#armyrequests

💖 Emotional Side & Feelings

thoughtful, introspective dad

writes poetry about his kids’ first steps

cries at their school plays.

quietly proud of his children’s intelligence

worries about them feeling isolated or misunderstood

“Being smart is a gift, but it’s okay to feel lonely sometimes.”

love language = quality time and acts of service

will spend hours helping them build a robot or fix a broken shelf

even if he breaks three more in the process

despite his calm exterior, secretly panics when they’re sick or upset

googles symptoms at 3 AM

calls Jin for advice

“Hyung, what if it’s serious?”

👨‍👧‍👦 What He Does With His Kids

Bike rides: exploring Seoul’s hidden gems

= indie bookstores, quiet parks...

points out every tree species and historical landmark

Museum dates: takes them to art galleries and science museums

sparking deep conversations about life and creativity

DIY projects: building birdhouses, fixing broken toys, assembling furniture (with mixed results)

“It’s not broken, it’s… experimental.”

Late-night talks: over tea or hot chocolate

listens to their big questions about the universe

shares his own musings

📚 What He Teaches Them

Critical thinking:

“Question everything, but don’t forget to listen.”

Empathy:

“Everyone’s fighting a battle you can’t see. Be kind.”

Resilience:

“Mistakes are just lessons in disguise. Even if you break something… like, say, a shelf.”

Self-expression:

encourages them to journal, paint, or compose music to process their emotions

💎 His Beliefs & Values

Curiosity is key

believes in lifelong learning

encourages them to explore their interests

no matter how niche

Balance is everything

teaches them to work hard but also rest, play, and enjoy life

Privacy is sacred

shields them from the spotlight when they’re young

letting them decide if they want to be public later

🚫 What He’s Strict About

Respect:

“You don’t have to agree with someone, but you will respect them.”

Honesty:

“Tell the truth, even if it’s hard. Lies are like weeds; they grow out of control.”

Responsibility:

if they break something they help fix it

probably inherited his God of Destruction tendencies

“We’re a team. Let’s figure this out.”

🤒 Handling Tough Situations

When they’re sick:

he’s a nervous wreck

hides it well

will make them soup (burning it slightly)

reads them poetry until they fall asleep

“You’re stronger than you think. But it’s okay to rest.”

When they misbehave:

uses logical consequences

= if they skip homework, they lose screen time

“Actions have outcomes. Let’s learn from this.”

When they’re heartbroken:

takes them for a walk and shares his own awkward teenage stories

“Love’s messy. But it’s worth it.”

🎁 Typical Gifts

Books:

first editions of their favorite novels or obscure poetry collections

“This one changed my life. Maybe it’ll change yours.”

Art supplies:

high-quality sketchpads, paints, or a vintage typewriter

“Create something only you can.”

Nature gear:

telescope, hiking boots, field guide to local plants...

“The world’s bigger than you think. Go explore.”

👧👦 Parenting Differences: Daughter and Son

With his daughter:

he’s her biggest cheerleader

encouraging her to pursue STEM or the arts

= whatever makes her happy

teaches her to value her mind and body

“You’re not just pretty. You’re powerful.”

secretly saves every poem or drawing she makes

framing them in his study

With his son:

focuses on emotional intelligence.

“It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to feel.”

bonds over music production or philosophy debates

“What do you think happiness really means?”

encourages him to challenge stereotypes

“Be yourself. The world will catch up.”

💬 Typical Things He Says

“You’re not too much. You’re enough.” “Let’s think this through. What’s the worst that could happen?” “Did you eat? Appa’s ordering pizza… because we both know I can’t cook.” “Life’s a journey. Enjoy the ride… and try not to break anything.”

🌟 Family Rituals

Sunday hikes:

exploring nature trails

discussing everything from climate change to K-pop lyrics

Book club nights:

reading together

debating the themes over hot chocolate.

Art nights:

painting or sculpting while listening to lo-fi beats

“No rules. Just create.”

🌍 Balancing Fame & Family

he’s fiercely private

especially when they’re young

shielding them from paparazzi and media scrutiny

when they grow older, he lets them decide how public they want to be

“It’s your story. Tell it your way.”

uses his platform to advocate for mental health and environmental causes

get's inspired by their curiosity and compassion

💭 His Worries & Efforts

fears being too hands-off

wants to give them independence but not neglect

overthinks birthday gifts

wants them to feel seen but not spoiled

secretly googles parenting forums at 2 AM

🗿 How He Finds Out

you take the test alone first

needing quiet to process the enormity

the second line appears, you pace the bedroom

fingers brushing over his poetry books, his half-finished clay vase on the shelf...

Namjoon knocks softly after 15 minutes

"Love? You okay? You missed the Monstera’s watering time."

tries to jiggle the stuck door handle (his DIY fix last week)

fumbles with a paperclip

muttering

"Why do I always overtighten things…"

finally nudges the door open

finds you holding the test against your chest

glasses slide down his nose

he freezes

first words whispered like a haiku

"Are we... growing a universe?"

voice tender/ steady

=the way he reads letters at fan events

kneels carefully

avoiding the creaky floorboard

cradles your wrists

test between your joined hands

presses his lips to your temple

"However this goes... we’ll learn from it together."

🌿 Initial Reaction

Panic

spends the first night cross-referencing parenting books with peer-reviewed studies

highlighter in hand

scribbling notes in the margins of "The Hidden Life of Trees"

at 2 a.m. muttering about "epigenetic influences" and "sustainable bamboo diapers"

"Wait, prenatal sound exposure... should we play Debussy or traditional gugak?"

knocks over his bonsai while pacing

frets about "fetal stress responses"

creates a shared Google Drive titled "Project Sprout" before sunrise

Hidden Excitement

find him sketching a willow tree in his journal the next morning

branch roots morphing into tiny hands in the margins

you peek?

he slams it shut, cheeks pink

"Just... analyzing Fibonacci sequences in lotus pods."

later catches himself buying a single onesie

"For... a friend’s cousin!"

pattern: Van Gogh’s Starry Night with embroidered honeybees

you find the receipt tucked in his Walden pocket edition

"Fine. It’s… symbolic. Growth, y’know? Like haewon."

🌱 Worries

Fatherhood Fears

confesses at 2 a.m. over barley tea

steam curling like his restless thoughts

voice quiet

quoting Rilke: 

“Sometimes a man stands up during supper…”

trails off

fingers tracing the rim of his chipped moon-phase mug

“What if I… overwater them? Like my first bonsai.”

you find his journal open to a sketch of a tree split down the middle

one side labeled “Logic/Structure”

the other “Love/Chaos”

underlined in his blocky handwriting: 

“Can I be both roots and sunlight?”

finds him rereading Braiding Sweetgrass at dawn

circled passage:

“Parenting is an act of reciprocity with the future.”

Idol Life Stress

creates a Venn diagram titled “Cosmic Balance” during a flight

= Group Promotions | Prenatal Yoga | UNESCO Speech Drafts

mutters to his manager

“Can we route the Europe tour through Denmark?

Their parental leave policies could optimize…”

stares too long at ultrasound photos during Soundcheck

Jin catches him whispering to the grainy image

“Appa’s figuring it out. Like… how galaxies parent stars.”

forgets lyrics to Moonchild mid-concert

= first time ever

writes emails about “hologram tech for bedtime stories”

🌾 What He Does (Early Days)

Spoiling You

builds a custom "nest" in the sunniest corner of the house (and in his studio if you hang there)

hand-knotted hammock

handpicked field guides

"For our future botanist"

stocks the pantry with your cravings

hides your newfound aversions behind his kombucha SCOBY jars

leaves Post-its on the bathroom mirror:

"Remember: You’re already somebody’s ecosystem."

Overprepared

creates a bullet journal titled "Project Sprout: Phase One"

pages include: pressed gingko leaf tabs marking OB-GYN FAQs

also a graph comparing prenatal yoga studios

doodles of the baby

syncs a shared calendar called "Root Systems"

includes alerts like: ”3 PM: Hydrate (Y/N) + Water Ferns”*, ”7 PM: Debate Middle Names - Plato vs. Haneul?”, ”9:30 PM: Mandatory ‘The Martian’ Rewatch (Stress Relief)”

Hidden Romanticism

catches him playing "uhgood" on a tiny danso flute to your belly

"Early auditory exposure to heritage is… scientifically valid."

secretly starts a lullaby playlist titled "For When the Universe Feels Heavy" 

= curated mix of BTS instrumentals, rain sounds, and Maya Angelou recitations

forges a crib mobile from recycled mic parts and Hanji paper

each star inscribed with lines from his unpublished poems/lyrics:

"You, who will outlive all my words / Forgive me if I borrow the moon to explain your fingers."

🌌 Telling BTS

waits until the 12-week mark

citing "cosmic alignment"

hosts a "philosophy night" dinner

under the guise of discussing "existential metaphors in post-modern art"

sets the table with pressed flowers from his hikes and a centerpiece of his half-sculpted clay "symbol of life" (it’s a lopsided orb)

hides ultrasound printouts

inside Rilke poetry books

passes them out as "thought-provoking reading material"

Jungkook squints at the grainy image tucked between "Letters to a Young Poet"

"Hyung, is this… ? I see a baby... holding a galaxy?"

clears his throat

adjusting his glasses like a professor

"Actually, we’re… collaborating on a new project."

plays the heartbeat recording layered over his "SoundCloud experiment" 

mix of bamboo flute harmonies and his whispered sijo poem:

"Even the moon was once small / cupped in the sky’s dark palms..."

Reactions:

Jin

spills his makgeolli

laughing through half-tears

"Kim Namjoon, father?! Aigoo, the diapers’ll have PhDs!"

instantly Googles "baby-safe kimchi recipes"

"Important they respect fermentation science early."

Jungkook

silent for three full seconds

then leaps up, shaking Namjoon’s shoulders

"HYUNG. I’LL TEACH THEM HOW TO RIDE BIKES AND WRITE SONNETS!"

pauses, panicked

"Wait..which comes first?!"

Yoongi

nods slowly

eyes glinting

"Took you long enough."

slides a USB across the table

labeled "MixTape: Lullabies for Future Anarchists"

he already knew somehow, but kept silent

later, texts Namjoon

"You’ll suck less than you think."

Jimin

cradles your face

tearfully stern

"Uncle privileges include weekly dance lessons. Prenatal starts now."

demonstrates a "womb-friendly" body roll to Butter

Taehyung

holds the ultrasound to the lamplight

absolutely awed

"It’s abstract… like a Banksy!"

starts crooning Winter Bear to your belly

Hobi

immediately FaceTimes his mom for "emergency parenting tips" (as if it's his baby)

restructures your living room into a "positive vibes zone" with feng shui precision

jokes, lots of jokes

"First word has to be ‘J-Hooooope!’ Right? Right?"

Namjoon

tries to quote Kierkegaard on "the leap of faith"

voice cracks

collapses into silent tears when Jin speaks:

"Our leader’s leading a new squad."

later whispers to your belly

"You’ll have seven hearts before you even breathe."

Bonus

Group Chat Name: "The Epigenetics Committee"

Jin changes it to "Tiny Supreme Leader Support Squad"

Yoongi’s Gift

onesie printed with "I Survived Daechwita and All I Got Was This Sleep Deprivation"

Namjoon’s Realization

finds Jungkook asleep on your couch

he's asking you questions about pregnancy

Najoon cries again

posts on Weverse: "Love is a circular equation."

🌳 Telling His Family

visits Ilsan with a hand-painted onesie reading “Future Curator of Nature”

stuffed into a tote bag alongside his childhood pressed-flower collection

his sister answers the door

eyes darting to your bump

“Oppa. You didn’t… Oh my god.”

crushes you both in a hug

then sprints inside yelling (irony)

“Eomma! Appa! Namjoon finally did something cool!”

His Mom

emerges with a wooden spoon

freezes mid-scold about his “city-dust aura”

clasps her hands over her mouth

“Aigoo, my little mundungi…”

ushers you to the ondol floor

already reheating miyeok-guk

“You’re glowing! But Joon-ah...” 

pokes his bicep

“Are you meditating enough? Stress wrinkles age the baby’s aura.”

His Dad

nods stoically over tea

adjusts his reading glasses to study the ultrasound

clears his throat

presses a worn copy of Walden into Namjoon’s hands

margins filled with his own fatherly notes from ’93/94:

“Page 72: Joon cried here. Ask why.”

His Sister

drags you to his childhood bedroom

walls still plastered with dinosaur charts

“Here’s where he cried because T-rexes couldn’t hug properly.”

he was four

slides you a secret USB

“Namjoon’s 2008 Poetry... So Emo It’s Art, also blackmail material for when he’s being too philosopher-dad.”

Hidden Detail

in his old desk, finds a 3rd-grade “Nature Journal”

scribbled theories on “Why Rainbows Belong to Snails”

tucked between pages: a cicada shell labeled “First Heartbreak”

slips it into his bag

later placing it in the nursery

“Proof even confusion can molt into something beautiful.”

The Drive Home

his mom chases the car with a crate of homegrown ssuk and perilla leaves

“Boil the roots! It’ll make the baby’s cry less!”

sister texts: [Attachment: Namjoon age 7, sobbing into a melted ice cream]

🌿 Daily Life

Routine & Rituals

6:03 AM

wakes before dawn to simmer doenjang-jjigae with organic soybeans and kale (he's really trying, and it's not ending in a catastrophe)

leaves notes in calligraphy

“Nourishment is resistance — eat or I’ll recite Hegelian dialectics at you.”

adds doodles of scowling Brussels sprouts and a tiny Plato holding a fork

Post-Lunch Meditation

guides you through “forest bath” visualizations in your living room jungle

“Imagine your lungs as maple seeds… no, gently, you menace.”

his palms are warm and steady

pressing into your shoulders

“The iliac crest isn’t a metaphor, but today? Let’s pretend it is.”

Idol-Life Adjustments

converts his studio bookshelf into a “Zen Den”

matcha packets, lavender sachets, vintage Newton’s cradle for “stress diffusion”

texts PDogg:

“Postpone the feature... I’m optimizing circadian rhythms for two.”

secretly puts a prenatal Pilates ball in his studio

Chores

Laundry Wars

debates Jungkook over eco-detergent pH levels in the group chat

“Lavender is a neurotoxin to fetuses! Cite: Environmental Health Perspectives, 2019!”

Jungkook retaliates

“Hyung, your armpits are the real neurotoxin.”

(tho forget abpout this, I read about Dysfunction of the ABCCII gene, means asian sweat doesn't smell - god, I wish)

Culinary Experiments

attempts kimchi-jjigae

burns the first batch

blames “overzealous thermodynamic exchange”

his mom texts you her recipe with a note to Joon

“Stop intellectualizing the soup.”

Idol Life Impact

skips award show after-parties to chart the moon phases on your belly

writes lullabies sampling Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” over Moonchild instrumentals

practices babywearing with a handwoven hemp sling

“Ergonomic and a statement against fast fashion.”

Quiet Moments

4:33 AM Playlist Crafting

curates “Symbiosis: A Prelude” 

= blend of bird migration recordings

RM’s trivia: love ad-libs + Yoongi’s Seesaw humming

hidden track: a poem he whispers to your belly nightly

“You are the first universe that ever knew me from the inside.”

Voice Memos

records The Alchemist chapters in English and Korean

apologizes to the bump after mispronouncing

“Forgive me... Appa’s still learning how to hold multiple worlds at once.”

Hidden Clumsiness

knocks over your Himalayan salt lamp (again)

while demonstrating “kangaroo care”

uses the debris to create a mosaic titled “Fragmented Enlightenment”

you find it later in the nursery

labeled “Lesson One: Beauty in Imperfection”

🌏 Public Announcement

Lead-Up

Media Lockdown

hires an eco-conscious cybersecurity firm to "reforest your digital footprint"

code name: "Project Photosynthesis" 

after Taehyung’s slip: "They’re our little sapling!"

convinces Big Hit to issue a statement about "protecting nascent ecosystems"

ARMY thinks it’s climate activism

ARMY Hints

wears a hand-carved gat (traditional hat) during a live

etched with "세상에서 가장 작은 별" (The World’s Tiniest Star)

ARMY deciphers it as a reference to his lyrics

trends #TinyConstellation

he “accidentally” leaves his journal open during a live

revealing a sketch of a tree root cradling a star

Reveal

three months postpartum

posts a watercolor painting on Weverse

his hand holding a seedling

roots entwined with his veins

caption: 

"ARMY, you taught me that growth is a dialogue between light and shadow. Now, I’ve been entrusted with a new dialect; the first breath of a forest I’ll never fully understand. Walk softly with us as we learn to whisper."

attaches a voice memo

= rain sounds, his spoken-word poem

"Dear Meteors Who Choose to Root"

ends with the baby’s coo harmonizing with a nightingale recording (Ilsan, 4:33 AM)

Aftermath

ARMY Reactions

trends #RootedInRM for 94 hours

ARMY plants 814,000 trees globally via "Kim Namjoon Forest Initiative"

donates $1.2M to UNESCO literacy programs "for futures untranslated"

Paparazzi Countermeasures

collaborates with a law firm to draft South Korea’s first "Right to Grow" digital privacy act

releases an anonymous ambient track

"Lens Crack Symphony" 

= field recordings of shuttering cameras dissolving into wind chimes

hosts a guerilla art exhibit

= blurred baby photos pixelated into Van Gogh’s Starry Night

titled "The Distance Between Love and Light"

Hidden Details

Journal Leak

later reveals the seedling painting used persimmon dye from his mom’s garden

Voice Memo Easter Egg

the nightingale recording is from his childhood Ilsan backyard

Law Impact

tabloid stalker photos drop 92%

paparazzi begin calling him "The Unphotographable"

🌱 When You Panic

Trigger

overhears a podcast debating "Nature vs. Nurture in Epigenetic Trauma" while sculpting clay in his studio

phrase like "generational echoes" lodges in his ribs like a splinter

clay cracks under his grip

shattering into jagged moons

Calm Facade, Storm Inside

finds you trembling after a nightmare

your hands clutching a parenting forum thread

cups your face

thumbs tracing the arc of your cheekbones like comet trails

voice steady but eyes galaxies-wide

"Even the oldest trees survived their first lightning strike. We’ll be the soil that grounds the burn."

Secret Meltdowns

sneaks to the balcony at 3 AM

recording a voice memo choked with static

"What if I… overcompensate? Love them too fiercely? Turn into Icarus’ sun?"

sends it to his therapist

texts you:

"Found this study on parental resilience . Want to co-author a rebuttal?"

Acts of Service

brews yuzu tea in his chipped moon-phase mug

one from your first museum date

"Emergency aesthetic intervention required."

dumps two baby socks on your lap

one printed with Kant’s Categorical Imperative

the other with "Ask Me About My Carbon Footprint".

"Which one says ‘I’m fiscally responsible but fun at parties’?"

Idol-Life Impact

skips a UN panel on sustainability

citing "an urgent planetary realignment."

spends the day building a "sensory sanctuary" 

hanging felt clouds, wind chimes tuned to Spring Day’s key

writes a 12-page letter to the baby instead of his keynote speech

"You’ll inherit a world I’ve criticized but still believe in. Forgive me for both."

Hidden Resilience

you find his studio desk littered with failed haiku

"My love is a net / Too many holes, too much sky / Catch nothing but light."

beside it, a single completed verse pinned under a geode

"You will know me / Not by the scars I hid / But the bridges I couldn’t stop building."

🌧️ If Something Goes Wrong (+ Loss)

Hospital Vigils

stands sentinel by your bed

reciting Mary Oliver poems to your IV drip

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious...” 

his voice fractures

bathes your wrists with rosewater from his mother’s garden

hands shaking

“In another universe, we’re still whole. Let’s… let’s borrow from there tonight.”

Guilt/Aftermath

spirals into annotating every parenting book with “Where did I fail?” in crimson ink

you find him at dawn

knee-deep in the backyard pond

he's planting lotus seeds “for unbloomed futures”

studio becomes a shrine of half-scribbled equations

Grief = (Regret x Time) ÷ Unsaid Words

“(Unsung Verse)”

composed at 4:33 AM on a detuned hotel piano during monsoon season

no lyrics

just the hum of rain against glass

single sustained G minor

files it under “Metamorphosis_Data”

encrypts it with a password even he forgets

Post Loss

cancels his Bottega collab/shoot

citing “a necessary erosion”

ARMY trends #StandWithRM

funding a forest reserve in Ilsan named “Seeds Grove.”

he visits

hangs a wind chime from a persimmon tree

“You would’ve loved the sound of rain here.”

Support System

Jin drags him to a pottery studio

slams clay onto a wheel

“Sculpt something that can’t be quantified.”

they sit until dawn

molding silent vases for flowers that never arrive

Jungkook leaves a bonsai sapling on your porch

“It’s okay if it wilts. We’ll grow it again.”

Namjoon keeps it alive

“See? We’re still learning.”

Yoongi mails a USB labeled “For When Words Are Too Loud” 

ambient tracks layered with Namjoon’s old laugh from 2014

Bonus

five years later, during his TED Talk on “The Ecology of Loss”

soft G minor chord seeps into his mic

his toddler "Haewon" toddles backstage

he freezes

“Apologies. My heart’s just… recalibrating its orbit.”

🌌 Gender Reveal

Reaction

ultrasound tech smiles

“Looks like a girl!”

Namjoon’s breath hitches

eyes pooling with constellations

“A daughter… She’ll rewrite every star.”

buys a sapling from the DMZ forest to plant in her name

“So she’ll always know where resilience grows.”

tech corrects

“Wait, no! ...it’s a boy!”

freezes

then grins like he’s solved the universe’s riddle

“A son? Then we’ll learn gravity anew.”

orders a hand-bound journal titled “Hypotheses on Joy” to fill with their future questions

Late-Night Promises

whispers to your belly while sketching the moon’s craters

“You’ll carve your own orbit. Be sculptor or storm. I’ll be your compass, never your cage.”

plays a mixtape of rainfall

“Rhythm isn’t in blood; it’s in the spaces between heartbeats.”

Hidden Rebellion

declines all gender-reveal sponsorships

donates the offers to a nonbinary youth arts fund

tweets a snippet of Audre Lorde’s “There is no hierarchy of oppression”

caption:

“Hierarchies are human-made. My child is a natural phenomenon.”

🌱 Labor & Delivery

Prep

packs a hospital bag weeks early

includes: hand-knit hemp blanket

worn copy of “The Prophet” for whispered readings

portable mini bonsai

“For biophilic stress reduction”

memorizes your birth plan like a thesis defense

color-coded tabs

debates delayed cord clamping using Harvard studies

defers when you snap mid-contraction

“Trust the forest to know its roots.”

During Labor

channels his lyrics count breaths

“Inhale… four… seven… exhale...”

fidgets in his pocket

reciting Rumi under his breath

when contractions peak, he presses his forehead to yours

voice cracking

“You’re the Big Bang happening again. Let it… let it supernova.”

white-knuckles the bedrail

snaps it twice 

First Hold

cuts the cord with tears in his eyes

hands steady but soul trembling

cradles the baby like a relic

awe-struck

speechless (for once)

“You… you’re the poem I could never finish.”

Jungkook finds him at dawn

sketching the baby’s hand in his journal

“Proof that softness can reshape calluses.”

Hidden Moments

Panic Peak

flees to the hospital garden

sobbing into his sleeves

returns with acorn seeds to plant in the baby’s name

BTS Support

Taehyung paints a watercolor of the birth chart stars

Jimin choreographs a “welcome dance” with hospital socks

Lockscreen Lore

photo of the baby

captioned “My First Co-Author”

🌍 Idol Life Challenges

Touring Adjustments

negotiates "modular tour schedules"

two-week blocks with carbon-neutral travel offsets

publishes a Weverse series: "Parenthood in 7 Languages" 

= from hotel lobbies, baby strapped to his chest in a hanbok-style sling

FaceTimes you whenever he isn't there

"Tell them Appa’s dismantling patriarchal systems and mastering bottle sterilization."

Backstage Innovations

designs a "Portable Ecosystem" bassinet

= soundproof, air-purified, with a mini-library of global folktales

staff catch him debating naptime schedules with his manager

"Melatonin cycles vs. timezone optimization… we need a third axis for emotional bandwidth."

producers receive track notes like:

"Bridge too jarring... Babys stress spiked during playback. Revise."

Privacy Protocols (after birth)

codename: "Project Metamorphosis" (BTS group chat) + "Symbiosis" (public filings)

threatens paparazzi with "a TED Talk on the ethics of voyeurism" instead of diss tracks

updates IG bio: "Curator of small wonders." 

archives old posts

replacing them with abstract clay sculptures titled "The Weight of New Gravity."

BTS Support System

Jin’s Uncle Duties

hosts Kimchi nights

teaches the baby to grip cabbage while lecturing on Kantian ethics

"Ethics are like fermentation... both require patience and good bacteria."

Hobi’s Playdates

creates "Microbeat Workshops"

tiny tambourines

sock-covered maracas

films a tutorial

"Dancing Through Sleep Deprivation: A 7-Step Guide to Joyful Survival."

Yoongi’s Stealth Care

slides a USB into Namjoon’s studio

"Parenting Lo-fi: 24/7 Lullaby Beats to Overthink To."

secretly buys noise-cancelling headphones sized for infants

"For when Bangtan’s chaos is too iconic."

Taehyung’s Art Therapy

paints the nursery ceiling like the Van Gogh Museum

replaces stars with ARMY bombs

"Aesthetic and culturally relevant. Teach them young."

Jungkook’s Training

leaves a mini "Future Golden Maknae" workout plan

"0-3 mos: Grip strength (finger holds) 4-6 mos: Core stability (tummy time to Dynamite BPM)"

Hidden Stress Tells

over-researches "infant sleep regression in multilingual households" at 3 AM (as if their was a serious coreelation)

wears mismatched socks during diaper crises

quotes Thoreau during meltdowns

"Simplify, simplify… but how, Henry?!

🌿 Bonus Headcanons

family dog in 3...2...1...

Nicknames/Nonsense

calls the baby “Haewon” (sun and garden) as a placeholder

“It’s just… phonetically efficient!”

secretly tests names via Scrabble tiles

arranging letters into constellations

when they cling to his leg during a Live, he dubs them

“For their relentless grip on my existential crises.”

Late Nights

falls asleep annotating “The Art of Parenting in a Climate Crisis” 

margin notes: 

“How to explain melting glaciers to a toddler? Start with snow cones.”

bookmarks tabs: “Raising Anti-Capitalist Kids in a Late-Stage World” and “Is My Guilt Biodegradable?”

First Studio Visit

lets them “remix” his track by banging a wooden spoon on his awards

samples the chaos into an interlude called “Symbiosis: Noise & Nuance.”

plays it during a UNICEF speech

“This is the sound of hope refusing to be tempo-locked.”

Hidden Sentimentality

writes their milestones in the margins of his Walden copy

”First steps: 10/7. Proof that wilderness walks are innate.”

teaches them to say “Annyeonghaseyo” to his bonsai collection

“Respect all roots, human or not.”

secretly saves their crayon scribbles as NFT art titled “Post-Human Abstract Expressionism.”

note [06/05/25] : he wouldn't, I was not aware of the environmental impact of NFT's when writing this. I have to thank the person asking me about this in this NFT REQUEST

Actions

helps you sit up slowly

arm braced around your waist

“Easy. I’ve got you.”

hands you a pre-warmed towel to drape over yourself

cleans your thighs and stomach with another damp cloth

preheated on a radiator

his touch is clinical but tender

his hands are methodical

avoiding any sensitive areas unless you nod permission

lingering on pressure points (shoulders, lower back)

easing tension

guides you to the bed or couch (if not already there)

never leaves you alone

adjusts the thermostat first

layers blankets over you

gathers used towels and sheets without comment

balling them into a laundry hamper

spritzes the room with your favourite scent to freshen the air

adjusts the sheets around you both

tucking the edge under your chin

his lips brush your forehead, lingering

“Perfect. You’re perfect.”

brings you water in his favorite mug 

holds it to your lips if you’re shaky 

“Slow sips. I’ve got you.”

brings spiced hot chocolate (his secret recipe)

sips from the same mug first

“Not too sweet. Like you.”

peels a tangerine slowly

each segment on your lips

his eyes never leave your mouth

“Open. Slow.”

dresses you in his oversized hoodie and fleece socks

smelling like his cologne

“Warmer now?”

syncs his breathing to yours

nose buried in your hair

when your breath hitches, he hums low to steady you (snippet of Seesaw)

Touch

sits behind you

legs bracketing yours

massages your scalp

“You’re safe. Always.”

traces idle patterns on your arm to keep you present

pulls you against his chest

skin-to-skin

his heartbeat steady under your ear

his palm rests between your shoulder blades

fingers splayed possessively

“Stay here. Just… stay.”

interlaces his fingers with yours

thumb stroking your knuckles

other hand traces idle shapes on your hip (a heart, his initials, a music note)

claiming without urgency

presses your palm flat over his heart.

“Feel that? Yours. Always yours.”

IF YOU CAN’T WALK:

scoops you up bridal-style

one arm under your knees

the other cradling your back

his biceps flex, steady

“Hold on. Don’t let go.”

carries you to the bathroom

he’s already laid out fresh towels and your go-to skincare on the counter

“Prepped earlier. Knew you’d need it.”

VERBAL CUES

murmurs “Good job” or “You did so well” 

voice gravelly but tender

“Need anything? Name it.”

if you’re quiet, he fills the silence:

“Tell me what you need. Anything.”

AFTER ROUGHER MOMENTS

kneads arnica gel into your bruises

fingers firm but careful

“I’m sorry. Too much?”

draws a warm bath with epsom salts

carries you in if needed

lines the tub edge with a folded towel (probably prepared it before)

“For your head. Lean back.”

tests the water temperature

adjusts it until steam rises just enough

“Not too hot. Perfect.”

kneels beside the tub

sleeves rolled up

uses a silky washcloth and unscented soap to clean you

starting at your shoulders

avoids lingering, but his fingers brush your collarbone once

= apology and reverence

“Just float. I’m here.”

washes your hair meticulously

massaging your scalp

“Close your eyes.”

rinses with a cup to keep suds from your face

while you rest in his robe, he strips the bed swiftly

layers fresh sheets (100% cotton, ivory)

arranges pillows in a nest

adds a heated blanket pre-warmed in the dryer

“In case you get cold.”

lifts you back into bed

adjusting the pillows behind your head

tucks the comforter up to your chin

“Rest. I’ll handle the rest.”

kneels at the foot of the bed

massaging your calves with vanilla-scented oil

thumbs dig into knots

voice a rumble:

“Tell me where. I’ll fix it.”

EMOTIONAL DROP/ CARE

cradles your face

forehead pressed to yours

“Look at me. You’re real. This is real.”

whispers “Mianhae” (I’m sorry) against your temple

even tho you consented

guilt flickers in his eyes until you reassure him

FOLLOW UP

sleeps on his side

arm slung over your waist

pulling you into his chest

if you stir, he murmurs: “Shh” and tightens his grip

texts you the next day: 

“How’s your body? Honestly.” 

if you’re sore, he delivers home-cooked soup to your door

HIS THOUGHTS & FEELINGS

Internal Monologue

replays every moment

critiquing himself

“Did I push too hard? Fuck. Should’ve checked in more.” 

“They’re so… trusting. I can’t fail that.”

watches your lashes flutter

memorizing the way moonlight paints your skin

“Do they know? How much they undo me.”

“Should’ve used more lube. Idiot.”

mentally adds it to his shopping list

“Their smile… worth every second.”

Pride/Protectiveness

smiles faintly when he sees his hoodie on you

“Mine. But theirs too.”

files away your aftercare preferences in his Notes app: 

MORNING

“WHAT’S UP, MY BEAUTIFUL WORLD?!”

Wake-Up Time (8:00 AM)

wakes up as if he’s already won a gold medal

alarm blaring “Chicken Noodle Soup” on repeat

flips over with a grin so bright it could power Seoul’s skyline

stretching his arms like a sunflower greeting the sun

first words (before he even opens his eyes):

“Baby, did you sleep as well as me? ’Cause I dreamed of us dancing.”

you’re still snoozing?

he sneaks over to plant a cheeky butterfly kiss on your forehead

dashes to the bathroom humming

Sun Salutation & Stretch (8:05 AM)

pads into the living room for a quick yoga flow

= downward dog → warrior II

and his signature “Hobi Hop” shimmy

you might find him mid-pose

= eyes closed, head bobbing to some unreleased BTS demo playing on low volume

if you join, he high-fives you at the end

crowning you “Yoga Royalty” of the day

Coffee & Breakfast (8:30 AM)

coffee ritual involves a French press

+ frothy oat milk, exactly three pumps of caramel syrup

brings you a matching mug with a smiley face he doodled on a Post-it

“Fuel for the best part of my day.”

breakfast is bright and colorful

he’ll whip up avocado toast topped with scrambled eggs sprinkled in rainbow pepper

blends a strawberry-banana smoothie you can sip together

if you ask for something fancier, he’ll attempt pancakes

dancing around the stove while flipping

expect one or two to land on the floor

he shrugs it off

“Artistic presentation, right?”

DAYTIME

“I GOT DANCE PRACTICE AT 10, BUT I’D TRADE IT FOR A DATE WITH YOU.”

Dance Studio Hours (10:00 AM – 2:00 PM)

his studio is a glass box filled with mirrors, scattered water bottles, and a sonic-boom-level speaker

always blasting the latest hip-hop tracks

texts you mid-choreo

“Lunch break. I need carbs and cuddles. Preferably in that order.”

twirls out of a turn when you arrive

breathless but beaming

drapes his sweat towel around your neck

“Because you deserve a keepsake of my hard work.”

shows you a new choreography

= fast-paced and crisp

has a surprise “love-you” heart shape at the end

he winks

“For you, princess.”

Lunch & Laughter (12:00 PM)

insists on ordering from that rooftop café you both love

= the one with ocean-view bento boxes

teases as you unpack

“Did you pack a fortune cookie? I need answers to life’s mysteries.”

he’s a chatterbox

“Remember that time ARMY mistook me for a ghost?!”

you burst into giggles mid-bite

devours his meal

leaves room to feed you a bite as “quality-control”

stamps you with a peanut-butter kiss on the cheek before you go

“Go conquer your day. I’ll conquer these steps.”

Studio Drop-Ins (3:00 PM)

you come back later?

he’s producing a new solo remix

his workspace is a rainbow of snack wrappers

= Mango Yakult, Chupa Chups, half-eaten chocolate croissant...

you lean against the doorframe?

he spins you around

“Hmmm... rate my beat.”

presses play

it starts with his latest signature whistle

you hum along

he taps his fingers

nods dramatically

shouts

“PERFECT! You heard that first here!”

pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs squeak

“Teamwork makes the Hobi work.”

Afternoon Break (4:00 PM)

drags you for coffee (iced caramel latte, extra whipped cream)

sidewalk café

turns into your personal hype man

will do a mini freestyle rap about how cute you look today

composes a quick “hugbo” (hug + boogie) to your surprise

a street musician plays nearby?

he shimmies over

grabs your hand, and pulls you into a spontaneous two-step

“You’re my dance partner for life, right?”

EVENINGS

“DIVE INTO THE HOBI ZONE: LOUD, BOLD, AND UNFILTERED”

Home-Cooked Dinner (7:00 PM)

his cook mode is serious but fun

he’ll try a new recipe every few days

= from kimchi pizza to rainbow sushi rolls

sometimes it’s “Hobi’s Healthy Bibimbap”

= multicolored veggies, bulgogi marinated to perfection, fried egg that’s just a tad runny

lets you sprinkle the gochujang

“Moderate heat? Or should I call the fire department?”

he grabs your hand while you taste

“Your opinion is the Michelin star of my heart.” (unsure tho, cause I feel like Jin would say that as well )

Game Night & Goofiness (8:00 PM)

challenges you to Mario Kart (after dinner)

it's with a twist

= every lap you win, he does an impromptu victory dance

laughs so loud his voice echoes through the living room when he finally wins by 0.1 seconds

“I am the racing king of the Hobi Republic!”

posts a boomerang of your intense face as you concentrate

captioning it “Love competitor 🎮💜”

Chill Time (9:30 PM)

collapses on the couch

head in your lap

you scroll through Weverse together

he reads fan comments aloud in exaggerated accents (like yk how he mocks ARMY sometimes)

a clip of him dancing goes viral?

he smirks

“That’s my move... memes are just free promotion.”

he reaches for your hand

eyes heavy

“Promise me you’ll always… always keep dancing with me, even when I’m old.”

you lay a gentle kiss on his forehead?

he mumbles

“You’re my forever playlist.”

NIGHTTIME

“TIME TO GLOW UP AND POWER DOWN”

Skincare & Self-Care (10:30 PM)

his 12-step skincare routine rivals a spa day

uses a cleansing oil, foaming wash, vitamin C serum

+ sheet mask with Hope World (you gifted him)

insists you follow along

“Mask up... matching Hobi and [y/n] edition.”

you tease him about having more bottles than the bathroom can hold

he flicks a swatch of moisturizer at you

“Better hue than your face, aren’t I?”

ends with lip balm

“Kiss me goodnight. I need to test the flavor.”

Bedtime (11:30 PM)

hogs both blankets

snuggled up like a warm, buzzy battery

loops your arm through his

pulls you close, half-asleep before lights go out

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever choreographed.”

you catch his gentle smile as he drifts off

he's humming a soft melody you taught him on your first date

mumbles in his sleep

“I love you… more than all my sneakers combined.”

LOVE LANGUAGE

“IF I HAD TO SAY IT, I’D WRITE A SONG INSTEAD.”

Words of Affirmation

can’t resist a good compliment

he hides sticky notes around your apartment

“Your smile slays my hip-hop heart” “You’re brighter than my highlighter.”

you’re stressed?

he texts

“You’ve got this. And if you don’t, I’ll rap you through it.”

drunk confessions (rare but magical)

“My life’s beat drops harder because you exist.”

Acts of Service

knows your coffee order by heart

before you’re even up, he’s at the café window

“One love potion for my muse.”

your laptop’s on the fritz?

he’s already opened a ticket with his gaming PC tech friend

“Priority: Keep my queen online.”

surprises you with embroidered hoodies

“Hobi + [your initials]” for chilly mornings

Physical Touch

build-in hugs

wraps you in a “J-Hope bear hug” whenever you enter a room

“I need my oxygen supply”

tease you a little

random dance lifts in the living room

spinning you like partners in a dream

public exceptions at fansigns

will slip his pinky into yours under the table

“This is for us, my secret handshake.”

Gifts

curates playlists

= “Late Night Vibes by Hobi”

leaves them on random USB drives with “PLAY ME” scrawled in neon

limited-edition sneakers appear on your doorstep with a note

“Train with me, dance date when you break them in.”

a single sunflower left on your pillow

“I saw this and smiled, then thought of you.”

Quality Time

takes you on “Hobi tours” around the city

first stop, your favorite ice cream stand

second stop, a hidden mural perfect for boomerangs

final stop, a rooftop serenade

on lazy Sundays, you’re side by side

he’s editing new tracks while you read

quiet is electric

“Play blindfolded taste-test.”

midnight jamming sessions

you hum a tune?

he builds a beat on the spot

you both laugh at how ridiculous it sounds

SECRETLY SOFT MOMENTS

“CAN’T BELIEVE YOU CAUGHT MY SOGGY SIDE.”

Fallen Asleep in the Middle of a Dance

he conks out on the studio floor after 12 hours of choreography

your concern turns to amusement when he snores to the bassline

you drape a light blanket over him?

he jolts awake

he’s mortified

“I’m so… so sorry, did I snore?!”

you plant a quick kiss on his temple

“Sleep well, best boy.”

he melts

“You’re my safety net.”

Post-Show Adrenaline Crash

he’s buzzing with energy (after solo stage?)

hands shaking, voice trembling from exhilaration

when you meet backstage, he picks you up like a child

spins you around

“Did you see me? Did you hear me? That was for you!”

drops to the bed face-first

you find him half-asleep

clutching your backstage lanyard with your photo on it

you stroke his hair?

he wakes, eyes glossy

“I’m… I’m lucky you stayed.”

EMBARRASSINGLY EARNEST DANCE

“WARNING: CUTENESS OVERLOAD.”

insists he’s “the world’s worst dancer” when out clubbing

the second “That That” drops, he breaks out a 360 spin and moonwalk combo that floors you

breaks into a slow-motion tango while stirring soup in the kitchen

“Cooking requires rhythm, babe.”

you record him

he begs you to delete it

later finds it as your screensaver

slow-dances with you post_Gramym in the hallway of the hotel

humming off-key

“We’re celebrating… my shiny trophy and my shiny love.”

“I NOTICED…” MOMENTS

“DETAILS ARE MY LOVE LETTERS.”

you mention craving mango smoothies at 2 AM

next morning, he shows up with a cooler bag full of them

“Sold out everywhere. Finally found a vendor who’s allergic to me.”

rainy day, he notices you shiver waiting at a bus stop

he sprints past you on his morning jog

tears off his hoodie

drapes it around you

“Free of charge, sunshine heater.”

you talk about your grandmother’s favorite poem?

two days later, he leaves a printed copy on your desk

“Page 3, didn’t want to spoil the ending.”

UNEXPECTED PUBLIC DISPLAY

“PDA? ONLY IF YOU BRING THE SUNSHINE!”

your arm brushes his on stage

he doesn’t let go

squeezes gently

whispers

“You’re my constant.”

ARMY goes wild dissecting the clip

“Why is J-Hope holding…?”

he laughs

“Protective mode: ON.”

stops mid-shop to scoop you into a spin at he mall

dips you

everyone stares

he grins

“Sorry, I’m allergic to standing still.”

he’s posed with other idols during award session

he tilts your chin up with one finger when cameras flash

so your faces are side-by-side

“We’re winning together.”

HOW HE LOVES

Playful Teasing

elbows you whenever you’re “too serious”

lets you smack him back with a pillow

“Game on, J-Hope style.”

Grand Gestures

you mention wanting to learn drums?

he secretly arranges a private lesson

“Free beats for my heartbeat.”

Raw Vulnerability

late at night

after you both are half-asleep

squeezes your hand

“I’m scared… of not being enough. But you make me feel infinite.”

(BONUS) HIGHLIGHT REEL — “THINGS HE SAYS”

The Relic

The Moog ONE 16 wasn’t just a synthesizer—it was a relic, a 16.5 million won relic. Yoongi had hunted it down in Tokyo, its walnut veneer gleaming under the fluorescent lights of a vintage gear shop, its analogue guts humming with the ghosts of every artist who’d ever coaxed sound from its keys. He’d joked to Namjoon afterwards that buying it felt like adopting a feral cat: expensive, temperamental, and his. Now it sat in the corner of his studio like a shrine, its LED matrix flickering faintly even when powered off as if dreaming.

You had been orbiting it for weeks.

You’d linger by the door after school, backpack slung over one shoulder, pretending to text while eyeing the Moog’s labyrinth of knobs and sliders. Sometimes, when Yoongi left the room, you’d dart in to trace a finger along its wooden edges, imagining the low growl of its bass oscillators—a sound you’d only hear in your dad’s old Agust D tracks. What if I tweaked this? You’d think, hovering over the filter cutoff. What if I ruined it?

Today, though, recklessness overruled fear.

Yoongi was asleep upstairs, dead to the world after three all-nighters in a row. The studio was yours. You tiptoed in, Matcha latte in hand, and booted up the synth. It whirred to life with a purr, its touchscreen glowing azure. You’d watched a dozen tutorials and memorized every patch Yoongi had ever saved. Just one experiment, you told yourself, plugging in the headphones.

But the latte was too full. Your hands were still shaky from skipping breakfast, from the adrenaline of sneaking in. The cup tilted—

Glug.

A tidal wave of green cascaded across the Moog’s ivory keys, pooling in the pitch-bend wheel.

“Shit—!”

You lunged for a towel, knocking over a stack of lyric notebooks. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you scrubbed, but the damage was visceral. Matcha seeped into the seams, the synth’s screen flickering erratically. Dead. It’s dead. I killed it.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs.

Yoongi appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts, an old Daechwita hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He blinked at the scene—You frozen mid-scrub, towels strewn like crime scene evidence, the Moog’s screen sputtering static.

“…Is that,” he said slowly, voice graveled with exhaustion, “my Moog?”

Your throat closed. You had seen that look before—the tightness around his eyes, the vein pulsing faintly at his temple. The same look he’d worn when you totalled his car at 14, a failed attempt to “borrow” it for a midnight skate session.

“I’ll fix it,” you babbled, backing away as if distance could undo the sin. “I’ll—I’ll sell my bike, my drum kit, anything—I’ll work at HYBE’s cafeteria, I’ll—”

Yoongi said nothing. He crossed the room with the grim focus of a bomb defuser, crouching to unplug cables from the synth’s mangled ports. His hands were steady, but you catalogued every micro-expression: the twitch in his jaw when a droplet of Matcha oozed onto his sleeve, the way his nostrils flared slightly.

“It’s insured,” he finally muttered, dabbing at the keys with a microfiber cloth. “Breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The air was thick with the scent of dread and jasmine Matcha. You gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, waiting for the explosion. For the “How could you?” or “You never think!” that had punctuated your teenage rebellions.

Instead, Yoongi stood, tossing the soiled cloth into the trash. “Go upstairs. I’ll handle this.”

“But—”

“Go.”

It wasn’t anger in his voice. It was worse—resignation.

You fled.

Upstairs, you collapsed onto your bed, replaying the scene on a loop. Stupid. Reckless. Just like Mom said.

Your mother’s voice surfaced unbidden, frail but teasing, from a memory six years buried: “Yu-yah, you’ve got your dad’s stubbornness and my clumsiness. Poor thing.” She’d been bedridden then, her IV stand draped with your finger-painted get-well cards. “Promise me you’ll take care of him when I’m gone. He’ll forget to eat… or accidentally adopt another synth.”

You pressed your face into a cushion. The Moog’s death felt symbolic. Another thing you had destroyed. Another piece of him chipped away.

Downstairs, Yoongi stared at the synth.

He’d lied about the insurance.

The Moog was an expensive modified beast—its quirks irreplaceable. The track he’d been working on, a collaboration with an indie artist from Busan, relied on its specific grain. Now it was gone...

He sank into his chair, head in hand. For a heartbeat, he let himself ache—for the lost music, for the exhaustion, for the child who looked at him like he was a landmine. Then he pulled out his phone.

To: Manager Kim

Need a repair genius. Moog ONE 16 water damage. Don’t tell anyone...

The reply was instant:

Suzanne Ciani’s protégé? She’s in town.

Yoongi exhaled. Fixable. Everything was fixable.

Except, maybe, the fracture he’d heard in your voice when he’d told you to leave.

---

The Shattered Trophy

The studio had become a burial ground for mistakes.

A few days after the Moog disaster, the air still reeked of regret—and now, faintly, of burnt matcha. Cables snaked across the floor like vipers, tangling around chair legs and pedalboards. Yoongi’s Golden Disc Award, its golden figure mid-strum unfurled, perched precariously on a floating shelf cluttered with thumb drives and empty coffee cups. It was the 2023 Digital Song Bonsang for “That That”—a collaboration with Psy that had dominated charts the same week your mother took her last breath.

You hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even looked at it since the funeral.

But today, your mind was a storm.

ADHD buzzed under your skin like static, limbs restless from days of walking on eggshells. You’d come to apologize again, to beg for chores—anything—to atone. But Yoongi was hunched over his monitors, headphones on, lost in a mix. His silence was a wall.

Maybe if I just… straighten up.

You tiptoed around the room, gathering discarded coffee cups and coiling cables. Each movement was careful and deliberate. But focus was a slippery thing—a notification buzzed in your pocket:

Jae BFF: Skatepark later? ,

and your foot caught on an XLR cord.

Time warped.

Your elbow slammed into the shelf. The trophy wobbled, tipped, and—

Crash.

The sound was cathedral-loud. The golden figure shattered on impact, its head shearing clean off, rolling beneath the desk with a hollow clink. Your breath stopped.

Flashback: Your mother’s hands, skeletal and IV-punctured, cradling the trophy. Her voice, a threadbare whisper: “Our grumpy rockstar… did it again.” Three days later, she was gone. The award had sat untouched since, a relic of her last coherent joy.

Yoongi froze. The click of his mouse stopped mid-edit.

“…?”

You dropped to your knees, scrambling for the pieces. “I’m sorry— I’ll glue it, I’ll— I’ll find a jeweler, I’ll—”

“Don’t touch it.”

His voice was arctic. You recoiled as if slapped.

Yoongi stood slowly, chair screeching. His face was a mask, but his hands betrayed him—fingers trembling at his sides, knuckles blanched. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anything his gaze fixed on some middle distance where grief and fury collided.

“Out,” he said, voice splintering. “Now.”

“Dad, please—”

“NOW.”

The word was a detonation.

You fled.

---

The Runaway

The streets of Seoul swallowed you whole.

You ran blindly, sneakers slapping against rain-slick pavement, the city’s neon glow warping into streaks of acid green and electric blue. Paparazzi lurked at every familiar corner—Always watching, always hungry—so you veered into alleyways, vaulting over trash bags and dodging delivery bikes. Hobi’s apartment was too close; Taehyung’s studio was too bright. The Han River bridges loomed in your mind, but the thought of standing on those guardrails, of icy water below, made your stomach lurch.

No. Not there.

Your feet carried you somewhere older, quieter. The subway ride passed in a haze—stares from passengers, a teen’s muffled “Isn’t that Suga’s kid?” - ignored. Seonyeong Cemetery emerged at dusk, its iron gates weathered and moss-clung. You slipped through a gap in the fence, your mother’s grave a compass point in the dark.

The dogwood tree had grown gnarled in six years, its branches clawing at the sky. The headstone beneath it was small, unadorned but for her name—Min Ji-eun—and the dates that bookended her warmth. You collapsed onto the damp earth, grass staining your ripped jeans, and pressed your forehead to the cold stone.

“Eomma,” you choked, the word crumbling like ash. “I’m… I’m breaking everything.”

Rain began to fall—thin, needling drops. Your hoodie soaked through, clinging to your skin, but you barely felt it. Your mind looped like a corrupted track: Moog. Trophy. Mom. Moog. Trophy. Mom.

Flashback: Age 9, hospital room.

Your mother’s hand, feather-light. “Yu-yah… promise me you’ll take care of him. He’ll forget… forget to laugh.”

You had nodded, not understanding. Now, you understood too well.

A sob ripped free. “I’m failing you. I’m— I’m just like him—all broken knobs and sharp edges—”

The wind hissed through the dogwood, scattering dead leaves. No answer. There never was.

---

The Search

Yoongi’s hands shook as he typed.

Yoongi: Yumi’s gone. Check the usual spots.

The group chat exploded.

Jin: On my way to the Han River. Jungkook, check the bridges near Itaewon.

Jimin: HYBE’s empty. Security cams show they never came here.

Jungkook: Already at the skatepark. Jae says they left their board. Paparazzi chased them earlier.

Hobi: Checking Tae’s studio. They’re not answering calls.

Yoongi stared at the screen, his reflection fractured in its cracks. The studio felt alien now—a crime scene. The Moog sat shrouded in a tarp, the trophy shards boxed but unaddressed. He’d found your sketchbook open on the couch: a page filled with rough drafts of him, all frowns and hunched shoulders, captioned “World’s Okayest Dad (Don’t Tell Him).”

How did I miss this?

Namjoon arrived unannounced, damp from the rain, his glasses fogged. “Hyung. Let’s go.”

Yoongi didn’t argue.

---

The Cemetery

The rain had thickened into a downpour by the time they reached the gravesite. Yoongi drove, white-knuckling the steering wheel, while Namjoon navigated from the passenger seat. The car fishtailed on the muddy backroads, but Yoongi didn’t slow.

“Here,” Namjoon said, pointing to a gap in the cemetery fence.

Yoongi parked haphazardly, ignoring the NO ENTRY AFTER DARK sign. Namjoon grabbed an umbrella from the backseat—Yoongi’s backup, black and battle-scarred—but true to form, fumbled it as he ducked under the dogwood tree. The umbrella caught on a low branch, ribs snapping with a sound like brittle bones.

“Aish,” he muttered, shaking the mangled fabric. “Sorry, Hyung.”

You didn’t look up. You were curled into a shivering ball against your mother’s headstone, soaked to the skin, your AgustD hoodie darkened to charcoal by the rain. Namjoon crouched beside you, abandoning the broken umbrella to the mud.

“Hey, little storm.”

“Go away.” Your words were hoarse, raw from hours of crying.

Namjoon sat anyway, his long limbs folding awkwardly, knees jutting like a grasshopper’s. Rain dripped from his hair into the collar of his jacket. “Remember when I broke Jin-hyung’s limited-edition Sailor Moon figurine? 2025. The one he imported from Tokyo?”

Your breath hitched. “This… this isn’t a figurine.”

“No.” Namjoon’s voice softened. “It’s worse. But not unfixable.”

“Stop being wise!” You lurched upright, eyes wild. “It’s gone, Joon-ah! The award, the synth—Eomma—I ruin everything! Maybe… maybe if I’d died instead—”

Namjoon caught your wrist, grip firm. “Don’t.”

“Why not?!” Tears streaked down your face, mingling with rainwater. “Dad hates me! He should—!”

“He doesn’t.”

Yoongi’s voice cut through the dark.

He stood at the edge of the tree’s canopy, backlit by the cemetery’s sulfur lamps, shadows carving hollows under his eyes. Namjoon nodded once—your turn—and rose, brushing mud from his jeans. As he retreated, his foot caught on the ruined umbrella, crushing it further into the muck.

You scrambled backwards, spine pressing into the headstone. “How… how long have you—?”

“Long enough.” Yoongi’s voice cracked. He stepped closer, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “You think I’d trade you? For any of it? The trophies, the synth—her?”

You froze.

He knelt, ignoring the mud seeping into his pants, and cupped your face. His palm was calloused, warm against your rain-chilled skin. “When she died, I… I wanted to burn the world. Then you’d crawl into my studio, all scraped knees and fury, and I’d think—this. This is what she left me. Not grief. A life.”

Your chest heaved. “But the award—”

Yoongi pulled a shard of gold from his pocket—the trophy’s broken head, edges smoothed by his thumb. “It’s metal and ego. You’re flesh. My flesh.” He pressed the fragment into your hand. “You think I care about a plaque? The night I won it, your mom held it for two minutes and said it was ‘too pointy.’ She cared more about the seaweed soup going cold.”

A sob tore from your throat. “The Moog—”

“Fixed it this morning.” His lips quirked, barely a smile. “Suzanne Ciani’s protégé said you ‘altered the dampening with impressive idiocy.’ She’s sending a bill. And a mentorship offer.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Turns out flooding a synth with Matcha is a résumé-worthy feat.” Yoongi thumbed a tear from your cheek. “Come home. Finish that track you’ve been hiding. The one with the… what’s it called? Trap breakdown meets Ennio Morricone?”

“Dusk Theory,” you whispered, stunned. “You… knew?!”

“Kid, you sample my snores. Of course, I knew.” He stood, offering a hand. “And Namjoon?”

From the shadows, a guilty shuffle. “Yeah?”

“Next time you ‘comfort’ someone, don’t annihilate my umbrella.”

Namjoon emerged sheepishly, the umbrella’s corpse now dangling from his fist. “Hyung, it was an accident—”

“God of Destruction my ass.”

You hiccuped a laugh, the sound fragile but real. Yoongi pulled you to your feet, steadying you when your knees buckled.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, shrugging off his jacket to drape over your shoulders. “Jin’s making kimchi stew. And Hobi bought you a new board.”

“With Hope World stickers?”

“Would I allow anything else?”

As you trudged toward the car, you glanced back. The trophy shard gleamed in your palm, sharp but held gently—a thing broken, but not lost.

---

The Mended Symphony

The studio hummed with a newfound quiet, the kind that settles after a storm. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, striping the Moog ONE 16 in silver and shadow. Its walnut panelling bore scars—faint tea stains etched into the grain, a slight warp near the modulation wheel—but it lived. A sticky note fluttered on its surface, Yoongi’s jagged scrawl unmistakable:

FINISH YOUR TRACK.

—Grumpy Cat

You traced the words, a half-smile tugging at your lips. The synth smelled different now—less like aged wood and solder, more like citrus cleaner and the faintest ghost of Matcha. Altered, but alive, you thought, just like everything else.

You sank into Yoongi’s chair, still warm from his earlier presence, and booted up the DAW. Your project file blinked tauntingly: FRACTURED NOTES (FEAT. SNORES). The waveform sprawled across the screen, a jagged mountain range of bass drops and distorted guitar riffs. Nestled in the bridge was the pièce de résistance—a 10-second loop of Yoongi’s snores, lifted from a voice memo you had secretly recorded during his studio nap last month.

“Cheeky,” you muttered, adjusting the EQ to soften the nasal tones.

The track was chaos incarnate—a thing of clashing genres and emotional whiplash. Trap beats collided with spaghetti western whistles; Yoongi’s snores morphed into a haunting theremin wail. It shouldn’t have worked. But as you layered in the Moog’s resurrected bassline—a growl so deep it vibrated your molars—you felt it click. Your sound. Not his. Not theirs. YOURS

---

Broken Things That Matter

On the shelf, the Golden Disc’s remains glimmered in their new home—a glass case lined with velvet the colour of midnight. Yoongi had stayed up piecing it together, gold-dusted epoxy bleeding into every crack. The figure now listed slightly, its neck kinked at a drunken angle, but it held.

Your addition sat tucked in the corner: a tiny skateboard fragment, its Hope World sticker still clinging stubbornly. Broken Things That Matter, read the plaque below, in Namjoon’s careful calligraphy.

At 3:17 a.m., you slumped forward, forehead hitting the desk. “Done,” you croaked to no one.

Yoongi appeared silently, sliding a fresh Matcha latte beside you—this time in a spill-proof tumbler.

“It’s… different,” he said, nodding at the screen.

You stiffened. “Bad different?”

“Honest different.” He hesitated, then ruffled your hair, a gesture so rare it froze you both. “She’d hate it.”

A beat. Then laughter, a bright and startled, burst from you. “Yeah. She’d call it ‘noise pollution.’”

“Then play it louder.”

You did.

You’d recognize him anywhere, even with his black bucket hat pulled low and his mask hiding that boyish smile. Jeon Jungkook. He’s been a mystery since he first wandered into your tiny shop six months ago, drawn by the cinnamon-sugar scent wafting onto Seoul’s bustling streets. He always orders the same thing: a black coffee, no sugar, and a pain au chocolat. Always sits at the corner table by the window, scribbling in a worn sketchbook. Always leaves a tip tucked beneath his saucer, folded into a tiny origami star.

But today, the sky is weeping. Rain pelts the cobblestones outside, and Jungkook arrives earlier—2:43 PM, hair damp, shoulders dusted with droplets. He hesitates in the doorway, eyes scanning the empty shop before landing on you.

“Hi,” he says, voice softer than the dough you’d kneaded that morning. His mask slips down just enough to reveal a shy grin. “Can I, uh… wait here? Until it lets up?”

You nod, heart stuttering. Casual. Be casual. “Of course. Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The universe hates you.

One moment, you’re refilling the sugar jars, mind racing about rent, supplier fees, and Mom’s doctor’s appointment—the next, your foot slides through a patch of flour spilt near the counter.

“Oh shi—!”

Time blurs. The floor rushes up—but then arms catch you, strong and sure, pulling you against a chest that smells like rain and vanilla extract.

“Got you,” Jungkook murmurs, voice trembling with adrenaline.

Your face burns. His hands grip your waist, steadying you, and you’re close enough to see the flour speckled in his hair, the nervous bob of his throat as he swallows. “Th-thank you,” you stammer, scrambling back.

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. His gaze flicks to the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands shake as you smooth your apron. “You’re… really tired,” he says quietly. Not a question.

You laugh weakly. “Is it that obvious?”

His brows furrow. “I notice things.”

---

Jungkook stops coming on Sundays.

Instead, he starts appearing on Thursdays—early mornings, when the shop is still closed. At first, you think he’s confused.

“Can I… help?” he asks one day, peering through the door you’d cracked open to accept a flour delivery. His sleeves are rolled up, tattoos curling over his forearm, and there’s a smudge of what looks like charcoal on his cheek. “I’m a fast learner.”

You blink. “With… baking?”

He nods, earnest. “I want to make something. For… a friend.”

And so it begins.

Jungkook in your kitchen is a disaster. A beautiful, endearing disaster. He cracks eggs with the intensity of a soldier disarming a bomb, yet somehow gets shell fragments in the batter. He forgets the oven mitts and yelps when a tray singes his fingertips. Once, he accidentally dumps a cup of salt instead of sugar into the mixing bowl and stares at the dough like it’s betrayed him.

“Hyung would laugh at me,” he mutters, pouting at his lumpy croissant attempt. You don’t ask which hyung. You’re too busy memorizing the way his nose scrunches when he’s frustrated.

But he doesn’t quit. He arrives every Thursday, determined, flour dusting his hair like snow. Slowly, he learns—how to temper chocolate, how to braid pastry dough, how to pipe rosettes on cupcakes without them looking like… well, blobs.

---

One Sunday, he returns.

It’s raining again, but this time, he carries a small box tied with a lavender ribbon. His hair is a mess, his hoodie splattered with dried batter, but his smile is brighter than the oven light.

“For you,” he says, shoving the box into your hands. Inside rests a single almond croissant—your favourite, the one you’d once mentioned craving during a lunch break. It’s lopsided, slightly over-browned, but…

“You… made this?” you whisper.

He rubs his neck, sheepish. “I wanted to give you something that… that makes you as happy as your pastries make me.”

Tears prickle your eyes. “Jungkook, I…”

“Wait—” He flips the box over. Scrawled on the bottom in his messy handwriting:

“P.S. I didn’t burn down the kitchen. Mostly.”

You laugh, wet and wobbly, and he beams like he’s won a Grammy.