduled.”

His mouth tightens. A finger taps once.

“You kept it moving”

"It's my job to" your voice comes out softly.

His gaze came back to you. Warmth creeps up your neck.

“It is,” he said.

His eyes drop first.

“Send it by five.”

“Yes, sir.”

-

The corridor air feels colder when you step out. People are waiting again.

A finance assistant approaches. “He wants a call with legal moved. Do you know when he’s free?”

“Two fifteen. Fifteen minutes.”

“Should we keep things tight today?”

“He’s working.”

He nods and leaves.

You return to your keyboard. The Paris summary writes itself—clean, factual, detached, even as your mind slides to Taehyung, to what he knows, to whether Jimin came back with answers you’re not ready for.

Your phone buzzes in your bag.

Once.

You ignore it.

Then again. And again closer together, impatient.

You drag the bag closer with your foot, reach under the desk, pull out your phone.

Unknown number.

A message.

Your thumb hovered, then unlocked it anyway.

A photo loaded.

For a second, it doesn't register. 

Your back. Your coat. The lift mirror. It took a moment to understand what you were looking at. Taken today.

“What the hell,” you think, sharp and immediate.

You check the number. No text. No explanation.

Your mind starts running lists before your body moves. The lift. The time. Who stood close enough. Who has your number. Staff. Contractors. Someone with building access.

The screen locks under your thumb. You slide the phone back into your bag.

Your hand stays there, fingers tight around the device.

Suddenly, you feel very, very vulnerable.

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All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love No reposting or translating without consent.

MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Hi everyone, I just want to say thanks. Thanks for still being here, and reading.

I know it's taking me a while to get through Serendipity and complete it, last year was a struggle personally and that affected my motivation to write.

That blip is over, and I've been posting a lot the past couple of weeks. The good news is that Serendipity is almost at the end, we just have a little way to go, but the end is in sight.

I'll be sad to not write this story and more, but I will also be relieved so that I can focus on other content, I have a few one shots I want to write and there's a new longer story involving another BTS member that I can't wait to get my teeth into!

I've started a membership on Ko-fi for those that want to support my writing. I will be posting early access to new chapters of Serendipity (chapter 32 is on there and won’t be published on here until I’ve posted Chapter 33 on Ko-fi which should be in the next week or so!) previews for upcoming stories, and exclusive ko-fi only content! I'm so excited to see what 2026 brings with my writing.

Eve x

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 2.8k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The corner shop two streets over always smelled the same.

Warm bread near the entrance, instant coffee and detergent further in, the faint chemical edge of disinfectant layered over cardboard and plastic.

The bell above the door gave a tired jingle as you pushed it open, and the owner glanced up with the brief nod reserved for people he saw often enough not to question.

You shifted Haneul higher on your hip. He had refused the pram again, arms locked around your collar, cheek pressed against your neck as if the decision had already been made without negotiation.

“We’re only getting a few things,” you murmured, more habit than warning, not that he understood.

He made a noncommittal sound, then twisted to peer down the aisle, alert now, already scanning for something he recognised.

You grabbed a basket one-handed and moved into the first aisle. Rice cakes. Milk. Seaweed snacks. Your route through the shop was automatic, mapped by repetition rather than choice.

When you passed the pastries without stopping, Haneul made a sharp sound of protest, body tensing in immediate objection.

“Later,” you said quietly, adjusting your grip and continuing on.

A short laugh came from the end of the aisle.

You looked up.

You recognised the woman not by name, but by accumulation. Same street. A few houses down. You had passed her while taking the bins out, while walking home from work, while circling the block in the evenings when Haneul refused to settle. A nod here. A murmured greeting there. Enough familiarity to register, not enough to remember.

She stepped closer, basket tucked neatly beneath her arm. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, hair clipped back with careful precision.

He’s lovely,” she said, her smile quick and practiced

Haneul studied her solemnly, then reached out with sudden confidence and patted your cheek, fingers sticky with something you hadn’t fully cleaned earlier.

You smiled automatically. “Thank you.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a beat too long before lifting to your face. “You live on Seongmi-ro, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” She nodded, as if confirming a detail already filed away. “I see you most mornings.”

You inclined your head. That was true.

She looked at Haneul again. “How old is he now?”

“He’s two.”

“Ah.” Another nod. A small pause. Then, lightly, “Does his dad work abroad?”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sharp. It was delivered with the same pleasant tone as everything else.

And it was wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the basket handle. You kept your expression neutral, careful not to answer too quickly. Too quick suggested defensiveness. Too slow suggested calculation.

Haneul chose that moment to spot the pastries again, leaning forward with renewed urgency, his body stiffening in protest.

“Not those,” you murmured, shifting him back.

The woman waited. Pleasant. Unhurried.

“No,” you said.

One word. Flat. Closed.

Something flickered across her face. Quick enough to miss if you weren’t watching closely. Not disappointment.

Adjustment.

“Oh,” she said smoothly. “I only asked because it must be hard doing everything on your own.”

“I have help.”

Her smile thinned slightly. “Your parents live with you, don’t they.”

You didn’t answer directly. “We’re close.”

It closed the exchange without confrontation.

Haneul squirmed, bored now, legs kicking against your side. You adjusted him automatically. The woman’s eyes followed the movement before returning to your face.

“Well,” she said, voice still light, “you’re doing well.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped past you toward the drinks aisle, conversation finished as neatly as it had begun.

You stood still for a beat longer than necessary, breathing evenly. Then you continued through the shop, movements efficient, unremarkable. You avoided the aisle she had taken without making it obvious.

At the till, the owner rang up your items with the same unhurried rhythm as always. Haneul reached for the card reader and you moved his hand away gently.

Outside, the air felt colder than it had when you went in.

You turned onto your street at an easy pace. Familiar houses. Low gates. Porch lights already on, earlier than usual.

A few doors down, the woman stepped out of her gate, keys in hand. She glanced up, met your eyes briefly, then looked away and went inside without a word.

She didn’t look back.

As you walked, the wording replayed itself with uncomfortable clarity.

'Does his dad work abroad?'

Not, do you have a partner? Not, is his father around?

Work. Distance. Absence already accounted for.

It was not a question meant to learn something new. It was a question meant to confirm a version already circulating.

Inside your house, the sounds were familiar and grounding. Your mother’s voice from the kitchen. A cupboard closing. Your father’s footsteps in the hall.

Your mother appeared at once and took him from you. You slipped off your shoes.

“Cold out,” she said.

“A bit.”

Your father carried the bags through to the kitchen. You followed, falling into routine. Groceries unpacked. Bread set aside. Fruit washed.

Your mother filled the space with ordinary talk. A neighbour’s dog barking all morning. A delivery left at the wrong house.

You waited until Haneul had wandered back into the living room, absorbed in his toys.

“I ran into someone from the street at the shop,” you said, tone deliberately casual.

Your mother didn’t look up. “Who?"

“Woman from a few houses down.”

“What did she say?”

You kept your voice even. “She asked about his father.”

Your mother’s hands paused briefly in the sink. “How?” she asked

“If he worked abroad.” you replied.

The water kept running. “And you.”

“Said no.”

A pause. Not alarm. Recognition.

“That’s the question people ask,” your mother said finally, “when they want an answer that won’t make them uncomfortable.”

That stayed with you longer than it should have.

Later, when the house had settled and the dishes were drying in their rack, you sat at the small table by the window with your laptop open and untouched.

The screen glowed softly. You hadn’t logged into anything yet.

Outside, Seongmi-ro had thinned to the occasional car, headlights passing in slow intervals. Someone across the street closed their gate. Metal clicked, then silence returned.

You closed the laptop without using it.

Instead, you picked up your phone.

That night, you opened your phone and didn’t go anywhere near messages. You went straight to settings. Privacy. Visibility. Old photographs you’d stopped thinking of as visible at all.

Paris surfaced like a bruise you’d forgotten you had.

You didn’t delete anything.

Deleting looked guilty.

Instead, you counted. Who could see what. How far back the assumptions could reach.

It wasn’t the truth you were protecting.

It was timing.

If people decided the story before they had the facts, you would spend years correcting a version of yourself you’d never agreed to play.

You shut the phone off and set it face down.

From the living room came the sound of plastic knocking together as Haneul lined up his toys with careful concentration.

You watched him for a long moment.

Single mother was not an identity.

It was a category. And categories travelled faster than truth.

Later still, after he was asleep and the hallway lights were dimmed, you returned to the kitchen. Your mother was there, wiping down the counter.

“She asked a lot,” your mother said, not looking at you.

You paused. “About Haneul?”

“About you,” she corrected. “In a tidy way.”

You leaned against the counter. “People talk.”

“Yes,” she said. “But they usually don’t prepare their questions.”

You nodded once.

Your mother rinsed the cloth and hung it to dry. “If anyone asks again, you don’t owe them an explanation.”

“I know.”

She looked at you then. Not worried. Observant. “And if you ever feel tired of being polite, you can say so.”

“I’m not tired,” you said.

She accepted that.

In your room, you changed for bed and set your phone on the charger. You didn’t check it again.

Lying in the dark, you replayed the interaction the way you replayed layouts and deadlines. Clean. Precise.

'Does his dad work abroad?'

You didn’t wonder who had spoken first. You only noted one thing.

Someone had spoken for you. ---

The night passed without incident.

That, in itself, unsettled you more than if something obvious had gone wrong.

You woke before your alarm, body already alert, listening to the quiet shape of the house. Your parents slept down the hall. Haneul’s breathing came through the monitor in soft, even intervals. Nothing was out of place.

You lay still for a few minutes longer, staring at the edge of the wardrobe, letting the rhythm of the house settle into you. You had learned not to rush that part. Panic came from speed. Control came from pace.

When you got up, you moved quietly. Kettle on. Mug out. You washed your hands and noticed how deliberate the movement felt, every action measured without effort.

Haneul woke as you were pouring cereal, his voice carrying down the hall before his feet did. You lifted him easily, his weight familiar, grounding, his arms slipping around your neck with unthinking trust.

The morning routine held. Breakfast. Shoes. Jacket. Bag. You checked the weather without really looking at it and left the house at the same time you always did.

At the nursery, the pavement was already crowded.

Parents gathered in loose knots, conversations overlapping and breaking apart again. You nodded to the ones you recognised, exchanged brief greetings that carried no obligation beyond politeness.

You signed Haneul in, adjusted his coat where it had twisted at the shoulder, and crouched long enough to kiss his hair before straightening.

You waited until he had turned back toward the low shelves of toys, then stepped outside.

The pavement beyond the gate had already begun to clear. A few parents walked ahead in pairs, others in opposite directions, the street returning to its weekday rhythm. You adjusted the strap of your bag and fell into step, your pace unhurried.

A woman approached from the opposite direction, walking alone. You passed close enough for a brief exchange.

“Good morning.”

She nodded in return and continued on.

Further down the road, you greeted another parent you knew by name, exchanged a few words about the cold, then turned the corner toward work.

By the time you reached the office, the street had already slipped behind you.

The day unfolded as expected.

Emails came in. Meetings filled the calendar. You worked through drafts and revisions with the steady focus that had become second nature. The absence of interruption felt like relief and restraint at once.

At lunch, you stepped out to the small coffee shop near the office.

It was busy without being crowded. The air was warm, heavy with the smell of steamed milk and baked pastries. You joined the queue, slipped your coat from your shoulders, folded it over your arm.

The line moved in short intervals.

You stepped forward, stopped again, eyes drifting to the glass display without intent. A few places behind you stood the woman from the morning. The one you had passed near the nursery gate.

The recognition arrived quietly. Not a jolt. More like something settling into place.

She looked different now. No coat. Hair pulled back more neatly. Her phone rested loosely in her hand. She stood without shifting her weight, gaze level, not fixed on the menu or the counter.

You faced forward again.

The barista called a name. The line advanced. You stepped forward. She did the same, the distance between you unchanged.

Your shoulders tightened slightly as you adjusted your grip on your coat. The movement was small enough to go unnoticed.

You ordered, paid, moved aside to wait. She stepped into the space you had just left, eyes lifting briefly to the menu before dropping again.

Your coffee was placed on the counter. You took it, the heat seeping into your palm, and pushed the door open with your shoulder as you left.

Outside, the street noise rose around you. Traffic. Footsteps. Voices carried past without pause as you headed back to work.

-

When you left the building that evening, the light had already begun to fade. You joined the flow of people heading toward buses and crossings, phone tucked into your bag, attention forward.

Near the crossing, you slowed slightly, letting the crowd rearrange itself around you.

The woman stepped up beside the pole as the light changed.

Different shoes. Same height. Same posture.

You crossed with the rest of the group. She crossed too.

On the far pavement, you adjusted your bag strap, fingers tightening briefly before you forced them to relax. You turned onto the street that led toward the nursery without breaking stride.

Parents gathered outside, coats pulled close, voices lifting and dropping as children emerged one by one. You nodded to a familiar face near the door and waited.

The woman stopped further back, close enough to be part of the scene, far enough to remain unengaged.

You collected Haneul quickly. His coat went on crooked. You fixed it. He leaned into you, warm and heavy, one arm looping around your neck.

Outside, the group dispersed.

You walked first.

At the corner, you paused to let another parent pass, exchanging a few words about nursery. When you continued, the pavement behind you was clear.

At the gate, you balanced Haneul on one hip and reached for your keys. The latch clicked softly as you stepped inside.

The house greeted you with familiar noise. Your mother’s voice from the kitchen. Your father’s footsteps in the hall.

You did not mention the woman. Not yet.

-

At the corner, you paused to let another parent pass, exchanging a few words about the latest nursery trip.

The bar was close enough to walk. Familiar enough that you did not think about where you were going once your feet were moving.

Yoongi was already there, leaning against the bar, attention half on the room. He glanced over as you approached, eyes flicking briefly to your face.

“You’re late,” he grumbled.

“I blinked and it was evening." You gave a small shrug and took the seat opposite him

He hums in response and slides a glass toward you when it arrives. You take a sip before sitting down, the cold bite sharp enough to reset your focus.

You talked about nothing that mattered. Work that ran on. A mutual friend’s poor choices. The music, which Yoongi complained about with quiet irritation. The rhythm of the conversation stayed easy, unforced.

After a while, you spoke again.

“Something odd happened today.”

Yoongi lifted his glass but did not drink. “Odd how?”

“I saw the same woman three times,” you reply. “Different places. Same day.”

He considers that. “That happens.”

“Sometimes,” you agree.

You don’t elaborate. You don’t give details. You trace the rim of your glass with your thumb, then drop your hand back to your lap.

Yoongi didn’t ask follow-up questions.

He never did when something mattered. He just took another drink, eyes unfocused, listening without looking like he was listening.

Three times, he repeated internally. Not coincidence. Not danger either. Yet.

“You want another,” he asked, already signalling the bartender.

“No,” you said. “I should head back.”

He nodded, accepting it without comment. That was his way. Concern expressed through restraint. You finish your drink.

“Text me when you get back,” he says.

“I will.”

Outside, the street was quieter than you expected. The bars further down still leaked music and laughter, but your route home passed through residential stretches where windows were dark and gates were closed.

Inside, the house was asleep.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, listening. The familiar sounds were all there. The low hum of the fridge. The faint tick of the clock in the living room. You didn’t turn on the lights.

In your room, you set your phone on the desk instead of the bedside table.

A small change. Deliberate.

You opened your laptop again, this time logging in.

Not to search names. Not to look for faces.

You opened your calendar.

Nursery drop-off times. Routes. Meetings you could take remotely. Errands that could wait. Ones that could not. You moved items carefully, narrowing your week without erasing it.

When you finished, you shut the laptop and sat back, hands resting loosely in your lap.

Nothing had happened that required reaction. No confrontation. No accusation. But something had shifted. People had started asking the right question.

Not the truth. The explanation that made them comfortable. In a society that preferred neat narratives to complicated ones, that mattered.

You went to check on Haneul, easing the door open just wide enough to see his chest rise and fall. He slept deeply, unaware of anything beyond the shape of his dreams.

You closed the door quietly.

Back in your room, you lay down and faced the wall, phone untouched, thoughts orderly in a way they hadn’t been earlier.

You did not need answers tonight. You needed to stay precise.

Tomorrow, you would watch more closely. Speak less. Keep your life legible only where it had to be, because someone had begun to look.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Ahhh and that’s more to come, will have the next chapter out tomorrow! I’m trying to get it all done asap so that I can finish the story finally.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 2k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Paris sent them off without ceremony.

The cab idled at the curb while Taehyung handed over their bags, rain-darkened pavement reflecting the low sky in broken patches of silver. The city felt muted, as if it had already turned its attention elsewhere.

Jimin stood a few steps back, phone in his hand, gaze drifting down the street. Not searching. Not expecting. Just looking, the way you did when something sat at the edge of your awareness without taking shape.

“You good?” Taehyung asked, shutting the boot.

Jimin nodded once. “Yeah.”

They slid into the back seat. The door shut with a dull thud and the cab pulled away, Paris rolling past in soft focus. Cafés opening for the late morning crowd. A florist setting out buckets of flowers. A man lighting a cigarette beneath an awning.

Jimin leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing briefly.

“I don’t think this place was ever supposed to give me answers,” he said after a moment.

Taehyung glanced over. “No?”

“It just makes things louder,” Jimin replied. He opened his eyes again, watching the city slip by. “Whatever’s already there.”

Taehyung said nothing.

“That’s probably on me,” Jimin added. “I keep thinking if I stand in the right spot long enough, something will click.” A faint smile touched his mouth, more tired than amused. “Life doesn’t really work like that.”

The cab slowed at a junction. For a split second, Jimin’s attention snagged on a side street, his brow creasing as if he’d missed something important. Then the light changed and they moved on.

Taehyung felt his chest tighten.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said, carefully neutral.

Jimin nodded. “Eventually.”

At the airport, everything moved fast. Check-in. Security. The steady churn of travellers flowing around them. Paris reduced to signage, announcements, and the smell of coffee drifting from somewhere behind glass.

They found their seats at the gate. Jimin checked his phone, scrolled briefly, then locked the screen and slipped it back into his pocket.

“I’m not going to force it,” he said quietly, more to the space between them than to Taehyung. “Whatever’s missing. Digging at it when I don’t even know the shape of it feels pointless.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. “That’s probably healthy.”

Jimin huffed a short breath. “We’ll see.”

When boarding was called, they joined the line without rush. Jimin paused at the top of the jet bridge and looked back once, gaze sweeping the windows, the grey sky beyond.

Nothing stirred.

Still, something in his chest shifted, subtle but insistent. Not loss. Not longing. Just the sense of leaving something unfinished behind.

The plane lifted smoothly, Paris shrinking beneath cloud cover until it vanished entirely.

Jimin watched until there was nothing left to see, then faced forward.

He didn’t feel relief.

But he didn’t feel unmoored either.

For the first time in a while, he had stopped chasing the absence and started paying attention to the reactions it left behind.

Whatever the truth was, it wasn’t in the city.

It was waiting for him somewhere else.

--

Seoul moved fast, whether you were ready for it or not.

You’d learned that early. The city didn’t pause for grief or uncertainty. It expected you to keep pace, to keep showing up, to keep functioning.

You were good at that.

By the time you reached your desk, the office had already settled into its familiar rhythm. The low hum of conversation threaded through the open space.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Someone near the windows laughed, sharp and quick, before dropping their voice again.

You logged in, pulled up the proofs you’d left open the night before, and let your hands take over.

Margins. Fonts. Colour balance. Notes in the sidebar, half reminders, half questions you’d already answered. You worked through them steadily, line by line, careful not to rush. The structure of it helped. The predictability. You knew where everything belonged here.

Your phone sat face down beside your keyboard.

You didn’t turn it over.

Ga-ram drifted over midmorning, leaning against your desk with a sigh that suggested boredom more than exhaustion.

You’re quiet today,” she said, glancing at your screen. “In a productive way. It’s unsettling.”

You didn’t look up. “I’ll try to be more disruptive tomorrow.”

She smiled, unconvinced. “Boss still on leave?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all anyone knows,” she said. “Feels strange without him around.”

You shrugged lightly. “Things keep moving.”

“They always do,” Ga-ram agreed. She hesitated, then added, “Namjoon wants you in ten. Planning meeting.”

You nodded “I’ll head over.”

She lingered a second longer, studying you, then let it go. “Don’t work too hard.”

You nodded, already gathering your notebook.

Namjoon’s office was bright and spare, the blinds half drawn against the glare. He stood when you entered, tablet in hand.

Namjoon stood as you entered, tablet in hand.

“Sit,” he said, already focused.

You took the chair opposite him, posture straight.

“I want to look ahead,” he began. “Next quarter. With Jimin away, we need to be clear on priorities.”

You leaned forward slightly. “What’s the concern?”

“Load,” Namjoon replied. “You’re handling a lot in a short amount of time.”

You scanned the schedule he slid across the desk. Weeks mapped out neatly. Decisions stacked one after another.

“I can manage this,” you said.

Namjoon watched you carefully. “If that changes, you tell me.”

“I will.”

He accepted that, nodding once. “Good. Then we'll go ahead.”

Back at your desk, the afternoon blurred into small tasks. Emails. Calls. Approvals. Lunch eaten without much thought. Outside the windows, the city moved at its usual pace.

A message notification flashed on your phone. Your stomach tightened before you even checked it.

Taehyung.

You waited a beat before opening it, forcing yourself to breathe evenly.

Back in Seoul tonight.

That was all.

You stared at the message, then typed and erased twice before settling on a simple reply

Okay. Safe flight.

You set the phone face down on your desk and stared at the edge of it for a moment longer than necessary.

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Meetings that blurred together. A junior editor asking your opinion on a feature you’d already signed off on. Lunch eaten quickly at your desk, more out of habit than hunger.

You kept expecting something to happen.

A call. A message. A shift in the air.

Nothing did.

That almost made it worse.

By the time you packed up to leave, the office had thinned, evening light slanting in through the windows. You slipped your phone into your bag and stood, pausing to steady yourself before heading out.

You were fine.

You had to be.

At home, the house greeted you with warmth and noise. Your mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. Your father sat on the living room floor, legs stretched out, completely focused on Haneul.

Haneul was wide awake, surrounded by toys, banging two blocks together with deep concentration. He looked up when you entered and smiled.

“Mama.”

You crossed the room and crouched down, kissing his hair. “Hi, my love.”

Your father smiled. “He’s been very busy.”

“I can see that,” you said, laughing softly.

Your mother appeared with a towel over her shoulder. “You’re late.”

“Only a bit.”

She looked at you for a moment, then nodded. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

The evening unfolded in familiar patterns. Food passed across the table. Haneul babbling happily, dropping bits of rice onto the floor. Your father scooping him up after dinner while your mother washed up

You sat on the floor with them later, stacking blocks only for Haneul to knock them over again. Each collapse delighted him. His laughter filled the room.

Later, after bath time and pyjamas, you stayed with him until his breathing slowed. His fingers still curled around a toy as sleep claimed him.

Back in the living room, your mother handed you a cup of tea.

“You’re quiet,” she said gently.

“Just tired.”

She accepted that answer without pressing.

You sat on the sofa long after the house had gone quiet, phone resting in your hands.

The screen stayed dark.

You could message Taehyung again. Ask how the flight was. Ask if he’d landed safely. Ask the question sitting just behind your teeth.

You didn’t.

You set the phone down on the coffee table instead and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Your body ached in the dull, familiar way it always did at the end of a full day. Not exhaustion. Accumulation.

From the baby monitor came the soft, steady sound of Haneul breathing.

That anchored you.

Tomorrow would come whether you were ready or not. There would be meetings, decisions, routines that needed maintaining. You would wake up early. You would make breakfast. You would go to work and do your job well.

You always did.

Whatever Jimin was dealing with, whatever silence sat between you now, you would not let it touch the parts of your life that were solid. You had learned that lesson the hard way.

You reached for the phone once more, then stopped.

Not yet.

You turned off the light and stood, moving quietly toward the hallway. There was nothing left to think through tonight. Only things to keep steady.

That, at least, you knew how to do.

-

Incheon was quiet in the way only airports ever were at night.

Not empty, just subdued. Voices lowered. Footsteps softened by carpet. The glow of overhead lights reflecting off polished floors instead of windows.

Jimin followed the flow of passengers through immigration, passport already in hand. The motion felt automatic, muscle memory guiding him forward while his mind stayed somewhere else entirely.

He barely registered the stamp.

Taehyung walked a half step behind him, watching the way Jimin moved. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just focused enough to pass for calm.

They collected their bags in silence

The carousel hummed steadily, luggage thudding onto the belt one by one. Jimin’s bag appeared first. He reached for it without breaking stride, slinging it over his shoulder as if he’d done this a thousand times.

Outside, the night air hit him all at once. Cool. Damp. Familiar.

Seoul smelled different than Paris. Sharper. Cleaner. Less forgiving.

Outside, the night air was sharp and familiar. Seoul at this hour smelled of rain and asphalt, less forgiving than Paris, more real.

They stood near the curb while a row of taxis idled, engines humming softly.

Jimin checked his phone. No notifications. He slipped it back into his pocket.

“I’m heading home,” he said. No explanation attached to it.

Taehyung nodded. “I’ll grab a cab this way.”

They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the space between them weighted with things neither of them said.

“Paris didn’t give me answers,” Jimin said finally. Not frustrated. Just stating a fact. “But it did make one thing clear.”

Taehyung waited.

“I don’t need to chase whatever I’ve lost,” Jimin continued. “I need to pay attention to what keeps repeating.”

The words landed heavier than he realised.

Taehyung kept his face neutral. “That sounds like you.”

Jimin huffed quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

A taxi pulled up. “I’m going to keep my schedule clear for a few days,” he said. “No meetings. No interruptions.”

The taxi idled at the curb, engine humming softly.

Jimin opened the door, then paused. He turned back, studying Taehyung for a second longer than necessary.

Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, solid hug.

Taehyung’s hand came up automatically, gripping the back of Jimin’s jacket. For a second, he held on a fraction tighter than usual before forcing himself to loosen his grip.

“Get some rest,” Taehyung said quietly.

Jimin nodded against his shoulder, then stepped back. “You too and...thanks for coming with me"

He slid into the cab and shut the door. The taxi pulled away, taillights disappearing into the stream of traffic.

Taehyung flagged down another cab and climbed in, the airport continuing around him as if nothing had happened.

And nothing, outwardly, had.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

--

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 4.4 k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The rain had eased to a fine mist by the time they reached Le Petit Montmartre. Not enough to soak through, enough to slick the cobblestones and turn the streetlights into soft halos on the pavement.

Taehyung slowed as they stepped under the awning.

There. The sign above the door. The same warm glow spilling out through the glass. The bell that would chime the moment they pushed inside.

His chest tightened before he even moved.

Jimin held the door for him. “You’re staring,” he said.

“It’s nothing.” Taehyung forced his feet forward.

The bell chimed.

Warmth hit them. The smell of roasted garlic, wine, butter. Conversation folding over itself in low French. A jazz track that didn’t demand attention but filled the edges of the room like steam.

Taehyung’s eyes went straight to the corner near the bar, the table, tucked into shadow and light, the curve of the wall behind it. He saw it in a layered way, the present and the past occupying the same space without permission.

That was where Jimin had been sitting, half turned in his seat, posture loose with drink. That was where you had laughed, head tipped back, hair falling into your face as you tried to tuck it behind your ear and failed. That was where the rest of the world had blurred for Jimin, like a camera losing focus on everything except one subject.

Jimin didn’t look at the corner.

He followed the hostess with relaxed attention, scanning the room the way a man scans any unfamiliar restaurant. No pause. No frown. No flicker. He looked mildly pleased to be inside and out of the rain.

They were seated near the centre, far enough from the entrance that the cold air didn’t reach them, close enough to the candlelight that Taehyung could see the clean lines of Jimin’s face and the faint shadow under his eyes.

Jimin shrugged out of his coat, hung it over the chair, and sat with a quiet exhale as if the day had finally loosened its grip.

“You’re quiet,” he said, taking the menu but not opening it yet. “This place bothering you?”

Taehyung’s throat felt tight. He picked up his water glass so his hands had something to do. “Feels familiar.”

Jimin’s brow lifted. “Familiar how?”

“I don’t know.” Taehyung kept his voice flat. “I might’ve been here before.”

Jimin accepted it with a small nod, the way he accepted most things lately, filed away but not pursued unless it mattered. He opened the menu, glanced at it, then set it down again as if food was secondary to warmth.

Taehyung swallowed. His hand slipped into his coat pocket, fingers closing around his phone. He angled his body away, typed quickly

Is Le Petit Montmartre the place where we first met you?

He hesitated, watching the screen, knowing it was early morning in Seoul. Maybe you’d still be asleep.

But your reply came almost instantly:

Yes. Why?

His thumb flew across the screen

We're here now meeting Durand.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before your reply came:

Does he recognise anything?

Taehyung looked up.

Jimin moved easily through the room, posture relaxed, expression open, utterly blank. No pause. No flicker. No sign the air itself should have felt heavier here.

Not yet.

He slid the phone away as guilt settled into his chest, familiar and suffocating.

He kept his eyes on Jimin instead, waiting for something he wasn’t sure he wanted.

Nothing came.

Jimin looked calm. Unbothered. Present.

It was wrong in a way Taehyung couldn’t explain without saying too much.

Durand arrived ten minutes later, cheeks flushed from the rain, coat half-buttoned, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He shook himself out just inside the door, laughing under his breath as he handed his coat to the hostess.

“Paris,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite them. “Always dramatic.”

Jimin smiled easily, rising to greet him. The movement was automatic, practiced. He clasped Durand’s hand, firm and warm. “You look well.”

“And you look tired,” Durand countered, not unkindly. His gaze flicked briefly between Jimin and Taehyung before settling back. “Both of you.”

Taehyung gave a short laugh. “Long day.”

Durand nodded as if he understood more than that. He signalled for wine before either of them could object, speaking rapid French to the waiter, gesturing with two fingers.

“So,” he said lightly, “Paris again. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” he smiled warmly at Jimin. "Work or pleasure?"

Jimin shrugged. “Bit of both,” he replied carefully, fingers playing with his napkin, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the table. “Just needed to clear my head. Get away from Seoul for a while.”

Durand nodded, satisfied with that. “Always a good excuse.

Wine arrived without debate. Durand lifted his glass.

“To friendship,” he said, eyes moving between them, sincere enough that Taehyung felt guilt sharpen in his ribs.

They drank.

Conversation eased in the way it always did with Durand. Work first, as if that was the cleanest surface to stand on.

Durand leaned forward, forearms on the table, talking with his hands. “The pieces are nearly finished,” he said, and his voice shifted into something proud. “The final stitching, the last adjustments. It’s almost there.”

Jimin’s expression brightened, real interest cutting through everything else. “Already?”

“Yes.” Durand laughed softly. “I know. I shocked myself. But when the foundation is strong, the rest follows.” He swirled his glass, watching the colour cling to the sides.

Jimin’s fingers rested around his glass, loose. He looked pleased, the way he looked when something had gone right under pressure.

“You should come by the studio while you’re here,” Durand continued. “See them in person before you fly back. Photos won’t do them justice, and I want you to see what we pulled off together.”

“I’d love to,” Jimin said at once.

A small smile tugged at his mouth, not the polished kind he used in meetings, something easier.

For a moment, his mind flickered to you, the sketches you'd poured yourself into, the way your ideas had come alive through Durand’s hands.

Warmth rose in his chest. Quick. Quiet. He didn’t stop to name it. He didn’t question why pride came so naturally when he thought of you.

Durand watched him, pleased with the answer, and then, like the next thought simply followed the last, he added, “Speaking of which, how is Y/N?”

Taehyung felt the shift before Jimin showed it.

Jimin’s hand tightened a fraction around the glass. His smile held, but the edges changed, like a door closing softly.

“She’s well,” he said. “Busy.”

Durand smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He leaned forward a little, elbows nearing the edge of the table. “She was the same here. Once she focused, nothing else existed. It’s rare.”

Jimin took a slow sip of wine, gaze steady on Durand. He looked composed. He sounded normal.

But Taehyung saw the small signs anyway. The stillness. The way Jimin’s eyes didn’t wander now. The way his attention locked in, as if Durand had stepped too close to something that belonged to no one, and yet felt territorial all the same.

Taehyung’s guilt pressed harder. Because this was the first place. The first night. And Jimin was sitting in it like it meant nothing.

Durand’s smile softened as he spoke, the easy warmth of someone talking about a collaborator he admired. “She has a way of making people feel like the work matters,” he said. “Not just the end result. The process. That’s rare.”

Jimin nodded once, measured. “She’s thorough.”

Durand laughed quietly. “That’s an understatement.”

The candle between them flickered, light catching on the rim of Jimin’s glass. He watched the flame for a moment longer than necessary, then set the glass down with care.

“You seem to know her well,” he said.

The words landed lightly. Too lightly. But Taehyung felt the tension coil all the same.

Durand didn’t seem to notice. “We spent a lot of time talking during the collaboration. Ideas spill easily when people feel heard.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “She reminds me of Paris, actually. Always moving, but anchored.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened before he could stop it.

“That’s an odd comparison,” he said.

Durand blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Maybe. But Paris does that to people. It gets under your skin.” He gestured vaguely around them. “You must feel it too, no?”

Jimin glanced around the restaurant. The curve of the bar. The low hum of conversation. The way the light fell warm and forgiving over everything.

“I don’t,” he said, and realised he meant it. “It’s just a city.”

Taehyung shifted in his seat. He could see the effort it took for Jimin to keep his tone even, casual. He knew this version of him too well. The one who doubled down when something didn’t make sense.

Durand shrugged easily. “Fair enough, she did live here for a while. I hope she’ll come back someday. Paris suits her.”

Something sharp flickered through Jimin’s chest.

“She works in Seoul,” he said. “Her life is there.”

Durand raised an eyebrow, amused rather than challenged. “For now.”

The silence that followed wasn’t long, but it was enough. Enough for Taehyung to step in.

“She’s dedicated,” he said, voice calm. “Not easily pulled away.”

Durand nodded, accepting the deflection. “That’s part of the appeal.”

Jimin looked at Taehyung then, really looked at him, as if seeing him clearly for the first time that evening.

“Appeal,” he repeated quietly.

Durand laughed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I mean professionally,” he said, though the pause before the word did not go unnoticed.

Jimin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He felt the familiar tightening behind his eyes, the pressure of thoughts he didn’t want to chase. Why did this bother him. Why did the idea of Durand seeing you, talking to you, knowing things about you feel like an intrusion.

You were his employee.

That was the line he kept returning to. The one thing he could hold onto.

“You’re quiet again,” Taehyung murmured, barely audible.

Jimin shook his head slightly. “Just tired.”

But as the evening wore on, the ease never quite returned.

He laughed at the right moments. Responded when spoken to. Drank more wine than he usually would. Yet his attention kept snagging on small things. The way Durand spoke her name. The ease with which he said it, like it belonged comfortably in his mouth.

He hated it.

By the time they stepped back outside, the mist had thickened again, clinging to skin and fabric. The city felt closer now, narrower.

They walked in silence for a block before Taehyung spoke.

“Why is it a problem?” he asked.

Jimin slowed. “What?”

“Durand liking her.” Taehyung stopped near the river, turning to face him. “Why does it bother you?”

Jimin frowned, genuinely confused. “It doesn’t.”

Taehyung held his gaze. “You sure?”

Jimin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked away, toward the water, its surface rippling under the streetlights.

“She works for me,” he said finally. “That’s reason enough.”

Taehyung waited.

Jimin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t like things getting complicated.”

“Things already are,” Taehyung said quietly.

Jimin didn’t answer. He just nodded faintly, eyes still on the water, as if turning the words over without quite knowing what to do with them.

“The girl I met here,” he said after a moment. “Was she part of that?”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. He didn’t pretend not to understand. “I think so.”

Jimin’s jaw flexed. “Every time I get close, it feels wrong. Like I’m standing on the edge of something and someone keeps pulling me back.”

The words hung there.

Taehyung looked at his friend, really looked at him, and felt the familiar guilt press in. The urge to say everything burned hot in his throat.

Instead, he said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Jimin let out a humourless breath. “Will we?”

---

Jimin woke with a violent jerk, breath tearing out of his chest as if he’d been dragged up from deep water. For a second, he didn’t know where he was.

The ceiling above him looked wrong, too flat, too close. Rain tapped steadily against the window, a soft, relentless sound that only made the dream cling harder.

His heart wouldn’t slow. Each beat thudded against his ribs, loud enough to drown out everything else.

Le Petit Montmartre lingered behind his eyes, but warped. The light too bright, almost clinical. The warmth stripped away, leaving something sharp and oppressive. The walls pressed in, the air thick, distorted, like he’d stepped into a memory someone else had rearranged.

Chae-won had been there.

He could still feel her nails digging into his arm, the pressure bruising even in sleep. She leaned in close, her mouth near his ear, breath cold.

“You always were weak.”

Her voice sliced through him, brittle and cruel. Not loud. Controlled. The way it always was when she wanted to hurt him the most.

“Chasing after fantasies.”

He’d tried to pull away, but his body wouldn’t respond. The room tilted, the bar stretching impossibly long, faces blurring into colour and movement. And then she appeared.

The woman.

White dress. Bare feet on wet stone. Spinning, laughing, rain plastering fabric to her skin. He felt it then, the pull, the relief, the instinct to reach for her like she was gravity itself.

“Wait,” he’d said, though the word barely formed.

When his fingers brushed where she should have been, she dissolved. Not vanished. Dissolved. Like mist burned away by light.

“You don’t even remember me.”

The voice came from behind him.

He turned.

She stood there now, no face, just the outline of her body, holding a child against her hip. The child stared at him, unblinking. Too calm. Too still.

“I waited,” the woman said. Her voice didn’t rise. That was worse. “I waited and you forgot.”

The disappointment in it crushed him. Not anger. Not accusation. Just quiet devastation.

Chae-won’s laughter cut through the space, sharp and echoing, bouncing off the walls until he couldn’t tell where she was standing.

“Look at you,” she sneered. “Can’t even remember your own life. Broken. Pathetic.”

The room began to spin faster now. The bar twisting, the floor slipping beneath his feet. Chae-won and the woman blurred together, their voices overlapping until he couldn’t separate comfort from poison.

“What woman would want half a man?” Chae-won continued. “At least I know what you are underneath all that pretending.”

The child shifted then. Slipped free of the woman’s arms and stood between them.

Those eyes. So full of longing it hurt to look at them.

Jimin dropped to his knees without realising he’d moved. He reached out, hands shaking, desperate to touch something solid, something real.

His fingers passed straight through.

“Papa.”

The word tore through him.

Jimin woke with a strangled gasp, the sound scraping his throat raw. He folded forward instinctively, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, breathing hard as if the air itself was resisting him.

The hotel room was dark. Quiet except for the rain.

His chest ached. Not sharp pain. Something deeper. Older

Papa.

The word echoed, refusing to fade. The child’s face slipped away quickly, details dissolving like smoke, but the feeling stayed behind. Loss. Guilt. A hollow so vast it made his stomach turn.

“It’s not real,” he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. “Just a dream.”

The words did nothing.

Sleep felt hostile now. Like stepping back into enemy territory. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, bare feet sinking into the cold carpet.

At the window, Paris stretched out beneath him, slick with rain, streetlights smearing gold across the pavement. Somewhere out there, answers existed. He could feel them. Close enough to sense, too far to reach.

He pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes closed, breathing slowly until the shaking eased.

In the adjoining room, Taehyung lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d been awake long before the dream ended.

He’d heard Jimin shift earlier. The restless movements. The uneven pacing now. He knew the sounds by heart.

The evening replayed itself relentlessly. The restaurant. The way Jimin’s voice had changed when Durand mentioned you. That sharp edge, possessive and unrecognised, like a reflex pulled from somewhere too deep to control.

Taehyung rolled onto his side, guilt pressing heavy against his chest.

He’d seen it before. That look. That reaction. Years ago, when Jimin had first looked at you like the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

And now it was happening again, stripped of memory but not instinct.

Taehyung closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

This was getting dangerous.

Not because Jimin was remembering.

Because he was feeling everything without knowing why.

And sooner or later, that kind of pressure always broke something.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen flaring too bright in the dark room. For a moment he considered putting it back down. The weight in his chest told him sleep was not coming.

Can't sleep. Keep thinking about tonight.

He sent it before he could overthink the wording.

He lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, rain ticking softly against the window. It would be early in Seoul. Nine in the morning. You would be at work.

Your reply came within minutes

Tell me what happened. Everything.

Taehyung swallowed. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. Where did he even start. How did he explain something that felt more instinctive than logical.

Durand kept talking about you. Jimin got... kinda protective.

There was a pause. Longer this time.

Protective? How?

Taehyung shifted onto his side, phone warm in his hand.

Like, warning-him-off protective.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before your response came

Oh....I don't know how to take that

Taehyung closed his eyes.

Yeah it was strange.

There was a longer pause this time.

This is killing me, Tae.

The words landed heavy. Simple. Honest. No attempt to soften them.

His chest tightened. He’d been so focused on Jimin, on watching for cracks, on managing his own guilt, that he’d let himself forget what this was doing to you.

Day after day. Watching the man you loved look straight through you like you were nothing more than an employee.

I know. I'm sorry.

Your reply came quickly

It's not your fault. You're trying to help.

Taehyung stared at the screen, the lie sitting between the lines.

Was he helping. Or was he prolonging something that needed to break.

He locked his phone and set it face down on the nightstand, the screen going dark far too quickly.

In Seoul, morning had already taken hold.

You sat at your desk with your phone clutched in both hands, Taehyung’s messages still glowing against the screen.

Jimin got... protective.

The word sat there, loaded.

You glanced up instinctively, scanning the open-plan office. Familiar noise filled the space. Keyboards tapping. Phones ringing. Someone laughing too loudly near the printer. Life carrying on, indifferent.

Only then did you look back down at your phone.

Protective.

Your chest tightened.

Another vibration.

This is killing me too. I don't know how much longer I can keep quiet.

Your pulse jumped. If Taehyung told him. If the truth came out like that, fractured and uncontrolled, while Jimin was halfway across the world.

Would he believe it? Or would he think you were manipulating him? Or worse, would he remember everything and realise he didn’t want it back?

Your fingers moved before your thoughts fully caught up.

Don't, you typed back quickly. Not yet. Let me think.

The reply came almost immediately.

Y/N...

Please. Just give me a little more time.

You stared at the screen, the office blurring at the edges. You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince anymore. Taehyung. Yourself. Fate.

But the thought of him finding out about you. About Haneul. Alone. Confused. Without you there to answer his questions.

It felt wrong.

Like something that belonged face to face. Whatever the outcome.

For now, all you could do was wait. And hope that whatever fragments were stirring in him would find their way back to you on their own.

In Paris, the sky lightened almost imperceptibly.

Taehyung lay awake long after the rain slowed, staring at the ceiling as dawn crept in around the edges of the curtains. His phone rested on his chest, unread messages burned into his mind.

He began planning what he would say when he finally broke his promise.

Because watching Jimin tear himself apart searching for something he couldn’t name, while you carried the weight of the truth alone.

He couldn’t do it much longer.

Something had to give.

--

Jimin looked like hell.

That was Taehyung's first thought when he walked into the hotel room's main area and found his friend sitting at the small table by the window, staring out at the grey Paris morning with hollow eyes.

His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and there were dark circles under his eyes that made him look older than his years.

"You sleep at all?" Taehyung asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Not really." Jimin's voice was rough, like he'd been screaming. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Had another one of those dreams. Worse this time."

Taehyung poured himself coffee from the tray, watching him carefully. “The same ones?”

Jimin nodded, gaze still fixed on the rain streaking down the glass. “Everything’s jumbled. Chae-won, some faceless woman I can never quite reach… it all blends together until I don’t know what’s real and what’s just my head messing with me.” He let out a humourless laugh. “Feels like I’m chasing ghosts.”

There was a rawness in his tone that made Taehyung’s chest tighten. He wanted to say something, anything, but before he could, Jimin shoved back his chair and started pacing.

“I hate this, Tae. I hate not knowing what’s real. One second I think I’ve got a handle on things, and then—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “I feel like there’s something important I should remember, and it’s just… gone.”

Taehyung gripped his coffee cup tighter. This was his opening, maybe not to tell the whole truth, but to start nudging Jimin toward it.

"I—"

Jimin's phone rang.

The sound cut through the room, sharp and intrusive. He stopped pacing mid-step, shoulders tense, as if the noise itself had struck him.

For a moment, he just stared at the screen. Then he answered.

“Yeah.”

Taehyung watched his face as he listened. The lines around Jimin’s mouth tightened. His posture straightened, instinctively professional, even as the exhaustion lingered in his eyes.

“Yes. We’re still on for today.”

A pause.

“Of course. We’ll be there.”

He ended the call and let his arm drop to his side, phone still clutched in his hand.

“Durand,” Taehyung said.

Jimin nodded once. “Studio visit. He wants to show us the finished pieces.”

There should have been excitement in his voice. Pride, at least. Instead, there was only resolve, like he was bracing himself for something he couldn’t quite name.

Taehyung took a slow sip of coffee, buying time. “You sure you’re up for it?”

Jimin gave a short laugh. “What’s the alternative? Sit here and let my head spiral?”

He dragged a chair back into place and sat again, elbows resting on his knees. His hands clasped together, knuckles pale.

“I don’t trust my own thoughts anymore,” he said quietly. “That’s the worst part.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. He leaned back against the counter, keeping his voice steady. “You’re not broken, Jimin.”

Jimin looked up at him then, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “You don’t know that.”

The rain outside picked up again, heavier now, drumming against the glass. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“We should go,” Jimin said finally. “If I don’t keep moving, I’m going to lose my nerve.”

----

Jimin didn’t slow this time. He knew the space, the way the light fell across the worktables, the narrow path between racks. He’d walked it before, recently enough that his body didn’t hesitate.

Durand was already moving ahead, talking as he went. “I couldn’t leave them another day,” he said. “Once they’re done, they’re done. You know how it is.”

Jimin nodded. He did know.

They stopped in front of the finished pieces.

Not new. Not surprising.

Just… complete.

Jimin exhaled slowly, hands resting on his hips as he took them in. He recognised every decision. Every compromise. The long evenings spent going back and forth over details most people would never notice.

“They came together well,” he said.

Durand smiled, clearly pleased. “She pushed hard on the structure in the end. Wouldn’t let me get lazy.”

Jimin’s mouth curved faintly. “She doesn’t.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“That hemline,” he said, gesturing. “We agreed lower. Otherwise it pulls when you move.”

Durand laughed. “I tried to cheat it up again. She caught me.”

Taehyung watched from a step back, stomach tightening. There was no confusion in Jimin now. No searching. This was the man he knew. Focused. Present. Fully here.

Which made the shift harder to watch.

Jimin tilted his head slightly, studying the piece. “She was right about the fabric weight,” he said. “Any lighter and it loses authority.”

Durand’s expression softened. “She usually is.”

Jimin smiled at that. Small. Unguarded.

Then the smile faded, just enough to notice.

Something else pressing in.

Pride that sat a little too deep. Warmth that didn’t stay neatly in the professional lane he expected it to. A sense of rightness that lingered longer than it should have.

He straightened, stepping back as if he needed distance.

“You alright?” Taehyung asked quietly.

Jimin rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just—”

He stopped himself, exhaled.

“Sometimes I know exactly what something is,” he said instead. “And it still doesn’t sit the way I expect it to.”

Taehyung felt guilt flare sharp and immediate.

Durand glanced between them, sensing the shift. “Long night?”

“Something like that,” Jimin replied.

His gaze returned to the pieces. Not confused. Not searching.

Just aware.

Aware that knowing how something was made didn’t explain why it mattered so much.

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---

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 2.9 k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

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The restaurant was quiet in that particular way mornings in Paris tended to be. Not empty, just unhurried.

A couple sat near the window, heads bent together over shared plates. Somewhere behind the counter, a machine hissed, paused, then hissed again. Cutlery clicked softly, polite and restrained.

Jimin sat opposite Taehyung, shoulders squared but tense, one foot hooked around the rung of the chair beneath the table.

He nudged his food around with the edge of his fork, not eating so much as rearranging it. His coffee had gone untouched long enough for a thin skin to form on top.

“Tell me again,” he said, eyes fixed on Taehyung, sharp and intent. “What you remember from that trip.”

Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. He lifted his cup, took a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the window as if the answer might be written somewhere on the glass. He set the cup down carefully, aligning it with the saucer.

“I’ve told you,” he said carefully. “You disappeared on me. Most nights. You were with her.”

Jimin’s fingers stilled. “But you met her.”

Taehyung shrugged, a small, almost defensive motion. “At the start. A bar. Then a few times after. You were attached at the hip after that.”

Jimin leaned back, chair legs scraping softly. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them again, one hand coming up to rub along his jaw. “What did she look like?”

The pause was brief. Too brief to be accidental.

Taehyung’s thumb worried at the edge of the table. “She wasn’t French.”

Jimin’s eyes sharpened. “What does that mean?”

“She was Korean.”

The word landed heavier than either of them expected.

Jimin straightened, eyebrows lifting before pulling together. “Korean.” He leaned forward again, elbows braced on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You never asked.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”

Taehyung exhaled through his nose, quiet but controlled. “I didn’t think it mattered. It didn’t stick. Not for me.”

Jimin let out a short laugh that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers snagging briefly. “Everything matters. Especially when I’m trying to piece something together and you’re holding back details.”

“I didn’t leave it out,” Taehyung said carefully, palms pressed flat against the table to keep them steady. “I just… didn’t remember it until now. You know how long it’s been.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, to press harder, but the look on Taehyung’s face was unreadable. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a quiet, frustrated laugh.

“Chloe,” Taehyung added quickly, like throwing him a bone. “Or something close to that. She used a Western name, French-sounding. I can’t be sure.”

“What part of Korea was she from?” Jimin asked.

He leaned forward again as he spoke, forearms braced on the table, shoulders tense. His eyes narrowed, not in anger but concentration, like he was trying to pin something slippery in place.

Taehyung shook his head slowly. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

The answer landed badly.

Jimin’s jaw tightened, a subtle shift that Taehyung had learned to read years ago. Suspicion flickered across his face, brief but sharp.

“Wait.” He sat back, then forward again, restless. “We were best friends, Tae. If I was seeing someone here—really seeing someone—I would’ve talked about her. A lot.” He huffed a quiet laugh that held no humour. “After the accident, you tried to get me to remember her. You pushed me.”

He paused, studying Taehyung’s face, searching for cracks. “So how do you not remember her name? Or what she looked like exactly?” His voice dropped. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Taehyung let out a slow exhale, his hand brushing the table. “Jimin,” he said, voice a little exasperated, “it’s been years since we were here. Time has passed, and my memory… it’s a little rusty."

Jimin didn’t respond. He just watched him.

“And after you stopped speaking to me,” Taehyung continued, quieter now, “I didn’t exactly want to hold onto this trip. Or what it reminded me of.”

The scrape of porcelain cut through the moment as Jimin pushed his coffee cup away. It slid a few inches, rattled softly, then stopped. His gaze shifted to the window, to the pale reflection of the street outside.

“I was here a few months back,” he said. His voice had softened. “Working with Y/N and Durand. Meetings. Walking these streets.” He turned back to Taehyung. “I remember all that. The work stuff.”

Taehyung watched him carefully, the crease between his brows deepening. “You’re asking me to recall details I never held onto in the first place,” he said. His tone gentled, though frustration still threaded through it. “I didn’t know her like you did. She wasn’t my story, Jimin.” He paused. “She was yours.”

Jimin pressed his lips together. He knew it was true. That didn’t help.

He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a short, bitter chuckle. “I know I’m being a pain. It’s just…” He picked up his fork, set it down again harder than he meant to. “She’s there. In the back of my head. Like a song stuck on repeat, except I can’t remember the lyrics.”

His laugh caught halfway, rough around the edges. “She’s right there, and I can’t—”

“Hey.” Taehyung leaned forward, forearms on the table now, voice steady and low. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Will we?” Jimin stared down at his untouched food, knee bouncing beneath the table, restless energy with nowhere to go. “I just… I need to know what happened here. Who she was. Even if nothing comes of of it.”

“We’ll find answers,” Taehyung said quietly. Guilt pressed at his chest, familiar and heavy. “Maybe visiting some places will help. Jog your memory.”

Jimin nodded once, not fully convinced. His hand moved to his pocket suddenly, decisive. “We should call Marc while we’re here.”

Taehyung blinked, then nodded, relieved by the shift. “Yeah. Good idea. Want me to—”

“Nah.” Jimin was already scrolling through his contacts. “I’ll do it.”

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Jimin! How’s the magazine going?”

“Good,” Jimin said automatically. “Listen, Durand—Taehyung and I are in Paris for a couple of days. Thought maybe drinks if you’re free?”

There was a pause. Not long, but noticeable.

“Taehyung?” Durand said. “Wait, are you speaking again?”

Jimin glanced at his friend, a faint warmth rising at the back of his neck. “Yeah. We worked it out.”

"Brilliant! Good for you both." Durand's voice warmed considerably. "I'm buried in meetings today, this new collection is killing me, but tomorrow evening? There's this place I know, Le Petit Montmartre. Low-key, perfect for catching up."

“Sounds good,” Jimin said. “Seven?”

"Perfect. I'll send you the address."

Jimin ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Tomorrow night,” he murmured, more to himself than Taehyung.

They abandoned their cold coffee and stepped back out onto the wet cobblestones. The street greeted them with a dull sheen, rainwater pooled in shallow dips between stones, reflecting the pale morning light.

Paris stretched ahead in muted greys and softened colour, edges blurred like watercolours left too long in the rain.

The air carried the smell of fresh bread from somewhere nearby, cigarettes drifting lazily from a café doorway, and something harder to define that seemed to cling to the stone itself. Old. Familiar. Unbothered by them.

“So what now?” Taehyung asked, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. His shoulders lifted slightly against the chill, posture loose but watchful.

Jimin didn’t answer straight away. His eyes moved constantly, tracking the street, the windows, the intersections ahead. “We walk,” he said finally. “See if something clicks.”

They drifted into the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, past bookshops with faded spines pressed tightly against dusty glass and cafés where the scent of warm croissants mingled with morning cigarettes. Chairs scraped softly as staff reset tables for the lunch rush.

University students hurried past them in uneven clusters, canvas bags slung over shoulders, scarves flapping loose as they talked over one another. Late for class. Late for love. Sometimes both.

Jimin moved with restless energy, slowing without realising it, then picking up pace again. His gaze snagged on corners, doorways, alley mouths that disappeared just out of sight.

Every few blocks he stopped, brow furrowing as if something were just out of reach, then shook his head and kept walking.

Taehyung counted the pauses without meaning to.

“Anything?” he asked after the fifth one.

Jimin rubbed at his temple with the heel of his hand, eyes still on the street ahead. “Maybe,” he said. Then quieter, “I don’t know.” He exhaled slowly. “It’s like having a word on the tip of your tongue. Except it’s not a word. It’s… everything.”

They passed a small art stall tucked into a shallow doorway. Jimin stopped abruptly.

A hand-painted notebook sat open on the table, its cover decorated with delicate flowers in muted watercolours. The colours were soft, intentional, the kind that invited touch rather than demanded attention.

For a heartbeat, Jimin’s chest tightened. He pictured how you would linger over something like this, how your fingers would trace the brushstrokes as you weighed colour and balance, light and intention.

He caught himself mid-thought.

“No, not the time to be thinking about your employee” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, and forced his gaze back to the street.

They crossed the Seine where tourists clustered around street artists and musicians despite the overcast sky.

A painter worked near the railing, dabbing carefully at a canvas while the river shimmered behind him, light breaking across the water in uneven patterns.

Jimin slowed again. His eyes lingered on the colours, the quiet confidence of the brushwork. You would have loved this, the way the light shifted across the surface. His jaw tightened. He stepped around the artist without stopping.

A violinist played further along, her case open at her feet, music spilling out into the air. The melody was melancholy, restrained, beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway.

Jimin stopped.

He stood there, shoulders still, expression distant, listening.

“You okay?” Taehyung asked, keeping his voice low.

“The music,” Jimin said, then trailed off. He shook his head once, as if clearing water from his ears. “Probably nothing.”

Taehyung didn’t respond, but memory stirred uncomfortably. He remembered you talking about street musicians the morning after Jimin had brought you back to the hotel.

You’d stolen coffee from their room service tray, hair still tangled from sleep, talking about how Paris hid concerts on every corner if you knew how to listen.

They drifted into a small park, the paths damp beneath their shoes. Children clustered around the fountain, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, carefully setting toy boats into the water and chasing them as they bobbed and veered off course.

Parents lingered nearby, half-watching, half-lost in quiet conversations, their voices blending into the steady hush of the city.

Joggers moved past with determined focus, breath puffing in short bursts, shoes crunching over gravel. A couple walked slowly beneath the trees, fingers laced together, heads bent as if the rest of the park didn’t exist.

Near the fountain, a young woman sat alone on a bench. A sketchbook rested against her knees, one leg tucked beneath her as she worked. Her pencil moved quickly, decisively, pausing only when she looked up to study the scene in front of her.

Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and when she looked up to study her subjects, there was something in her expression, a quiet intensity, a way of seeing, that made Jimin stop completely.

It wasn’t deliberate. His feet simply didn’t move

Taehyung noticed the hesitation immediately and followed his gaze. His stomach dropped the second he understood why.

The woman had the same thoughtful expression you got when you were focused on something, the same way she tilted her head when concentrating.

“What is it?” Taehyung asked, though he already knew.

Jimin didn’t answer at first. His chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t place, a dull pressure that made him draw a slow breath. He stared at the woman as if she might turn into something recognisable if he looked long enough.

Taehyung shifted, lowering his voice. “It’s not her.”

Jimin didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the woman, as if he hadn’t quite heard.

“I know,” he said eventually, though the words came a beat too late, quiet and uncertain. “I just—

He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Something about her made Jimin's chest tighten, though he couldn't figure out why. Why the hell was he thinking about you, his employee right now? Was it because you had lived here, and the last time he'd been here was with you?

The woman glanced up then, catching them looking. Her expression flickered with polite confusion before smoothing into a small, reflexive smile.

Almost immediately, she looked back down at her sketchbook, shoulders angling inward, closing the moment off.

Whatever had caught Jimin loosened its grip.

“We should keep moving,” Taehyung said gently

Jimin nodded once and turned away, already walking, the strange pressure in his chest fading as quickly as it had come.

They wandered through side streets where ivy crept up pale stone walls and red doors stood out sharply against muted façades, too vivid to feel real.

The afternoon light stretched long across the cobblestones, shadows pooling in uneven lines.

Taehyung found himself remembering other walks through these same streets. Sometimes alone, killing time while Jimin disappeared for hours.

Sometimes catching up with friends, laughing louder than necessary, pretending he didn’t mind being left behind.

They stopped on a narrow bridge overlooking a quieter stretch of the river. The water moved slowly beneath them, reflecting the dull sky in broken pieces.

“Tell me about South America,” Jimin said suddenly.

Taehyung looked at him, surprised by the shift. Jimin leaned against the stone railing, hands resting loosely at his sides, gaze fixed on the water below.

“What was I like there?” Jimin added. “Before the accident.”

Taehyung joined him at the railing, forearms resting against the cold stone. He took a moment, eyes tracking the river, choosing his words.

“Different,” he said at last. “Not in a bad way. Just… lighter.” He glanced sideways at Jimin. “Like you’d found something you didn’t even know you were looking for.”

Jimin didn’t respond. He just nodded faintly, eyes still on the water, as if turning the words over without quite knowing what to do with them.

“The girl I met here,” he said eventually, voice quiet. “Was she part of that?”

The question settled between them, heavy and delicate at the same time, like something that might shatter if handled too roughly.

Taehyung’s fingers curled against the cold stone railing. He stared at the water for a moment longer than necessary, buying himself time he didn’t have.

“I think so,” he said finally. “After everything with Chae-won… you were different.” He paused, searching for words that wouldn’t betray too much. “Lighter. Like you’d come back to yourself.” His mouth tightened. “Happier. Freer. A better version of you, if that makes sense.”

Jimin nodded slowly, the motion deliberate, as if something had just clicked into place. “I thought so.” He swallowed. “I keep having these dreams. Or maybe they’re memories, I don’t know anymore.”

He let out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “There’s this woman. She’s laughing, spinning in the rain. White dress.” His eyes flicked shut briefly. “I can’t see her face. But the feeling—it’s nothing like what I felt with Chae. Not even close.” His voice dropped. “It’s like… like I was never fully awake before. Like nothing ever felt enough.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He shifted his weight, the stone cold against his palms. “Dreams can feel more real than memories sometimes,” he said quietly.

“But what if they are memories?” Jimin’s voice cracked, the composure he’d been holding onto finally slipping. “What if she’s real and I just can’t—” He broke off, jaw working. “What if I lost someone important?”

The words hit Taehyung hard, a physical blow that stole the air from his lungs.

For a split second, he almost did it. Almost reached out. Almost told him everything. About you. About Haneul. About the life that existed just out of Jimin’s reach.

But the weight of your trust pressed down on him. The fragile balance they were all clinging to. The fear of shattering something that couldn’t be put back together once broken.

He said nothing.

The afternoon slipped by in a quiet, uneasy drift. Coffee at a sidewalk café where the waiter’s face lit up when they switched to French, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of which pastries were worth the indulgence. Taehyung laughed at the right moments. Jimin smiled, nodded, played his part.

In a narrow vintage bookshop, they ran their fingers along worn spines, the air heavy with dust and old paper. Leather-bound volumes leaned together like conspirators. Taehyung picked one up, flipped through it without reading a word.

Later, they sat on a park bench while an old man scattered breadcrumbs for pigeons, speaking to them softly as if they were old friends. The birds crowded around him, fearless, expectant. The scene should have been calming. It wasn’t.

Jimin shifted constantly, crossing and uncrossing his legs, rubbing his palms together as if trying to warm them.

“This is pointless,” he muttered as the light began to fade, shadows stretching long across the paths. “We’re just wandering around like tourists, hoping for some miracle.”

“We need food,” Taehyung said, gesturing toward a side street where warm light spilled from restaurant windows. “There’s bound to be something decent down there.”

“Food?” Jimin scoffed, frustration breaking through. “That’s your solution?” He stopped walking, turning sharply. “I drag you halfway across the world chasing ghosts and you want to talk about dinner options?”

"I'm trying to help—"

“Are you?” Jimin snapped, the question sharp, raw. His voice carried just enough that a passing couple glanced over before hurrying on. “Because it feels like everyone knows something I don’t. Like I’m some broken toy you’re all pretending still works.”

The words cut deep.

Taehyung felt them lodge somewhere painful and familiar. He did know things. Important things. And every second he stayed silent felt heavier than the last.

"Jimin—"

"“No—fuck.” Jimin scrubbed both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in dark, uneven spikes. His shoulders sagged as the anger drained out of him. “I’m sorry.” He exhaled shakily, breath fogging in the cooling air. “You came all this way for me and I’m being an asshole.”

He stared at the ground, voice quieter now. “I just feel like half a person. Like there’s this huge piece missing and I can’t even see the shape of where it used to fit.”

“You’re not half anything,” Taehyung said quietly.

He didn’t look at Jimin when he said it. His eyes stayed on the pavement, on the thin cracks filled with rainwater, his voice steady despite the tightness pressing behind his ribs. “You’re just… missing pieces. And maybe those pieces come back when they’re ready.”

Jimin breathed out through his nose, slow and controlled. He nodded once, not trusting himself to say anything. Doubt still lingered in the set of his mouth, the tension around his eyes refusing to ease, even as the anger drained away.

The late afternoon light cut across his face at an angle, sharpening every line, every strain he hadn’t bothered to hide.

“Let’s just eat,” he said after a moment. His tone was lighter, almost careless, but his jaw stayed tight. “I’m starving. And clearly, thinking on an empty stomach isn’t doing me any favours.”

Taehyung accepted the truce without comment. He turned down the narrow street he’d noticed earlier, its windows glowing warm against the grey, and they ducked into the first place that looked decent enough not to ask questions.

-------

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside. The restaurant was small, intimate, a handful of early diners scattered across mismatched tables.

Coats hung from the backs of chairs, damp edges brushing the floor. The air carried the smell of roasting meat, herbs, and something faintly sweet, caramelised and comforting.

Jimin slid into his chair while Taehyung excused himself toward the bathroom. He shrugged out of his coat, draped it over the chair back, and picked up the menu.

He stared at it without reading, his attention drifting with the low hum of conversation and the gentle clink of cutlery.

It should have been grounding.

Instead, something threaded through the room, barely there at first.

The soft pluck of strings. The light, rhythmic strum of a banjo. The whisper of a fiddle bow. A low voice joined in, unassuming, almost shy, weaving itself into the space rather than demanding attention.

Jimin’s focus slipped.

Across the table, uninvited, an image surfaced. You, laughing. Your fingers curled around something ridiculous and bright, an inflatable flamingo, absurd and oversized, held like a prize. Candlelight caught in your hair, softened the line of your smile, made the moment feel close enough to touch.

Too close.

For a second, it felt as though he were sitting across from you, watching it happen again, caught in the warmth of the scene. Then reason kicked in, belated but firm. It was just a story. One you’d told him months ago, casual and fond. Nothing more than that.

His mind playing tricks. Blending fragments it had no business blending.

His chest tightened. He dropped his gaze, fists curling under the table, grounding himself in the scrape of his shoe against the floor, the solid weight of the chair beneath him. He forced the image away, separating the faceless woman from the echo of you, even though the distinction felt thinner than it should have.

A chair scraped softly across the floor.

Taehyung returned, sliding into the seat opposite him. He took in Jimin’s posture in a glance, the tension pulled tight across his shoulders, the way his hands hadn’t quite relaxed.

“Everything alright?” he asked, casual on the surface, concern tucked carefully underneath.

“Yeah,” Jimin said too quickly. He caught himself and forced a breath, a thin smile. “Just… thinking.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow but let it go. They ordered without fuss, roasted chicken for Taehyung, something light for Jimin. The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving them with the hum of the room.

Conversation drifted into small, harmless things. The glow of streetlights bleeding through the window. The faint scent of rain clinging to coats. A quiet joke about the waiter who’d nearly dropped a tray earlier, saved only by quick reflexes and a muttered curse.

Jimin anchored himself to it all, determined not to let his thoughts wander again. Still, irritation simmered beneath the surface at himself, at how easily your voice, your laughter, had slipped into a place it didn’t belong.

By the time the plates were cleared, the tension had loosened its grip.

Jimin laughed softly at one of Taehyung’s dry comments, the sound surprising him with how normal it felt. The light in the room had shifted, evening settling in, gold and amber stretching long across the walls.

They paid and stepped back outside into the cool Parisian air. Lanterns lined the cobblestones, their reflections trembling in shallow puddles. A light drizzle caught the glow, turning the street into something softer, quieter.

“Long day,” Jimin murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. Fatigue pressed down now that the edge had worn off. “We should head back. Get some rest before tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Taehyung said, rising from his chair. “Hotel bed sounds perfect right now.”

They stepped back out onto the street together, falling into an easy stride, shoulders brushing now and then as they walked. Their voices stayed low, conversation drifting to nothing in particular, the kind of talk that filled space without asking for attention.

Behind them, the restaurant door eased shut.

A small brass plaque caught the lamplight as it swung gently with the movement of the door. The letters gleamed softly, polished smooth by time and passing hands.

La Belle Étoile.

Inside, music still lingered faintly in the air. Strings settling. A candle guttering as someone laughed at a nearby table. A corner that had once held too much joy for one night.

The same restaurant where, years earlier, you had sat laughing by candlelight as a small band played to you. Where an inflatable flamingo had been passed across the table, ridiculous and perfect.

Where Jimin had been with you, unaware he was standing at the edge of a moment that would change everything.

The very night Haneul had been conceived.

Jimin and Taehyung disappeared down the street, oblivious, as the plaque gleamed quietly behind them.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 3.1 k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Jimin’s fingers moved across the wood grain of his desk. Tap. Tap. A pause. Then again.

He wasn’t sure when he’d started doing that. Maybe after the accident. Maybe before. It didn’t matter. The sound was small, but in the stillness of the office, it sounded louder than it was.

Outside the window, the sky was a pale wash of grey, almost colourless, as though someone had drawn a curtain over the day. But he wasn’t looking at the sky. He was looking beyond it. Or maybe beneath it.

You stood a little to the side, near enough to notice the tightness in his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw. He hadn’t looked at you once since you started reading the Milan updates, and still, you kept your voice steady.

“The model fittings are set for Thursday,” you said. Then, after a small pause, “The photographer is requesting a short extension on the Milan deadline.

He shifted slightly, just barely, but it was enough. Enough to know he wasn’t listening. Not really.

You didn’t blame him.

Somewhere, behind that still face, was a girl he couldn’t remember. A city he couldn’t place. You imagined she drifted in and out of his mind like a song half-heard through a wall.

Persistent.

Unreachable.

You wondered what version of yourself he saw if anything, when she came to him in pieces.

Jimin’s jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. Who was she? What did she mean to me? His fingers stilled on the desk.

“Should I reschedule the Milan call for after the Tokyo concept meeting?” you asked.

He blinked, like surfacing. The air between you stretched and folded in on itself. Then, at last, he nodded.

“Yes. That works.”

You gave a small, polite smile, the kind that barely reached your eyes, and turned toward the door. Your fingers brushed the handle, then paused. The silence was delicate now, thin like spun sugar.

“Is everything alright?” you asked, voice soft.

He met your gaze, and for a heartbeat, something raw flickered there.

You always noticed when something was off, like you could see through the carefully built walls he put up.

“Just a lot on my mind,” he said with a tight, brittle smile.

You nodded, expression softening. “If you need anything,” you said, “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, and you didn’t expect him to. The door closing gently behind you.

Jimin stood. Not abruptly, but with the sort of motion that felt practiced, like his body moved before the thought reached him.

The chair creaked back, a quiet sound swallowed by the hum of the office.

He crossed to the window and laid his palm flat against the glass. It was cool, almost cold. The kind of cold that lingered.

Outside, the city folded in on itself. Lights blinked to life across buildings, one after the other, hesitant at first, then all at once.

The skyline looked like it was breathing. Still, none of it settled him. All he could see was the hollow shape she left behind. A face that slipped through the cracks in his memory. It was like it had become an obsession.

His phone vibrated on the desk.

He turned his head slowly. A message from Taehyung.

Sorry. Just that she wasn’t from France. I didn’t spend as much time with her as you.

Jimin had asked him, if he could remember anything about this mystery girl.

Jimin stared at it. He read it once. Then again. Then a third time, without really seeing the words. His hand hovered over the keyboard.

That’s not enough. I need more. Everything.

He didn’t send it.

Instead, he deleted it. The space in his chest felt like it was expanding, and none of the questions he wanted to ask would make it smaller.

The door opened with a sharp knock as Do-han entered, his steps deliberate. He always moved like he belonged, even when the news he carried did not.

“Sir” he said.

There was a weight to his voice.

Jimin didn’t turn around. His reflection in the window wavered slightly.

“What is it?” he asked.

Do-han didn’t speak immediately. His jaw tensed before the words arrived.

“She’s gone,” he said. “Chae-won.”

The air seemed to change then. Not colder, exactly. Just stiller. Like everything in the room was waiting to see what Jimin would do.

He didn’t move.

“She checked out of the hotel,” Do-han went on. “Two hours after the police were notified. Took a black sedan. Plates unregistered. No driver on file. No trace after that.”

There was a long silence. Then Jimin spoke, quietly.

“She knew.”

“She did,” Do-han said. “The hotel was booked under another name. Everything prepaid. She left a laptop behind. It was wiped.”

“She wanted us to find it,” Jimin murmured.

Do-han spoke. “Want me to start with her old contacts?”

“Yes. Keep it quiet.”

Do-han gave a small nod, then paused by the door.

“You okay?”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. His eyes returned to the window, to the scatter of lights that no longer resembled stars.

“I don’t know,” he said.

--

Later, Jimin stepped into the night. Seoul moved around him, headlights sweeping across damp asphalt, neon signs blinking in quiet succession, the low thrum of a bus disappearing down Gangnam-daero. The city breathed as usual. He did not.

Most evenings, Do-han would be waiting, behind the wheel, half-alert, coat folded neatly in the front seat. But tonight, Jimin had waved him off with a quiet nod, the kind that didn’t invite questions.

Do-han had hesitated, only briefly, then left without pressing.

Jimin didn’t want to take Do-han away from searching for Chae-won, even if it wasn’t strictly his job. He needed fresh air, space to be with his thoughts.

The streets around Cheongdam were still lit, though the noise had thinned.

A man smoked outside a café, scrolling through his phone. A taxi idled at the curb, its driver half-asleep behind the wheel.

The world kept turning, indifferent. It left plenty of space for his thoughts to catch up.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He didn’t check it.

Distant chatter spilling from a bar he passed without a second glance. The amber light pooled quietly on the pavement, but it didn’t touch what was stirring inside him.

She was everywhere he couldn’t reach.

The woman in white, not quite memory, not quite dream. Just a fragment. A ghost slipping through the cracks left by all the things erased. His mind tugged at her image, desperate for details that wouldn’t come.

In their place, Chae-won’s lies had settled, smooth and poisonous, filling every empty space with doubt and manipulation.

Jimin walked slowly, letting the cool Seoul air press against his skin.

At the crossing, he stopped, waiting for the light. The world moved on, but inside, the obsession grew , the missing pieces haunting him in the quiet.

--

A few days later

The room hummed with the quiet rhythm of the shoot. Soft light filtered through the large windows, casting pale shadows across the white walls.

You moved between the sets with practiced ease, clipboard tucked under one arm, voice calm and clear as you directed the team.

“The next look’s ready,” you told the photographer, tilting your head toward the wardrobe rack. “Minimalist, but we’ll add the silver accessories to catch the light.”

A stylist nodded, adjusting a strand of hair that had escaped its pin. “Model’s warming up. Should be quick.”

Jimin lingered near the far wall, hands slipping into his pockets. His gaze drifted to you, not quite looking, as if trying to catch something just beyond sight.

The tilt of your jaw. The faint crease of your brows as you focused. The way your hair fell loose at the nape of your neck, catching the light.

His breath hitched, barely there.

You glanced at him briefly. His eyes didn’t quite meet yours, and when they did, his expression was unreadable, clouded with something quiet and far away.

The slight tension at the corner of his mouth didn’t go unnoticed, nor the faint shadow darkening beneath his eyes.

The crease between his brows deepened, the sharp edge in his gaze softening, folding into something tired.

His shoulders eased, the restless energy that always hummed beneath the surface ebbing just enough to show weariness.

A couple of crew exchanged whispered looks nearby. Jimin caught the glances and shifted, closing off. He turned his gaze away, folding his arms loosely, a small, controlled breath escaping.

You returned your attention to the photographer. “Let’s get the lighting soft but precise. The silver has to catch, not overpower.”

Behind you, a junior assistant approached, holding a steaming cup of coffee. “You okay? You look a little tense.”

You smiled, taking the cup. “Long week. But it’s coming together.”

“She’s managing well,” Jimin said quietly from across the room.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away. “I have to,” you said lightly, a hint of something you didn’t quite admit in your tone. That you were having to make up for his slack.

Jimin’s gaze lingered, and for a moment you felt the weight of it, like a quiet question hanging in the air between you.

He cleared his throat, stepping closer. “The last set... you made it feel effortless

You tilted your head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s all about rhythm. You find the flow, the rest follows.”

There was a pause. The photographer called out, “Ready on set!”

You turned to the team, directing with sharp efficiency, while Jimin’s eyes found you again, watching, searching.

You moved with effortless grace, the slight arch of your neck, the soft flush of your cheeks when you smiled at a joke from a stylist.

The pale light caught the faintest shimmer on your skin, the delicate curve of your collarbone beneath your blouse.

He imagined the girl from Paris. Had she had this same light in her eyes? This calm, this quiet strength that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway? Had she moved with the same unassuming elegance?

His lips pressed tight, a small flicker of guilt stirring beneath his calm.

He cleared his throat and stepped back, trying to steady himself as a few crew members glanced his way with thinly veiled curiosity.

You caught the crease between his brows again as you bit your lip, calculating the schedule with quiet determination.

Jimin’s gaze softened, lingering just a moment longer before he turned away, the commanding presence returning, but the weight beneath it stayed with him.

--

That evening

Jimin pushed the glass aside, the cold ring left on the table matching the chill settling in his chest.

He stood, pacing the small space of his apartment like a restless shadow. The city lights outside blurred through the window, distant and indifferent.

Two weeks in Paris. That’s all the time he’d spent with her. It wasn’t long. Too short to build anything lasting, or so he told himself. But the way his heart clenched told a different story.

Something had pulled him back, urgently, without a word to Taehyung. Why? What had been so important that he’d drop everything, rush back, disappear without explanation?

Questions flickered like restless shadows in his mind. Where was she now? Did she ever think about him? Had she thought he’d abandoned her? That he’d disappeared because he didn’t care? Maybe she hated him. Maybe she thought he hated her.

He sank back onto the couch, head in his hands, the weight of the unknown pressing down. Jimin closed his eyes, fighting the exhaustion and the obsession twisting inside him.

He had to do something.

Jimin sat there a moment longer, the silence thick around him. Then, as if the weight in his chest grew too much to bear, he reached for his phone

He pressed Taehyung’s number, listening as the line rang out.

“Hey,” Taehyung answered, calm as always.

“I need your help,” Jimin said, his voice steady, edged with determination.

--

The office moved like clockwork that morning, heels clicking softly on polished floors, espresso machines humming in the corner, and a rhythm of quiet urgency as editors and assistants filtered between meetings.

You adjusted the strap of your designer tote and stepped into the executive elevator, balancing your tablet and Jimin’s coffee with one hand.

His order was the same as always: oat milk, no sugar, double shot. You didn’t need a reminder. You hadn’t for a long time.

But when the elevator doors opened to the CEO floor, something felt… off.

His office door was closed, the lights dimmed behind the frosted glass. No sign of movement, no distant voice on a call, no muffled jazz playing from his speakers like usual. You checked your watch- 8:17 a.m. He was never late for his 8:30.

Still, you set the coffee down on the tray by his door and tapped softly.

Nothing.

You were just pulling out your phone to check for messages when the private elevator chimed behind you.

Do-han stepped out, his coat damp from the rain, expression as unreadable as always, but when he saw you, the hint of a small, easy smile softened his features.

“Morning,” you said, voice careful but warm.

“Morning,” he replied, nodding as he approached. “You’ll have an email from him. He left instructions about the meetings.”

You glanced at your phone as it buzzed in your hand. Subject line: Temporary Absence – Urgent Schedule Notes.

“Got it,” you said, already turning the phone landscape to scan through the day’s agenda. “Thanks.

Do-han hesitated just long enough that you looked up again. He glanced toward Jimin’s office, then back at you. “He didn’t want anyone else to know.”

You met his gaze briefly. “They won’t.”

That was all. The elevator doors reopened, and he was gone.

You returned to your desk, fingers moving smoothly across the screen as you reshuffled appointments, pushed meetings, forwarded briefs to Namjoon.

Everything looked in order. Nothing out of place.

But your thoughts were moving elsewhere.

Where had he gone? And why now?

You reached into your tote for a pen and instead brushed against a crumpled piece of paper—Haneul’s doodle from that morning. A mess of bright green scribbles with a single orange dot in the middle.

You paused, smoothing the paper gently before folding it and sliding it into the side pocket of your drawer.

Your expression didn’t change. But that familiar knot pulled a little tighter in your chest.

Outside, the city shimmered under morning light, pale through the high windows. The soft sheen of brushed steel and polished wood reflected back calm order.

On the floor below, models arrived early for fittings, mood boards were clicked through briskly, fabric samples passed from one hand to another.

Your phone buzzed. Taehyung

'Hey. He’s gone to France. Asked me to come. We just landed. I'll keep you updated. '

You stared at the message, unmoving. France.

Your breath caught, not visibly. No change in posture. But your pulse slowed. Your fingers, still on the tablet, curled slightly.

France…

Of course he would go.

You reread the message. Taehyung hadn’t added anything else.

He didn’t need to.

Because you both knew something Jimin didn’t.

The woman he couldn’t remember.

The girl laughing in the rain.

The ghost flickering behind his dreams.

Was you.

Then you popped the phone back on the desk. No more words. There was nothing to say.

-

You sat in the dim living room of your parents’ house, the soft glow of a lamp tracing gentle arcs on familiar walls. Outside, night pressed close against the windowpane, thick and still.

From the next room, your toddler’s lullaby whispered through the dark, a fragile rhythm meant to soothe but instead a low hum against your restless thoughts.

Jimin was in France. With Taehyung. Would Jimin ever recover what slipped through his grasp? Would he understand everything that had happened, what you carried like a shadow between you?

And Taehyung... when would he say the words? When would Haneul’s existence stop being a secret?

The weight of it settled deep in your chest, curling cold and tight like a vine. You hadn’t realised how much the tension had worn you down.

Clothes hung loose, eyes darkened with exhaustion that startled you when you caught your reflection.

What if Jimin found out you’d kept this from him? Would anger follow? Resentment? Would he blame Taehyung, or worse, you?

Your fingers clenched tightly around your tea cup, nails biting into your palm, a sharp sting grounding you in the silence.

You wanted him to know. You wanted to tell him everything. But you had no control over when the past would reach him. When the truth would break open.

Could you be the one to tell him? Not like this, not while his world was still fragile, fractured by confusion and betrayal.

You swallowed hard, steadying your breath. Patience was the only choice. Even if it meant carrying this burden alone for a while longer.

A faint prickling at the nape of your neck made you glance behind you. Nothing but shadows.

Still, the feeling lingered, like unseen eyes watching, waiting.

Just nerves, you told yourself, though your pulse quickened.

Small things unsettled you, a soft footstep when you thought you were alone, a car slowing as you passed, leaves tapping the window late at night.

Coincidence. Stress. The cost of silence.

But inside, the knot tightened.

You lifted the lukewarm tea, taking a slow sip, willing your thoughts to still.

A creak from the hallway cut the quiet.

You froze.

Then, a soft whimper.

“It’s just Haneul,” you whispered, voice barely more than breath. “He probably kicked off his blanket again.”

Cautiously, you walked down the hall. The flicker of the hallway light reminded you you still hadn’t asked your dad to fix the bulb. Work swallowed your time, campaign drafts, deadlines, schedules—and your life felt like fragile threads barely holding together.

You opened his door gently. Haneul stirred but didn’t wake. His chubby hand rested near his mouth, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

You knelt beside him, smoothing the blanket and brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

He looked more like him every day.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple and rose, eyes catching the baby monitor’s steady green glow

Back in the living room, a cold draft brushed your ankles.

The front window stood ajar—just a crack.

Had you forgotten to latch it?

Quietly, you closed it, clicked the lock, and drew the curtain.

Across the street, a figure lingered near the corner lamppost.

You squinted, but the figure melted away before you could be sure.

A passing car washed the street in pale light.

Empty.

You shook your head.

It was nothing. Just exhaustion.

And as the lullaby hummed through the walls, you stood alone with the weight of waiting, caught between silence and the truth still to come.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

No reposting or translating without consent. MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 3k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕ | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The bar was tucked between old bookstores and office buildings on a quieter stretch of Gangnam a forgotten place with warm amber lights, worn leather booths, and soft jazz filtering through the speakers like it was bleeding from the walls.

It wasn’t the kind of place people stumbled into you had to know it was there Outside, the rain had just stopped. Pavement gleamed under the streetlights like ink spilled across concrete.

Inside, Jimin sat alone at a corner table, spine taut, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass he hadn’t touched. Another drink sat across from him, untouched, uncertain, like a question mark in glass.

His eyes darted to the door every few seconds, even when he told himself to stop. Each time it remained empty, the knot in his chest tightened

He didn’t know if Taehyung would come. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could bear the weight of being seen. Not by the one person whose disappointment might still cut deep.

His mind wandered back to the phone call. It hadn’t lasted long. Just a handful of words, awkward and stiff.

"Can we meet?" he’d asked. "Please. I want to talk."

There had been a pause, heavy and unreadable. Then, “Where?” Taehyung had responded.

Not why now?, not after all this time?, just… where?

He was halfway through mentally rehearsing what to say for the hundredth time when the door opened.

Taehyung.

He stood in the doorway, rain still on his coat, hair slightly dishevelled, expression carved in stone. His eyes scanned the bar until they found Jimin and held.

Jimin stood quickly, almost knocking into the table. “Thanks for coming,” he said, the words catching slightly in his throat.

Taehyung walked over slowly, deliberate, the way you approach something fragile, or something you’re not sure you won’t break.

“You called,” he said simply. His voice was low, calm almost too calm. There was no warmth. But no anger either. Just… absence.

“I did.” Jimin nodded, his hands falling back to his sides, awkward.

Taehyung's gaze flicked to the two drinks, then back to Jimin. His eyebrow rose slightly.

“You picked a bar with no exits,” he muttered, sliding into the booth across from him. “Bold move.”

Jimin let out a breathless huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I figured you’d show up if it felt dangerous.”

Taehyung didn’t smile. His coat was still damp as he shrugged out of it and laid it beside him. “You said you wanted to talk."

“I do,” Jimin replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “And… to listen. Mostly listen.”

A beat passed.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Around them, the hum of low conversation, the clink of glasses, the soft press of jazz it all seemed to grow louder in contrast to the aching quiet between them.

Jimin’s gaze dropped to the condensation trailing slowly down his untouched drink. “I was wrong,” he said at last, quietly.

Taehyung didn’t react. But the way his jaw tensed barely, gave him away.

“I let her get in my head. Chae-won. She said things, and I let them take root. I didn’t want to believe the worst of her, so I believed the worst of you instead.”

Taehyung’s hands, resting on the table, curled slowly into fists.

“You didn’t just believe her,” he said after a moment, his tone still calm, but sharp at the edges. “You turned your back on me. On our friendship.”

Jimin winced. He forced himself to meet Taehyung’s gaze. “I know what I did,” he said, the words gravelly. “And I’m sorry.”

Taehyung’s shoulders tensed, his jaw working as if he was biting back something. His eyes burned, but he didn’t let the heat slip into his voice.

“I should’ve trusted you,” Jimin continued. “You were always there. And I let her convince me otherwise.”

Taehyung leaned back slightly, arms crossing. He exhaled slowly. “She told you I wanted her.”

Jimin nodded, guilt settling like a weight between his ribs. “She said you came onto her. Said you were jealous of what I had with her.”

Taehyung scoffed not a laugh, but something harsher. “And you believed that?”

“I didn’t want to,” Jimin admitted, voice low. “But I didn’t know what to believe. After the accident, everything was noise. Holes in my memory. Echoes. And she was… there. She made herself the only thing that made sense.”

Taehyung shook his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Jimin,” he said, his voice flat. “No offense, but… you’ve seen the kind of women I go for.”

That startled Jimin just for a second.

“I don’t mean just looks,” Taehyung continued. “I mean people with soul. With heart. People who matter. Chae-won’s got the personality of drying paint and the warmth of a tax audit.”

Something like a ghost of a laugh tugged at the corner of Jimin’s mouth. It didn’t quite surface.

“You really thought I would ever want her?” Taehyung asked again, more quietly now and this time, the hurt cracked through.

“I know,” Jimin whispered. “I know how stupid it sounds now.”

“No,” Taehyung said, tapping the table once with the tip of his finger, then pausing. “It’s not just stupid. It hurt. Because I was always in your corner, and the second someone painted me in the dark, you believed it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jimin said again, voice barely above the music. “I didn’t just lose my memory. I lost my compass. And you were part of that.”

They sat there in silence for a while not awkward, but heavy. Like the weight of a broken bridge suspended between them.

Finally, Taehyung reached for his glass, lifting it without taking a sip.

“Well,” he said, after a long moment. “I guess it’s a good thing paint eventually chips. And truth has a way of peeling off all the bullshit underneath.”

Jimin watched him carefully, cautiously. “I don’t expect forgiveness.”

“Good,” Taehyung replied flatly. “Because you haven’t earned it.”

Jimin nodded, quietly. “But I’m trying.” tears welled in his eyes slightly.

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed then softened, barely. “I’m here,” he said. “And I’m listening.”

Jimin let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

They sat in silence again, the soft jazz continuing its lazy spiral through the air. Jimin stared at the melting ice in his glass.

Taehyung rose from his seat with deliberate calm, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He stepped around the table, his gaze steady on Jimin.

Without a word, Taehyung closed the distance and enveloped Jimin in a firm embrace. His arms wrapped securely around his friend, offering silent support and understanding.

Jimin remained still for a moment, then slowly returned the hug, his hands gripping the back of Taehyung's shirt as if anchoring himself. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, yet the embrace conveyed everything necessary.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something just as rare. Trust, returning like an echo after a long silence.

“I missed you,” Jimin said quietly, the words muffled against Taehyung’s shoulder.

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t pull away either. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tight. “Don’t make me regret coming tonight.”

“I won’t,” Jimin promised.

They pulled apart slowly, and something in the air between them had shifted no longer heavy with accusation, but with something almost like hope.

Taehyung slid back into the booth, his expression more settled now, though his eyes still held something unreadable a weight he hadn’t set down.

“I didn’t call you here to just say sorry,” Jimin said after a long pause, tracing his thumb along the edge of his glass. “I mean, I did. But also… I need to ask you something.”

Taehyung leaned back slightly. “Okay.”

“South America,” Jimin clarified. “Why were we even there? I’ve had people say we were working remotely, some said it was vacation.”

Taehyung’s face softened a fraction. “We went to volunteer,” he said. “At an orphanage near Medellín. You found the place through this international outreach program. Said you needed something different something honest after everything with Chae-Won”

Jimin’s eyes flicked to his hands, then back to Taehyung. “We were working with kids?”

Taehyung nodded. “Every day. Teaching, organising donations, repairing buildings, playing with them. You were especially good with the younger ones. They adored you.”

Jimin swallowed, jaw tightening. “I wish I could remember, I’ve been remembering other things,” he said. “But they’re all jumbled. I thought maybe they were about Chae-won.”

Taehyung didn’t move, but something about his stillness changed. "Oh?"

“There’s this dream I keep having,” Jimin went on. “There’s a woman. She’s laughing, spinning in the rain. She’s wearing this white dress, and I can't see her face. But the feeling… it’s not like anything I ever felt with Chae-won.”

Taehyung looked away for a long second. When he turned back, his expression was unreadable.

“What happened before the accident?” Jimin asked. “I was on a bus heading to the airport… Why weren’t you with me?”

Taehyung’s fingers curled loosely around the edge of his glass.

“You came back late one night,” Taehyung said, his voice quieter than before, steady but reluctant. “Said you needed to leave. Urgently. That you had to go back to Paris. You didn’t tell me why. Just that it couldn’t wait. You promised you’d only be gone a few days.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Back to Paris?” he echoed. “When was I even there?”

Taehyung sat back, the leather booth creaking beneath him. His gaze dropped to the table, then met Jimin’s again. “Before South America. We were in Paris for two weeks.”

Jimin shook his head slowly, uncertainty flickering over his expression. “Oh. And then I got on that bus…”

Taehyung nodded "Yeah"

“Afterwards, when I woke up, I remember you at my bedside, phone in hand,” Jimin said, voice rough. “You looked so…frustrated that I refused to look at the photos.”

“I wasn’t trying to overwhelm you,” Taehyung replied. “I thought if you saw anything from before, something might spark.”

“I pushed you away,” Jimin admitted, guilt colouring his tone. “Told you to stop, said I didn’t want to hear about the past.”

Taehyung nodded. “You felt like I was forcing someone else’s life onto you. So I backed off.”

Jimin’s gaze flicked up. “You said I met someone

Taehyung gave a half-shrug, a grim twist of a smile. “ You were too busy believing Chae-won'”

"Who was she?" Jimin asked cutting him off.

Taehyung, feigned ignorance. "Who?"

"The girl I met" Jimin swallowed hard. “Do you remember her name?”

Taehyung hesitated, his heart pounding. Two paths flashed before him honesty or protection.

He swallowed. “It was a long time ago. I only saw her a few times.”

Jimin studied him for a moment, then sank back into the booth, He nodded taking a sip of his drink.

-

When Taehyung stepped into his apartment, the elevator doors whispered shut behind him, muffling the city's late-night murmur.

The lights came on with a soft click, spilling a warm glow over pale oak floors and casting quiet shadows along the walls.

Everything was clean lines and cool neutrals the kind of space that didn’t look lived in unless you noticed the faint smudge on the glass coffee table or the worn-in leather of his favourite armchair.

He shed his coat, toes curling into the plush rug as he padded to the kitchen. The fridge hummed as he opened it and reached for a bottle of water, cracking the cap before leaning back against the counter.

His phone was already in his hand. He scrolled until your name lit up the screen, thumb hovering for a moment before he tapped.

The ring buzzed through the apartment, soft and expectant.

“Hey,” you answered.

“I just got home,” Taehyung said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were still distant, caught somewhere between memory and the city below. “I was with Jimin.”

There was a pause. He could hear the sharpness of your breath as you took that in. “You were? Did you… call him?”

He shook his head, then remembered you couldn’t see him. “No. He called me. Out of the blue. Said he wanted to talk. So we met at a bar.”

You didn’t speak right away, and in the silence, he could hear the slight creak of your chair or maybe the shift of your weight as you stood still wherever you were. Then, quieter “And?”

“He’s remembering things,” Taehyung said. He stared out the window at the stream of headlights slicing through Gangnam, water bottle clutched loosely in one hand. “Not everything. Not you. But… there’s something coming back to him like scattered pieces.”

You didn’t answer. But he knew you were listening.

“And Chae-won?” you asked finally, the name curling sharp in your throat.

“He ended it,” Taehyung said. “She’s gone. He sees it now, that she filled in the blanks with her own version of the truth. He said he was wrong to believe her over me.”

A quiet breath escaped you, one of those fragile exhales you didn’t mean for him to hear.

“He doesn’t remember Paris,” Taehyung said, softer now. “But I told him we went, that he met someone. That it was before Medellín."

You sank down, probably onto the edge of your bed or the window seat you always liked at night. "I hope he remembers" you murmured.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t say your name. If it comes back, it should come from him. Not from me.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you, Tae.” you paused. "What if he never remembers? How long am I supposed to wait?" you croaked.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as the city pulsed faintly behind the windows. “He’s coming back. Just slowly, we will figure it out if he doesn't, but I know he will"

"Okay" you said. But your voice was far away.

The line didn’t disconnect right away. You stayed there for a beat longer, breathing into the silence, holding onto it.

Then the call ended.

Taehyung stood in the quiet, phone still in hand, the weight of the night pressing in against the glass. He didn’t move for a long time.

And somewhere across the city, you stared at your ceiling, wondering how much of you still lived in the cracks of Jimin' s memory.

-

The cab ride home felt longer than it should have.

Jimin sat with his forehead against the cool glass, watching the city smear past in a blur of halogen and neon. Rain had started again just a light drizzle, barely there, but enough to blur the edges of the world.

His mind was louder than the city.

By the time he stepped into his apartment, he barely noticed the silence. It greeted him like an old friend still, heavy, familiar in a way he hated.

He moved to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at its contents, a few bottles of water, some leftover takeout, and condiments lined up with precision. He closed the door without taking anything, the cool air dissipating quickly.

Leaning against the countertop, he let his gaze drift to the large window overlooking the city. The view was expansive, yet it offered no clarity.

Paris.

Jimin couldn't summon any images, any feelings associated with it other than his most recent trip.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. If Taehyung had tried to show him photos from that trip, perhaps he still had them.

He reached for his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he found Taehyung's name and tapped it. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

"Jiminie?" Taehyung's voice was warm, tinged with surprise.

His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “Do you… still have those photos? From Paris?”

There was a pause on the other end. “I do,” Taehyung said carefully. “Why?”

Jimin let out a quiet breath. “I think I need to see them.”

"Okay," Taehyung replied gently. "I'll send them over."

As Jimin ended the call, a sense of anticipation and apprehension settled over him. He didn't know what he would find in those photos, but he hoped they would help piece together the fragments of his memory.

Meanwhile, across the city, Taehyung sat at his desk, bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. The folder was right there labelled simply, Paris Trip. He opened it, and the thumbnails blinked to life.

Photos of the Eiffel Tower, street performers, and candid shots of Jimin laughing filled the screen. But interspersed among them were pictures of you, your hand intertwined with Jimin's, head resting on his shoulder, smiles radiant.

Taehyung’s hand hovered over the trackpad. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, he began selecting.

Only the safe ones. The ones that wouldn’t unravel everything.

He hit send.

Back in his apartment, Jimin’s phone buzzed against the coffee table. He grabbed it quickly, thumb swiping through the incoming photos.

They were strange yet familiar.

But empty, somehow. Like a painting that had been cropped too close, cutting out its soul.

As he stared at a photo of himself standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, a faint image of a woman laughing beside him flickered in his mind, gone as quickly as it came.

He rubbed his temples, trying to grasp the fleeting memory, but it slipped away like sand through his fingers.

Jimin sighed, the ache in his chest growing he had to find out somehow.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

-

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

All works written by me do not copy, translate or repost my works without my given consent.

MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.

Link to Chapter index here

Pairing : Jimin x afab! reader

Summary : In Paris, Y/N meets Jimin, a free-spirited traveller. Their love blossoms, but Jimin suddenly vanishes. Heartbroken, Y/N returns to Seoul and becomes a fashion writer. Fate twists as Jimin reappears as her demanding boss. Y/N must navigate their past, uncover the truth, and decide if she can trust him again.

Genre : slow burn, angsty, CEO Boss Jimin au

Word Count : 2.6k

**Disclaimer: All characters in this story are completely fictional, and do not represent the real personalities of any of the BTS members.

m.list | ☕

The phone barely rang twice before Taehyung’s warm, familiar voice answered. “Hey, Y/N. What’s up?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to budge as you leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter. Your fingers traced aimless patterns over the cool surface, a weak attempt to ground yourself. “It’s about Jimin,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

The line went silent for half a beat before Taehyung spoke again, his tone instantly more alert. “What do you mean? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said quickly, though the weight of the day still clung to you. “But something happened today. With him and Chae-won.”

The shift in his voice was almost palpable, the warmth giving way to something sharper. “What happened?”

Hesitating, the events replaying in your mind like a broken reel. Your grip tightened on the counter’s edge, the hard press of it biting into your palms. “It seems she tried to set me up,” you admitted, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “She deleted emails for important meetings, ones that could’ve cost the magazine millions in advertising campaigns. And before that…” You trailed off, a fresh wave of frustration bubbling up. “She accused me of being after Jimin.”

Taehyung didn’t speak for a moment, the silence heavy with restrained anger. “Wow, that's a lot to digest. Why she do that and what the hell, she said you were after Jimin?!”

“She confronted me directly,” you confirmed. “ It's a mess, I don't know what happened for Jimin to find out about her sabotaging me. I think there's more to the story which he's not telling me of course, but yeah he fired her.”

"So...are they still together?" Taehyung asks hesitantly.

Your stomach flipped, a cold knot forming in its place. “I—I’m not sure,” you admitted, your words faltering. “I kind of brought it up to him.”

“You what?!” Taehyung’s tone shot up in disbelief, the sharpness of it making you wince. “What did he say?”

You closed your eyes, your mind flashing back to Jimin’s uneasy expression, the way his shoulders stiffened at the mention of Chae-won. “I couldn’t help it, Tae. It just slipped out, that I knew about them. And… he looked uncomfortable when I mentioned it, but he didn’t give any indication that they’re through.” You let out a shaky breath. “But there’s no way they could still be together after this, right? He was furious with whatever happened!”

Taehyung let out a long sigh, and you could practically hear him pacing, his frustration crackling through the phone. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less tense. “Chae-won’s always had a way of getting under his skin, making him feel like he owes her. But if he’s angry enough to fire her, maybe… maybe he’s finally waking up.”

Your chest tightened at the thought, hope and uncertainty warring inside you. “I just wish I knew for sure,” you murmured. “He’s not exactly an open book. And I don’t think he’ll come to me about it, even if he needs to.”

Taehyung’s tone softened, the anger giving way to something gentler. “You’re doing more than you realise, Y/N. Just being someone he can trust, it matters. Even if he doesn’t say it.”

You leaned your head against the cabinet behind you, the cool surface a brief reprieve against the heat creeping up your neck. “I hope so,” you said, the words barely above a whisper. “I offered to listen if he ever wanted to talk, but… you know he's still 'just my boss'”

Taehyung hesitated before speaking again. “Do you...do you think he’d want to hear from me?”

“I don't know, maybe?” your grip tightening on the phone.

Taehyung sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken emotions. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. Then, after a pause, “But what about you? Dealing with her must’ve been hell.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you admitted, a dry laugh escaping you. “But it’s over now. Jimin saw through her, and that’s what matters.”

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” Taehyung said, his voice warm and steady again.

-

The next morning

Jimin exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair. His desk was a mess of documents, reports, and a coffee cup he hadn’t touched since it had gone cold.

His temples throbbed. Sleep had been elusive, his mind replaying the past few days' events on an endless loop.

“Come in,” he called, voice flat, eyes still scanning the paper in front of him without truly reading it.

The door opened with quiet assurance, and Namjoon stepped inside, his tall frame casting a shadow across the office floor.

He shut the door behind him, his presence filling the room, not just physically, but with the quiet weight of someone who saw more than they let on.

Jimin finally lifted his gaze.

Namjoon was dressed sharply as always, his tailored blazer fitting perfectly over broad shoulders. His dark hair was neatly styled, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a natural intensity softened only by his thoughtful expression.

“You wanted to see me?” Namjoon asked, his voice a smooth baritone, laced with curiosity.

Jimin gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Namjoon leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “What’s this about?”

Jimin exhaled, bracing himself with a palm against the desk before leaning back in his chair. He studied Namjoon for a moment before answering.

“Chae-won is gone.”

Namjoon’s brows inched upward, a flicker of surprise breaking through his otherwise controlled expression. “Gone?”

“I fired her two days ago.”

That got a reaction. Namjoon sat up straighter, a quiet exhale escaping him. His arms folded over his chest, his jaw ticking. “Damn.” His lips pressed into a thin line.

Jimin’s fingers curled against the armrests. “It was overdue.” His voice dropped lower, his exhaustion bleeding into the words. “I can’t get into the details, but let’s just say her removal was necessary. For this company. For me.”

Namjoon held his gaze, searching. Whatever he found there must have been enough, because after a long beat, he nodded. “Understood.”

Jimin reached for the navy folder beside him and slid it across the desk with purpose. The thick paper scraped against the wood, stopping just in front of Namjoon. “That’s why you’re here.”

Namjoon glanced down, flipping it open.

Chief Editor.

His brows shot up. His head snapped up even faster. “Sir—”

“This isn’t a discussion.” Jimin’s voice cut through the space between them like a blade. “The department needs leadership. Stability. Someone I can trust.” He locked eyes with him. “That’s you.”

Namjoon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers lightly gripping the edges of the folder. “This is… a lot.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy yet not uncomfortable. Jimin waited.

Then, Namjoon straightened his posture, the moment of hesitation dissolving into quiet resolve. He closed the folder with a finality that said decision made. “Alright.” A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I won’t let you down.”

For the first time that morning, Jimin allowed himself a smirk—small, fleeting. “I know you won’t.”

Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened again. “One more thing.”

Namjoon arched a brow.

“This situation with Chae-won?” Jimin’s voice was low, controlled steel. “It’s now a legal matter.” He let the words settle, watching Namjoon’s reaction carefully. “You can’t talk about it. Not to employees, not to the press, not to mutual friends. No one.”

Namjoon absorbed the weight of that statement. Then, with the same quiet confidence, he gave a single nod. “Crystal clear.”

Jimin pushed himself up from his chair, his movements precise, sharp. “Good.” He glanced toward the door. “Follow me.”

--

The tension in the office was thick enough to cut with a knife. Jimin’s presence always turned heads, but today, it felt different.

His steps were unhurried but deliberate, a quiet authority radiating off him as he moved through the open floor.

Beside him, Namjoon matched his pace, his usual calm now sharpened with something heavier. His jaw was set, his dark eyes serious, and his long strides carried more weight than before.

He’d always had an effortless presence, one that made people listen when he spoke, but now, with this new mantle on his shoulders, he looked every bit the leader he was about to become.

The whispers started before they even made it to the centre of the department.

"What’s going on?"

"Where’s Chae-won?"

"Why is Namjoon with him?"

Jimin came to a stop, hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable as he scanned the room. The shift in energy was instant, conversations died mid-sentence, fingers hesitated over keyboards. Even the air felt heavier.

“As you’ve all noticed, Chae-won is not here.”

His voice was even, but the weight behind it pressed down on the room.

A few glances flickered between employees. Some looked tense, others shocked. And then there were the ones who barely concealed their relief.

“I’ll confirm now, she is no longer with the company, effective immediately.”

The silence stretched, thick and expectant. Then—

"What happened?"

The words shot out before their owner could think better of it. A few heads turned sharply toward the source, and the speaker visibly shrank under Jimin’s gaze.

“That’s not information I’m at liberty to disclose.”

Cool. Controlled. Absolute.

The air felt like it had been vacuum-sealed. No one dared to breathe too loudly.

“What I can tell you,” Jimin continued, his voice lowering just enough to make them lean in, “is that this is now a legal matter. That means whatever rumours you’ve heard, whatever speculation is going around, it stops here. You will not discuss this with anyone. Inside or outside this company.”

He let the threat hang in the air, heavy and final.

“If I find out otherwise, there will be consequences.”

The silence in the room thickened. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words even from where you sat, you had already told Taehyung.

Jimin let the gravity of the situation settle before shifting gears.

“We need stability. We need leadership.” He turned slightly, nodding toward Namjoon.

“Kim Namjoon will be stepping in as Chief Editor, effective immediately.”

The words hit like a wave. Some gasped, some seemed to approve, but others were still processing.

Namjoon stood taller, his presence even more commanding now. He stepped forward, facing the room with the calm authority you’d always admired.

“I know this is unexpected,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “But my priority is to make sure this department moves forward. If you have concerns, my door is always open. But make no mistake things are changing.”

You couldn’t help it, your gaze met his. For a split second, your eyes locked, and something unspoken passed between you.

It wasn’t just the promotion. It wasn’t just about Chae-won’s absence.

It was that both of you knew there was more to the story.

Namjoon’s eyes held yours for just a moment longer, the understanding shared between you deepening without a single word. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he turned back to the employees, finishing his speech.

Jimin gave a subtle nod, signalling that it was over. “That’s all. Get back to work.”

As Jimin and Namjoon turned to leave, the murmur of conversation slowly picked up again, the whispers starting anew.

"Do you think she was fired?"

"Legal? Did she do something?"

"Namjoon’s a good choice. At least we won’t have to deal with Chae-won anymore."

His teeth pressed together. His jaw tightened.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t spare them a glance.

He just kept moving.

There was work to be done.

-

Jimin stood by the window, staring out at the city below. The lights flickered like distant stars, casting a cold, almost clinical glow across the room.

He could barely bring himself to look at his own reflection in the glass, his suit sharp, but it felt almost suffocating on him. His face, though, was worn, the exhaustion running deeper than the suit’s expensive fabric.

The folder in front of him sat untouched, the paper edges smooth under his fingertips as they traced them in some aimless rhythm. His mind, however, was anything but aimless. It was a storm.

Chae-won was gone. The department had their explanation, or lack of one. He had told them what they needed to hear.

But the damage she left? That was another story.

He should’ve seen it. No, he did see it, but he didn’t want to. Not when he had been so vulnerable, so broken after the accident. His memory was shattered, and Chae-won had been the only one there to fill in the gaps.

Her words had been comforting at first. So sweet. So convincing. She’d wrapped herself around him like a lifeline when everything else had felt like it was slipping through his fingers. And now, looking back, he realised how tight that lifeline had become, like a noose, slowly pulling him under.

She had isolated him from everyone. Poisoned his mind, making him distrust the very people who had always been on his side. People like Taehyung.

The thought of him twisted something in Jimin’s chest, deep and unforgiving.

Taehyung, his brother, his closest friend. Before the accident, they were inseparable. But Chae-won had known exactly how to worm her way into Jimin’s head. She’d painted Taehyung as a threat. Told him he was jealous, that he wanted to ruin everything.

And Jimin had believed her.

He could still remember that night so vividly, the words he had thrown at Taehyung, the way his voice had cracked with anger, the accusations spilling out.

Now, they seemed ridiculous. Absurd. But in the moment, Jimin had been consumed by doubt, by fear. He had been so lost.

Taehyung’s face, the look of shock and hurt, eyes wide, pleading for understanding—was burned into Jimin’s mind.

The way his expression crumpled as Jimin tore into him. The memory still felt like acid, eating away at his insides.

How could he have been so blind? How could he have been so cruel to someone who had never once turned his back on him?

The guilt sat heavy in his chest, suffocating him. He couldn’t undo it. Couldn’t fix what he’d broken. But there was one thing he could do now. One thing that mattered.

He could own it.

The words caught in his throat as he whispered to the empty room, “I was wrong. I was so wrong.” The words were thick, like they didn’t belong to him. But they did. He knew they did.

Jimin ran a hand over his face, feeling the heat of his skin, trying to push the weight of it all away. He was ready to face it, to try, at least. But would Taehyung even want to hear from him? After everything?

Would he even take the call?

The thought made Jimin’s stomach turn, but he knew this pain was his to carry. He had earned every bit of it.

With a slow breath, he sat up straighter, and for the first time tonight, the resolve in his chest felt real. He wasn’t going to hide from it anymore.

Jimin picked up his phone. His fingers trembled just slightly as he unlocked it, staring at the screen. Taehyung’s name. The very name that haunted him, but also, in some twisted way, felt like home.

His thumb hovered over the contact for a long moment. He didn’t know why he was hesitating. He knew what he had to do. He pressed the call button.

The phone rang once. Twice. Each ring felt like a thousand years.

Then, the line clicked.

The sound of the other side was barely audible at first, but it was enough.

Jimin closed his eyes. The weight of it all still heavy, still thick in the air around him.

Then, the phone finally picked up.

“It’s me.” His voice, quiet but steady, broke the silence.

-

All rights reserved. © 2025 Mikrokosmos Love

All works written by me do not copy, translate or repost my works without my given consent.

MDNI 🔞 Ageless or blank profiles get blocked.