#jimin fluff

[jungkoode]

read five seconds to freedom by jungkoode

[jungkoode]

FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | 10

pairing: jimin x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 14,7k | warnings: here genre: latino!jimin, tokyo drift AU, street racing, rivals to lovers

"me dan ganas"

"The AE86 has survived street races, mechanical abuse, and your questionable life choices. It may not survive Park Jimin realizing that you like him angry, bilingual, and dangerously close."

next | index | general masterlist | taglist

↦author's note: Okay, I will just preface this by saying: this shit is nasty.

Like, this is basically 14k words of smut. Don’t ask me anything. I don’t know what happened. Jimin started going crazy, I tried to hold him back, he bit through the leash, escaped containment, and suddenly we had 14k words of him being so catastrophically down bad that I had to sit back and let natural selection take its course.

He is a loser. A beautiful, bilingual, horny loser. And unfortunately for all of us, I am merely the vessel.

That being said, beneath all the filth and the mechanics-bay crimes against God, this chapter is actually very important for Hachi. Not just sexually, but emotionally. This is a character who has spent most of her life treating her body like something to manage, conceal, discipline, and keep under control. She is used to being perceived before being understood. She is used to having to make herself sharper, harder, less accessible, less ‘distracting,’ just to be taken seriously in rooms that were never built for her.

So, yes, this chapter is nasty. But it is also about being wanted without being reduced. About desire feeling safe enough to be embarrassing. About the body doing something new before the brain has permission to intellectualize it. About someone seeing the parts of you that made you feel objectified before and reacting with awe instead of entitlement.

And also about Jimin being so obsessed with boobs that he briefly loses his higher cognitive functions.

Duality. Literature. Feminism. Tits. We contain multitudes.

Anyway. Read the tags, drink water, do not perceive me too closely, and remember that I am not responsible for Jimin’s behavior. He is a grown man, unfortunately. I just type the crimes.

The way Jimin walks through the mechanic bay is worse than yelling.

Way worse.

Yelling is just noise, just volume, just someone losing control. This—the peaceful stride, the back of his head, the complete silence—is control.

Restrained, purposeful, ominous control.

He reaches your AE86, parked along the back wall of the bay where you left it before the convoy.

His hand comes up. Taps the hood. Twice. Like he’s greeting it.

Still hasn’t turned around.

“Nice technique.”

Two words, low and even.

And they don’t sound nice at all.

Your chest coils. Tight. That feeling you get at the top of a hill before the descent—anticipation threaded with the knowledge that gravity’s about to make every decision for you.

“Thanks,” you say.

He turns enough to give you the side profile—the cut of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek and stays there. His eyebrows are raised. Not in surprise. In that specific way that says ‘I am giving you one chance to explain yourself before I stop being civil about this.’

His eyes find yours.

And he explodes.

“¿Estás loca? ¿Me estás jodiendo? ¡Te tiraste de costado en una curva a ochenta kilómetros por hora en un auto que manejaste DOS VECES EN TU VIDA!” (Are you crazy? Are you fucking with me? You threw yourself sideways into a curve at eighty kilometers an hour in a car you’ve driven TWICE IN YOUR LIFE!)

The Spanish comes out like an avalanche—fast, heated, consonants clipping, vowels dragging in that way they do when he’s too worked up to regulate his accent.

His hands leave his pockets, gesturing broad and emphatic, the way he only does when his body can’t contain whatever’s happening inside his head.

“¡OCHENTA, Hachi! ¡De costado! ¡En un Mustang que pesa DOS TONELADAS y que apenas conocés! ¿Sabés lo que pasa si calculás mal eso? ¿SABÉS?” (EIGHTY, Hachi! Sideways! In a Mustang that weighs TWO TONS and that you barely know! Do you know what happens if you miscalculate that? DO YOU KNOW?)

You don’t understand a word.

Not one.

And it’s—

God.

It shouldn’t be attractive.

It really, really shouldn’t.

He’s angry. He’s genuinely, visibly angry in a way you’ve never seen directed at you before—pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, hand dragging through his hair, jaw working between sentences like he’s two seconds away from losing it completely.

But the sound of it.

The way his voice drops into that rough, low register when the Spanish takes over. The way his body moves differently when he speaks it—more fluid, more open, everything in his posture amplifying what his mouth is doing. The way the words roll and snap and curve, equal parts melody and aggression, like someone wrote a language specifically to make you lose your mind.

God, is Park Jimin hot when he’s angry and speaking Spanish.

And maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the fact that you just slid a 4,000-pound car sideways through a gap that shouldn’t have fit a motorcycle, that your blood’s still carbonated with the kind of chemical high that comes from tricking death and walking away grinning.

Maybe it’s the residual hum of the mountain still vibrating through your nerve endings, that animal part of your brain that processed ‘I didn’t die’ and immediately pivoted to ’so what am I going to do with all this being alive?’

Or maybe—and this is the one you keep circling back to like a car around a track—

Maybe it’s those hands.

The ones currently cutting through the air as he gestures. The ones with the split knuckles from punching Shinji in the jaw for you. The broad palms, the long fingers, the forsaken rings.

The ones that were between your legs days ago and made you cum for the first time ever.

From a stupid thumb.

“—¿y qué hago yo si te pasa algo, eh? ¿Qué mierda hago, Hachi? ¿Le digo a Maya ‘ay, perdón, se mató en MI auto haciendo MI maniobra por MIS problemas’—?” (—and what do I do if something happens to you, huh? What the fuck do I do, Hachi? Do I tell Maya ‘oh, sorry, she got herself killed in MY car doing MY maneuver because of MY problems’—?)

His voice cracks, and you realize he was scared. Watching the race from the lot, watching you disappear sideways through a gap at 80 kph on a phone screen he couldn’t control or change or influence—he was terrified.

That should sober you up. Should make the heat in your stomach cool, should make you want to close the gap and tell him you’re sorry, you’re fine, you won’t do it again.

It doesn’t.

Because your brain—your stupid, wired, post-mountain, adrenaline-poisoned brain—takes the fear in his voice and the anger in his body and the split knuckles on his hands and the way he switched to Spanish because he couldn’t stay in Japanese when he’s this raw and it processes all of that into a single, devastating conclusion:

He cares.

He cares and he’s angry because he cares and he punched Shinji because he cares and he followed the convoy to Hakone because he cares and he’s standing here shaking because he cares and days ago he made you come with those caring, angry, split-knuckled hands and you want them on you again right now.

You want to find out what Park Jimin is like when the restraint runs out and he stops caring.

“—te vi en la pantalla del teléfono de Rico y casi me agarra un infarto, ¿sabés? ¡CASI ME MUERO! Yo acá parado como un pelotudo mirando—” (I saw you on Rico’s phone screen and I almost had a heart attack, you know? I ALMOST DIED! Me standing here like an idiot watching—)

You bite your lip.

He catches it. Exhales. Drags both hands down his face. Looks at you through his fingers.

“This isn’t funny,” he says. Japanese now. Shared language. “Hachi, I’m being serious right now.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because you’re standing there looking—”

He gestures at your face. Vaguely. Frustrated.

“—like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think this is cute.”

It’s not that you think it’s cute.

It’s that you think it’s hot.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Lock.

“No es gracioso, Hachi—” (It’s not funny, Hachi—)

Spanish again. He’s watching you bite your lip and he’s switched languages without realizing it.

Apparently, when the Japanese dissolves and the Spanish takes over, it means the civilized part of his brain has left the building and something more primal is running the show.

You let your teeth drag slowly across the skin before releasing.

“La reputa madre—no hagas eso—” His voice has gone raspy. “No te muerdas la boca cuando te estoy hablando porque me dan ganas y estoy tratando de estar enojado, Hachi—te estoy hablando en serio y vos—” (For fucks sake—don’t do that—don’t bite your mouth when I’m talking to you because I get in the mood and I’m trying to remain angry, Hachi—I’m being serious and you—)

The words tumble, rushed, tripping over themselves, and you catch one phrase because his voice drops when he says it—drops into that basement register that lives somewhere behind your ribs—and wraps around those three syllables like they’re being dragged out of him against his will.

‘Me dan ganas.’

You don’t know what it means.

But it sounds like the noise his throat made when you rolled your hips against him in that twin bed.

It sounds like the exhale he couldn’t hide when your thighs clamped around his hand.

It sounds like want.

Raw, uncensored, involuntary want.

“What does that mean?” you ask. “Me dan ganas?”

He stares at you.

“No.”

“No what?”

“I’m not translating.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re looking—” He points at your face. At your mouth, specifically. “—you’re looking all innocent but you’re actually planning something evil. I see you. I know you.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

“Mentira.” (Liar)

“Does it mean something bad?”

“Hachi—”

“Me dan ganas.” You roll it around your mouth like a lollipop. “Does that mean you wanna fuck me, Jaque?”

He makes a choked exhale that’s half gasp and half disbelief, his head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut like he’s praying to a god who very clearly has a sense of humor.

“Hachi.” He’s trying to physically hold his expression together. “This is—I’m trying to be mad at you right now—”

“But you’re so hot when you’re angry.”

His hands freeze.

He looks at you through his fingers. One eye. Then both.

“What did you just say?”

You step closer, one step that puts you inside the radius of his body heat.

“You heard me.” Your voice drops. Lower than it should. “When you speak Spanish. When you’re angry. The way you pace and your voice goes all…”

You gesture at him.

At his mouth.

“It’s really, really hot.”

“Stop.”

“Me dan ganas.”

“Don’t—you can’t just—” Sputtering. Park Jimin, the smoothest talker in Tokyo’s underground, is sputtering. “You don’t use my language against me—that’s—you don’t even know what it means—”

“I think I know exactly what it means.”

“You DON’T—”

“Hmm.”

You tilt your head the other way. Let your gaze trace from his eyes to his mouth. His jaw. Down his throat where you can see his pulse hammering. The collar of his shirt. Back up. Slow enough that he can feel every stop along the route.

“But me dan ganas,” you say softly.

The pronunciation is atrocious. The vowels are wrong, the emphasis is off, you’re butchering his mother tongue with the cheerful confidence of someone who knows the destruction isn’t in the accuracy but in the attempt.

“La concha de tu madre, Hachi—” (For fuck’s sake, Hachi— / lit: your mother’s cunt)

“I know that one too. You say it a lot.”

Your fingers land on his chest. Just the tips. Light. Feeling his heartbeat under the fabric—fast, hard, furious—and the heat that comes off him in waves.

“I can’t tell, Jaque…” you murmur.

Your fingers begin a slow descent. Down from his collarbone, tracing the center line of his chest. You can feel each breath expand and contract under your touch.

“…Are you mad at me? Or are you mad at me?”

“Both.” It comes out grated. Barely. “I’m—Hachi, you almost died tonight—”

“But I didn’t.”

Your fingers reach his stomach. The muscles there seize under your touch—hard, involuntary, his abs contracting like he’s bracing for impact.

“I’m right here. Alive. In one piece.”

Your hand flattens. Palm against his abdomen. Warm cotton over warm skin over warm muscle that’s jumping under your touch like a current’s running through it.

“And I remember,” you say quietly, “what these hands can do.”

Something in his expression cracks.

“Hachi—”

“Four days ago.” Your thumb traces a small circle against his stomach. Idle. Devastating. “Your thumb. Through cotton. And I—”

“Don’t.”

“—came so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

His hand shoots out. Wraps around your wrist. Doesn’t pull your hand away—just holds it there, pressed against his stomach, his grip tight enough that you can feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers.

He’s shaking.

Not a lot, not visibly, but you can feel it—this fine tremor running through his hand, through his arm, through the entire frame of his body like an engine idling too high.

Restraint.

Pure, white-knuckled, barely-surviving restraint.

“And I want a second one,” you finish.

His free hand finds your hip—grabs it, hard, fingers digging into the bone—and he walks you backward.

Two steps.

Three.

Your lower back hits the hood of the AE86 and the metal is cold through your clothes and the contact shoots straight up your spine and then he’s there—

Caging you.

Both hands braced on the hood on either side of your hips. Arms locked straight. Face inches from yours.

He’s looking at you the way you assume he looked at his phone screen on that mountain—like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever encountered and he can’t decide if he wants to save you or take you apart piece by piece.

“You—” His voice is demolished, gravel and want. “You are the worst person I have ever met.”

“And yet.”

You tilt your chin up. Let your mouth hover just below his. Close enough to share air. Close enough that your lower lip almost—almost—ghosts against his.

“Here you are,” you whisper. “Shaking.”

“I’m not shaking.”

“You’re definitely shaking.”

“I’m restraining myself.”

“From what?”

A breath punches out of him. Almost a laugh, almost a groan—this raw, broken sound that vibrates through the few centimeters separating your chests.

“From what—”

He tilts his head. Lets his nose brush yours.

Not a kiss. Worse than a kiss.

A reminder of the distance he’s choosing to maintain and how little of it is left.

“From bending you over this car and—”

He stops. Bites his tongue. Literally—you can see his teeth clamp down on the muscle, can see the effort it takes to swallow the rest of that sentence.

His forehead drops. Lands against yours. Warm, slightly damp with sweat, his breath fanning fast and hot across your lips.

“You just cheated death,” he says against your mouth. “And you’re standing here trying to get me to fuck you instead of letting me be scared about it.”

“Is it working?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Jaque.”

You bring your hand up. The one he’s not holding hostage against his stomach. Your fingers find the back of his neck—the short hair there, the warm skin—and you press. Gentle. Pulling him a fraction closer.

His whole body shudders.

“You wanna be angry?” you murmur. “Be angry. But be angry closer.”

“Hachi—”

“Me dan ganas.”

“You don’t even—that’s not—you’re mispronouncing it—”

“Pero me dan ganas, Jaque.”

“La concha de—” His arms buckle. Just barely. One centimeter of lost distance that puts his mouth even closer to yours. “Hachi, if you say that one more time I’m not going to be able to—”

“Me.”

His grip on the hood tightens until his knuckles go white.

“Dan.”

His breath comes out in a rush against your lips.

“Ganas.”

His mouth crashes into yours and the sound that tears out of him—low, guttural, pulled from somewhere behind his ribs—vibrates straight through your teeth.

His hands leave the hood, both of them, and they’re on you instantly. One fisting the hair at the base of your skull, the other wrapping around your waist, dragging you off the hood and flush against his body with a force that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

He kisses like he races.

Reckless. Aggressive. Zero regard for what happens next because right now is the only thing that exists.

His mouth is open against yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding past your lips before you’ve even decided to let him in. He tastes like canned coffee and fury and warmth and bitterness, and irma somehow addictive in a way that makes your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss back harder.

Because you didn’t cheat death on a mountain thirty minutes ago to be delicate about this. You bite his bottom lip—not playful, not teasing, a real bite with real pressure and real teeth—and the noise that rips out of his chest is obscene. This choked, ragged groan that he feeds directly into your mouth.

His hand tightens in your hair. Pulls.

Your neck arches. Involuntary. Throat exposed, and the sound that escapes you is embarrassing—high and thin and nothing like the controlled woman who just won a territorial race against two cars by herself.

“Cute,” he breathes against your jaw.

Asshole.

But he doesn’t give you time to snap back because his mouth is already on your neck. Open, wet, dragging down the column of your throat with this intoxicating intent that makes your toes curl inside your sneakers.

Your hand flies to the back of his head to hold him there.

“Nnh—”

“Fuck—Hachi—”

“Y-you were talking about bending me over something,” you manage. “What happened to that?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you and his face—

God.

Lips swollen. Eyes black. A flush crawling up his throat that you’ve never seen before because this is new territory, this is past the twin bed, past the careful thumb-through-cotton, past every line of restraint he’s drawn since the first time you kissed him.

“Qué boca tan sucia tenés,” he mutters. (What a dirty mouth you have)

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Good.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time—his tongue finding yours, curling around it, and you suck it into your mouth without thinking and the sound he makes is so filthy it should be illegal.

His hips roll forward, grinding the hard ridge of himself against you—slow, purposeful, a rhythm that has nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with making a point.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Slip under. His stomach is hot and tense under your palms, and you feel the V-lines at his hips, the trail of hair below his navel, the ridge of his waistband.

His breathing fractures against your mouth.

“Fuck, Hachi,” he says. “Your—your hands—Hachi—”

“What about them?”

“They’re cold.”

“Mmm.” You drag your nails lightly down his abdomen. Watch him shudder. “Poor baby.”

He drops his forehead against yours. His breathing is unsteady now, chest heaving. The hand in your hair loosens. Slides down to the side of your neck, thumb pressing against your pulse.

“Fast,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Your heart.” His thumb strokes once. “Going fast.”

“Yeah, well.” Your fingers trace the line of his hipbone. “You’re grinding on me. Kind of hard to stay calm.”

His laugh is rough. Airless.

Then his hands drop to your hips. Both of them. Grip hard—his fingers digging into the flesh over the bone—and he lifts.

Not picks-up-and-carries lifts. Just—hoists. Tips you back onto the hood of the 86, your ass hitting metal, and steps between your legs in one fluid motion that says he’s been thinking about this specific geometry for a while.

His hands push your knees apart. Settle into the space he’s made. And when his hips meet yours this time—

Better. So much better.

The hard line of his cock presses directly against your pussy through the layers of fabric between you.

Your head drops back. A sound claws up your throat that you barely muffle by biting the inside of your cheek.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Don’t do that,” he says against your collarbone. His mouth’s migrated south—pressing open, wet kisses along the neckline of your top, his breath heating the fabric. “Don’t swallow it. I wanna hear you.”

“There are people—” You gesture vaguely toward the lot beyond the columns. “—out there.”

“There are walls.” His hips press forward. Slow. Grinding. “And you’re the boss of this place. Nobody’s walking back here.”

He’s right and you hate that he’s right and you hate more that the semi-public element of it is doing something to the back of your brain that you’re not ready to examine.

His mouth finds your neck again. The other side this time. He laps down—lower, closer to where your shoulder starts—and your hands fly to his back, nails raking through the cotton of his shirt.

“Mm—mierda—” His hips stutter against yours. “Do that again.”

You dig your nails in. Drag them up his spine through the shirt.

“Jaque—”

“Say it again.” He’s kissing up your throat now. Jaw, chin, the corner of your mouth. “My name. Say it.”

“Jaque.”

He makes a sound. This low, satisfied growl that vibrates against your skin.

“No—the other one.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Jimin.”

The reaction is immediate. His hips snap forward, involuntary, a thrust with his full weight behind it that punches the air out of your lungs and sends sparks scattering behind your eyelids. Your hands grab his shoulders for purchase.

“Again,” he breathes.

“Ji—min—”

“Here?” He rolls again.

Same spot. Same angle. Same devastating pressure.

“Yes—ngh—yes—”

“Mm.” He adjusts. Finds the angle that makes you twitch and commits to it—slow grinds that drag the hard length of his cock across your clit. “You’re shaking, Hachi.”

“I’m not—”

“Your legs.” His hands find your thighs. Squeeze. “Right here. You’re shaking.”

He’s right. Your thighs are trembling where they’re locked around his hips. Fine, involuntary tremors you can’t control because the friction is building and he’s found the spot and every roll of his hips pushes you closer to something you’re not ready for.

Not yet. Not this fast. You refuse to come from dry humping in a mechanic bay like a teenager in the backseat of their first car.

You grab his face. Both hands. Bring his mouth back to yours and kiss him—messy, wet, all tongue and teeth and the taste of anger and want and the mountain still on both of you.

His hands tighten on your thighs. His rhythm stutters and you feel his breath hitch against your mouth.

Good.

If you’re losing control, he’s coming down with you.

You roll your hips. Into him. Meet his next thrust with a counter-motion that catches him off guard and the sound that spills from his mouth into yours—

“Ha—Hachi—conchetumadre—”

Spanish again. Leaking out between kisses like steam from a valve that can’t hold anymore.

His forehead presses against yours. Eyes squeezed shut. Breathing ragged.

“Tell me something,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What.”

“In Spanish.”

His eyes open. Searching. Half-lidded and blown.

“Why?”

“Because I like the way it sounds when you can’t think straight.”

He laughs. Broken. His hips grind forward again and you feel his cock twitch through the denim and the noise you both make at the same time would be funny if it wasn’t so desperate.

“Sos—” He swallows. Tries again. “Sos la mujer más peligrosa que conocí en mi vida y me estás matando, Hachi, me estás matando—” (You’re the most dangerous woman I’ve met in my life and you’re killing me, Hachi, you’re killing me—)

You don’t understand a word.

You don’t care.

You pull him closer and kiss the Spanish out of his mouth.

And then his mouth moves down your throat and you feel his teeth graze the skin above your collarbone and your hand shoots up—fast, instinctive—and catches his jaw.

He stops.

Looks at you. Confused. Pupils blown, mouth wet, breathing like he’s just run a sprint.

“No marks,” you say.

His brows pull together. His eyes drop to the spot his mouth was heading—the visible skin above the neckline of your top.

The skin Rei would see.

You don’t say that. Don’t need to.

Understanding moves through his expression in stages.

Confusion first. Then recognition. Then something harder—this brief thing that crosses his face like a shadow before he packs it away behind something neutral.

“Right,” he says. Quiet. “The fiancé.”

It’s not bitter. Not accusatory. Just a fact. A variable he’s already accepted.

But his jaw tightens under your hand.

“Below the collar,” you say. “Nothing visible.”

He holds your gaze for a beat. Two. Long enough that you feel the weight of what you’re asking—mark me, want me, but only where nobody else can see.

Only where it’s yours and his and hidden.

Then his mouth curves.

“Below the collar,” he repeats. “I can work with that.”

His hands find the hem of your shirt.

Your stomach contracts from the feeling of his knuckles brushing your hip bones as he gathers fabric, from the slow drag of cotton riding up your stomach, your ribs, the bottom edge of your bra.

He pauses. Checks your face.

You lift your arms.

He pulls the shirt over your head. Drops it somewhere—you hear the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor but you’re not watching the shirt because you’re watching him.

Watching the exact moment Park Jimin sees your tits in a bra for the first time.

And—

Oh.

Oh, this is worth every stupid decision you’ve made in the last week.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still. His hands frozen at his sides where they dropped after pulling the shirt free. His mouth slightly open. Eyes locked on your chest with the focus of a man staring directly into the face of God.

It’s a white bra. Lacey. Nothing obscene—just a well-fitted, pretty thing with scalloped edges and a small bow between the cups that you bought because it was on sale and it fit and you liked the way it looked.

Not that you’ve ever liked your boobs.

You hate them.

You’ve always hated them because they make you a target.

In boardrooms where men look at your chest before your face. In garages where mechanics talk to your tits instead of your hands. In every male-dominated space you’ve ever occupied—which is all of them—your body arrived first and your competence showed up later, if anyone bothered to wait for it.

So you cover. You’ve always covered. Sports bras that flatten. Loose shirts. Jackets zipped to the collar. Layering until what’s underneath is a rumor instead of a statement.

You learned early that the less they see, the more they listen, and you made your peace with that trade-off before you were old enough to drive.

But the way he’s looking at you right now—

He’s not looking at your chest the way boardroom men do. Not cataloguing, not assessing, not calculating what your body means in relation to their power.

He’s looking at you like you just knocked the wind out of him.

Like you’re something he built in his head during long nights and lonely drives and now you’re real and the reality is so much more than the fantasy that his operating system crashed.

Something dangerous blooms in the pit of your stomach.

Something that wants to buy more bras like this one.

Something that wants lace and satin and sheer things that cost more than 1,800 yen—not for Rei, not for herself, but for him.

For this exact reaction.

For the way Park Jimin is standing in a mechanic bay with his mouth open and his brain offline because of a sale-rack bra and the body you’ve spent your whole life hiding.

That’s dangerous.

“Jaque?”

Nothing.

“Jaque.”

His mouth closes. Opens again. Closes.

Then he steps back.

Not toward you. Away.

One step. Two. Three. Turns on his heel and walks a tight circle in the middle of the bay, both hands coming up to lace behind his neck, elbows in, face tipped toward the ceiling.

“No,” he says to the rafters. “No, no, no. Nope.”

You blink.

“What?”

He keeps pacing.

His hands migrate from his neck to his face, press flat against his cheeks, drag down. Then back up to his hair. Then his neck again. A full circuit of self-soothing gestures that isn’t self-soothing at all.

“No mames.” He says it to himself. Under his breath. “No mames, no mames, no mames—” (No way, no way, no way—)

“What’s happening right now?”

He stops pacing.

Looks at you.

Looks at your chest.

Looks away. Fast. Like staring at the sun.

“Nope.” He walks another circle. Tighter. His hand comes down and adjusts himself through his jeans with zero subtlety. “Nope. No. This isn’t—I can’t—”

You’re sitting on the hood of your AE86, shirtless, in a white lace bra, watching a grown ass man who regularly drives at 300 kilometers per hour have a full mental breakdown because of your tits.

This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you.

“Are you… okay?”

“NO.” He says it immediately. Emphatically. His voice cracks on the single syllable. “No, Hachi, I’m not okay. I’m not—look at—you can’t just—”

He gestures at your chest. Both hands. Like he’s presenting evidence at trial.

“Mirá eso.” Back to Spanish. “Mirá. How is—why are they—how do they just sit like that—” (Look at that. Look)

“They’re boobs, Jaque. They sit because of the bra. That’s how bras work.”

“DON’T EXPLAIN BRAS TO ME RIGHT NOW.”

You press your lips together. Bite the inside of your cheek. Force your expression into something approaching neutral.

It doesn’t hold. The corner of your mouth twitches.

He sees it. Points at you.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re about to laugh.”

“I’m really not.”

“Your face is doing the thing—”

“What thing—”

“THE THING where you’re trying not to and it makes it WORSE—”

A laugh escapes. You slap your hand over your mouth but it’s too late—the sound ricochets off the bay walls and he makes this noise of absolute despair.

“Yeah. Laugh it up.” He’s still pacing but slower now, orbiting like a satellite that can’t decide whether to crash or maintain altitude. “Real funny. Meanwhile I’m having a genuine medical emergency over here—”

“A medical emergency.”

“My brain just stopped working. That counts.”

“Because of my boobs.”

“Because of your—” He gestures again. Helplessly. “—yes. Those. In that—is that lace?”

“Yes.”

“White lace.”

“It was on sale.”

“On SALE,” he repeats. Like the concept of discount lingerie is personally offensive to him. “You’re telling me the thing that’s about to ruin my entire life cost you, what, 2,000 yen?”

“1,800.”

He crouches.

Just—drops. Right there in the middle of the mechanic bay. Sinks onto his heels, hands coming up and pressing together against his face—fingertips at his forehead, palms flat against his nose and mouth—like he’s gathering himself. Like he’s in confession. Like he’s physically holding his own skull together because whatever’s happening inside it requires structural support.

His eyes are squeezed shut above his pressed-together hands. Chest rising and falling too fast.

From the looks of it, you’d say he cannot believe he’s actually looking at your tits in a pretty white lace bra.

He’s not looking, technically. That’s the point of the crouch. He removed himself from the line of sight because the line of sight was doing critical damage.

You stare down at him from the hood.

“Did you just… crouch?”

“I’m processing.”

“On the floor?”

“It’s where my body decided to be right now and I’m not arguing with it.”

“You look like you’re praying.”

“I am praying.” His voice is muffled against his palms. “I’m praying for the strength to not do what I want to do right now because if I look up and see—I need a minute, Hachi.”

“A minute for what?”

“To convince my entire nervous system that we’re doing this properly and not like—”

“Animals in a mechanic bay?”

“Shut up.”

You grin. Full. Wide. The kind of grin you never let anyone see because it’s not controlled or measured or Hayashi-appropriate—it’s just happy.

Genuinely, stupidly happy because there’s a beautiful man crouched on a concrete floor having a crisis over your chest and for some reason that feels better than winning the race did.

His hands lower from his face. Just enough that his eyes appear above his fingertips. He glances up at you—one look, fast, like testing whether the sun’s still blinding—and immediately presses his hands back over his eyes.

“Yep,” he says. “Still there. Still in the bra. Cool cool cool.”

“They’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m aware. That’s the problem.” He swallows. You watch his throat bob above his pressed-together hands. “Hachi.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to know that I am a respectful man.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“I’m a respectful man who is on the floor, yes.” A breath. “Both things are true.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I need you to also know—” His hands drop from his face. His eyes find yours. And whatever prayer he just said, it didn’t work, because the look in them is nothing close to holy. “—that if I don’t put my mouth on them in the next thirty seconds I think I might actually lose my mind.”

Your stomach free-falls.

“Okay. Get up.”

“I don’t think my legs work.”

“Jaque.”

“They genuinely might not—”

You push your boobs up and he rises immediately, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“Below the collar,” he says. More to himself than to you. A reminder. A rulebook. “Below the collar. Below the collar.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.” He exhales. Shaky. His hands come up—hover near your waist without touching. “Okay. Can I—”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t finish asking.”

“The answer’s yes.”

His palms land on your waist. Warm. Slightly trembling.

They slide up.

Slowly. Over your ribs, over the edges of the bra’s band, fingertips tracing the lace where it meets skin. He follows the scalloped trim along the underside of the cup. Careful. Almost reverent.

Like he’s handling a component he’s never worked with before and doesn’t want to fuck up.

“Hachi,” he breathes.

“Yeah?”

“These—” His thumbs brush the swell above the cups. Just the top edges, where skin meets lace. “—these are insane.”

“They’re just boobs.”

“They’re not just anything.” He sounds personally insulted. “Don’t disrespect them like that ever again in front of me.”

“Are you seriously defending my boobs to me?”

“Someone has to. You clearly don’t appreciate them enough.”

“I live with them, Jaque. I appreciate them plenty.”

“You don’t.” His thumbs trace the lace edge again. “Trust me. You don’t appreciate them the way I’m about to.”

His eyes lift from your chest to your face. Dark. Focused. The theatrics draining away and something steadier replacing them—that locked-in concentration you’ve only seen when he races.

When he’s done calculating and he’s about to execute.

“Below the collar, right?” he asks.

“Right.”

“So…” His finger hooks under one bra strap. Draws it down your shoulder, one centimeter at a time. “…everything under here is mine.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“For tonight,” you correct.

Because boundaries. Because rules. Because you’re still you even with his hands on your skin and his breath on your collarbone.

He smiles. Slow.

“For tonight,” he agrees.

Then his mouth lowers to the top of your breast—right above the lace edge, right where the swell begins—and he presses his lips there. Open. Warm. The tip of his tongue tracing the line where fabric meets skin.

Your hand flies to the back of his head.

And the sound you make—quiet, involuntary, this soft ’ah’ that slips through your teeth—makes him groan against your skin like you’ve mounted him.

“Perfecta,” he murmurs into your chest. “Sos perfecta, Hachi. Sos—dios—” (Perfect. You’re perfect, Hachi. You’re—god—)

Spanish again. Vibrating against the swell of your breast.

You don’t need the translation.

Your legs wrap around his waist on reflex and your ass lands on the hood of the AE86 again. Harder this time. The metal groans under the impact and you feel the suspension compress a fraction beneath you.

His mouth is already on you, lips pressing open and hot against the top of your breast before your back even fully hits the hood. The left one. Right above the lace. Tongue tracing the swell, following the curve where flesh meets fabric, and the sound you make is something between a gasp and a curse.

"Déjame—" he murmurs against your skin. The words vibrate through your sternum. "Déjame que te lo haga bien, sí?" (Let me—let me do it to you right, yeah?)

You don't understand the words but you understand the tone. Low. Almost pleading. Like he's asking permission and making a promise at the same time.

Your hand finds the back of his head. Threads into his hair.

Yes. Yes. Whatever you're asking, yes.

He presses another kiss into the swell. Then another, lower, where the lace starts. His lips catch the edge of the fabric, pull it down a fraction with his teeth before releasing.

A tease. A warning shot.

Then he leans back.

Just—stops. Plants his hands on the hood beside your hips and looks at you.

Spread on your car's hood. Hair messy. Lips swollen from kissing.

At your chest. In that white lacey bra.

"Fuck," he says.

You wait.

"Fuck, man."

More waiting.

"This is—" He gestures. At you. At the bra. At the general concept of what's happening. His hand drops. Comes back up. Drops again. "—fuck."

"You said that."

"I'm gonna keep saying it." His voice is shot. Gravel and smoke and not enough oxygen. "Because—how are you—what is—" He shakes his head once. Hard. Like he's trying to reset a screen. "—fuck."

You've never rendered someone monosyllabic before.

It's doing things to your ego that probably aren't healthy.

His hand hooks his finger under the left strap. Draws it off your shoulder the same way he did earlier—lace sliding down your arm inch by inch.

Both straps down now. The bra's staying up through architecture alone—the cups doing their job, the band holding, but the structural integrity is compromised and you can feel it. Feel the looseness. Feel the way one deep breath would shift everything.

He pauses. His exhale comes out shaky. You can hear the tremor in it. See the way his chest stutters on the release, like his lungs forgot the sequence.

"Hachi," he says.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna take this off now."

"Okay."

"And I need you to understand that whatever happens to my face when I do—that's involuntary. I have zero control over it. None. Just—have mercy."

The laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. "You're being very dramatic about a bra."

"You don't know what's under it."

"I literally live with what's under it."

"Exactly. You're desensitized. I'm not. I am the opposite of desensitized. I am sensitized. I am maximum sensitivity." His hands come back to your ribs. Fingertips finding the clasp at the back. "Ready?"

"Are you?"

"Absolutely not."

The clasp gives.

The tension releases. You feel it—the band loosening, the cups shifting, the structure that held everything in place surrendering its job.

He doesn't pull it off. Lets gravity do the work. The lace slides forward, caught for a second on your nipples—which are hard, because of course they are, because the air is cold and his hands are warm and every nerve in your body has been live-wired since the mountain—and then falls into your lap.

And you're bare.

The bay's ambient light hits your chest. Warm yellow glow on bare skin. On the full, heavy curve of breasts that you've spent your entire life covering, minimizing, apologizing for in every room full of men who looked before they listened.

Jimin doesn't make a sound.

His hands hover six inches from your skin, fingers slightly curled, palms open. Like he's warming himself at a fire he can't believe is real.

Then—quiet, almost to himself:

“Perfectas.” (Perfect [plural — referring to her breasts].)

The word comes out reverent. Broken at the seam. Merely said like a reflex. Like the sight of your bare breasts knocked a word out of him that he didn't choose and couldn't stop.

Both palms finally cup you from underneath, fingers spread, and the contact—his warm, calloused palms against the soft underside of your breasts—makes your breath hitch sharp enough to hear.

He holds you like you're something he pulled from a wreck and can't believe survived. Feeling the weight. Not squeezing, not kneading—just holding. Learning the shape, the temperature, the give of flesh against his hands.

"They're heavy," he says, like he’s dazed.

"Yeah." Your voice is thinner than you want it to be. "I know."

"No—that's not—I mean—" He shakes his head. His thumbs stroke along the curves. "I mean they're heavy. Like—they fill my whole hand. My whole hand, Hachi."

"Is that a complaint?"

"That's the furthest thing from a complaint that has ever existed in any language I speak." His thumbs follow the curve toward the center, toward the darker skin around your nipples. "I don't have words. In any of my nine languages. There are no words for this."

"You seem to be finding plenty."

"These are just sounds. My brain left."

His thumbs reach your areolas. Circle the edges. Not touching the nipple yet—orbiting. Mapping the perimeter.

Your nipples are so hard it's almost painful, tight peaks straining toward his hands, and he's right there and he won't—

"Jaque—"

"Shh." His eyes are fixed on his own hands. On your chest. He's watching his thumbs trace circles around your nipples like it's the most important engineering work he's ever done. "Shh. Let me—just let me—"

His thumb brushes your left nipple.

Finally.

The lightest touch—just the pad of his thumb dragging across the peaked skin—and the jolt that goes through you is completely disproportionate.

Your hand grabs his wrist. A sound escapes your mouth that you'd be embarrassed about if you could hear yourself over the rush of blood in your ears.

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, you liked that."

You can't answer because he does it again. Same thumb. Same nipple. A slow, firm stroke that flattens the peak and releases it, and the nerve endings there light up like someone hit a switch connected to your entire central nervous system.

"Liked it a lot," he murmurs.

His other thumb mirrors the motion on the right. Simultaneous. Both nipples. Slow, synchronized strokes that make you want to bite your own hand.

"Nnh—fuck—"

“Tan sensible.” (So sensitive.)

He rolls both nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Gentle. Experimental. Testing the pressure, adjusting when you gasp, recalibrating when you moan. Mechanic's hands. Tuner's instincts. Reading feedback and responding in real time.

"You're so sensitive, Hachi. Right here, look at you—"

"Don't—ngh—don't narrate—"

"Why not?" He tugs gently. The sensation arrows straight down your body, landing between your legs like a current. "You were pretty chatty five minutes ago. All that ’me dan ganas’ talk."

"That was—ah—different—"

"Mhm."

He pinches. Light but precise.

You jolt.

"Different how?"

"I was wearing a shirt—"

"True. Terrible oversight. Should've taken it off earlier."

He releases your nipples. Cups you again—full palms, full weight—and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough to feel the give, to let the flesh spill between his fingers, to watch the way your breasts fill his hands and overflow them.

"I could do this forever," he says. Not to you. To your chest. Having a private conversation with your tits that you're not invited to. "Like—forever, Hachi. I would happily never do anything else again."

"You have to race."

"I would quit."

"No you wouldn't."

"I would quit racing." He looks up. Dead serious. "I would sell the R34, sell the Mustang, sell my kidneys, live under a bridge, and be completely at peace with all of it if it meant unlimited access to—" He looks back down. Squeezes again. "—these."

"You're unhinged."

"Your nipples are hard and your breathing's fucked up and you're calling me unhinged?"

Fair point.

His mouth lowers toward your left breast, lips parting, that focused intensity zeroing in on the nipple his thumb's been circling.

But he doesn't go straight for it.

Of course he doesn't.

Because Park Jimin is incapable of doing anything without making you wait for it first.

He kisses the inner curve. Soft. Lips dragging across skin, following the same path his thumb traced.

The contrast between his rough hands and his soft mouth makes you shiver—you can feel both, his palm still cupping the right breast while his lips worship the left.

Then his tongue comes out.

A flat, broad stroke from the underside of your breast to the top edge of your areola. Slow enough that you feel every millimeter. Wet enough that the air hits the trail he leaves and makes you shudder.

"Oh—"

He does it again. Same stroke. Same devastating pace. Tongue painting a line from the lower curve to the edge—but not the center, not the nipple, not where every nerve in your body is screaming at him to go.

"Jaque, if you don't—"

"If I don't what?" he says as he looks up at you through his lashes.

His mouth is still on your breas and still not where you want it. His lips are shiny. Eyes black. That cocky, infuriating ghost of a smile curving against your skin.

"Ask nice."

"I don't ask nice."

"Then I don't go where you want."

"You're insufferable—"

"And you're impatient."

His tongue traces the outer edge of your areola. Close. So close. The tip brushing the boundary of the darker skin without crossing it.

"Thought you were all about precision, Hachi. Careful technique. Reading the car. Savoring."

"That's for racing—"

"Same principles apply." He blows gently across the wet skin.

Your whole body clenches.

"I hate you," you whisper.

"Mmm. Try again."

Your fingers tighten in his hair. Pull. Not gently.

His groan vibrates against your breast.

"Please."

His mouth seals over your nipple.

The heat—the wet, sudden, encompassing heat—makes your vision white out for a full second. Your back arches hard, shoulders pressing into the hood, and the sound you make isn't a moan. It's closer to a sob. This raw, pulled-from-somewhere-deep thing that bounces off the bay walls and comes back unrecognizable.

He sucks. Gentle at first—just pressure, just warmth, his tongue flicking the peak while his lips hold the seal. Testing. Gauging your response the way he gauges tire grip—body feedback, micro-adjustment, finding the exact combination that makes you fall apart.

He finds it fast.

A rhythm. Suck, flick, release. Suck, flick, hold.

His free hand still cupping the right breast, thumb working the nipple in tandem, and the dual stimulation sends something cascading down your spine that has no name—just heat and pressure and a coiling in your lower stomach that feels dangerously, dangerously close to what happened in that twin bed.

"Fuck—Jimin—"

His name. His real name. And the effect is immediate—he sucks harder, moans against your breast, and his hips press forward between your legs in a reflexive thrust that grinds the hard ridge of him against you and—

"Oh—god—don't stop—"

He pulls off your nipple with a wet sound that makes your toes curl. Switches. His mouth finds the right one—tongue circling once, twice, then sealing over the peak—and his hand takes over on the left, cupping the spit-slick breast, thumb spreading the wetness, squeezing.

You're—

This is—

Your hips are moving, grinding against him in these small, involuntary rolls that you can't control and don't want to. Your hands are in his hair, gripping too hard probably, and your legs are locked around his hips pulling him closer and every time he sucks your inner walls clench around nothing and you're wet—you're really wet, you can feel it.

"Te gusta, Hachi?" he mumbles around your nipple. The vibration of his voice against the sensitive skin makes your thigh muscles shake. "Tell me you like it. Decime." (You like it, Hachi? Tell me.)

"I—nnh—"

"En serio." He pulls back just enough to speak and his lips brush the wet peak with every word. "Tell me. I wanna hear you say it." (Seriously)

"I like it," you breathe. "Fuck—I like it—"

"Good girl."

Your hips buck against him. Hard. His breath catches, his rhythm stutters, and for a second you're both just—pressed together, grinding, gasping, his mouth still on your breast and his hands full of you and the bay is quiet except for the sounds you're making which are not quiet at all.

He bites the swell of your left breast, the soft, full flesh above the nipple—sinking his teeth into the curve with a pressure that walks the exact line between pain and pleasure.

When he releases, there's a perfect crescent of indentations already flushing burgundy against your skin.

He looks at it.

Smiles.

Bites the other one. Same spot. Mirror image. Like he's signing his work.

"You're a freak," you manage. Your voice comes out thin. Breathless. Nothing like the woman who runs Daikoku. "How am I supposed to explain these to my fiancé?"

He doesn’t seem bothered by the reminder, ust shifts his mouth to a new patch of skin—the inner swell, where your breasts press together when you're dressed—and speaks against it.

"Don't let him see you naked." Simple. Flat. Like he's troubleshooting a mechanical problem, not addressing the fact that he's marking another man's fiancée in a parking lot. "What do I care."

And bites again.

Harder this time. Lower. Right where the curve of your breast meets your ribcage, soft tissue compressing under his teeth, and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not a protest.

His right hand leaves your breast.

You feel the loss of warmth immediately—but you don't have time to register the absence because his hand is traveling down. Along your ribs. Your waist. Your hip. The waistband of your leather pants.

His fingers find the zipper. The metal teeth part slowly.

His mouth comes back up. Finds yours. And this kiss is different from the ones before—slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours with a deliberation that contradicts the urgency in his hands. A kiss that's building a case.

He pulls back. Foreheads together. Breathing hard.

"Hachi."

"Hm."

His jaw works. You watch the muscle flex, watch him swallow, watch whatever he's about to say arrange itself into something he can get through without breaking.

"I have condoms."

Oh.

"Okay."

"On me. Right now."

"Okay."

"But I need—"

He stops. Breathes.

His hand is still at your waistband, fingers hooked inside the loosened leather, motionless.

Waiting.

"—I need you to tell me. Out loud. Because I'm—" Another breath. Harder. "—my control is not great right now, Hachi. It's really not great. And if you don't want to go further, I need to know now because in about thirty seconds I'm not going to be able to—"

"Jimin."

He stops mid-sentence.

Your hand finds his jaw. Tilts his face so he's looking directly at you. Into you. Past every wall and every deflection and every sharp line of banter you've been hiding behind since the first night he climbed through his own window.

"Stop treating me like I'm gonna break."

His throat bobs.

"I'm not a scaredy-cat." Your thumb traces his cheekbone. "I drove a car sideways through a gap at 80 tonight. I crushed a lollipop in front of the Tanaka twins and told them to kneel. I walked into this bay knowing exactly what was going to happen."

You hold his gaze.

"I'm here because I want to be here. I want you."

His breathing fractures.

"So yes." You bring your mouth to his, close so that the words land on his lips like a kiss that hasn't started yet. "I want you to fuck me, Jimin."

The sound he makes is torn from somewhere so deep it doesn’t have language attached to it—just vibration and need and the last thread of restraint finally, finally snapping.

His hand fists the leather at your waistband and pulls.

Leather doesn't cooperate. It never does. The material clings to your thighs, peeling slowly, requiring the kind of negotiation that would kill the mood if either of you cared about mood.

But you don't.

You lift your hips off the hood—bracing your palms against the cold metal—and he pulls, and together you shimmy the leather down past your thighs, your knees, your calves.

He yanks them along with your sneakers. Tosses them—somewhere. Behind him. Doesn't look where they land.

Then he reaches back.

One hand. To his back pocket. And pulls out a condom.

Not fumbling for it. Not digging around. He knew exactly which pocket, exactly where it was. The foil packet sits between his index and middle finger.

"Always carry those?" you ask.

"Since last week? Yeah." He doesn't miss a beat. "You texted me about your knees itching and my dick hitting your throat. I started carrying two."

"Two."

"Optimistic."

Despite everything—despite the fact that you're sitting on the hood of your AE86 in nothing but your underwear, chest bare, his bite marks blooming across your skin, his hard-on visible through his jeans—you laugh.

Short. Surprised out of you.

He grins. That stupid, incandescent, completely disarming grin that makes him look younger.

He sets the condom on the hood beside your hip. Within reach. Then his hands come to the hem of his own shirt.

He pulls it off in one motion. Over his head. Arms crossing, fabric peeling, and then it's gone and he's standing in front of you bare-chested in a mechanic bay and—

You've seen him shirtless before. That night in his room when he was changing and you caught a flash of his back. But that was a glimpse. Dark room. Quick.

This isn't quick.

This is every tattoo you've only heard rumors about spread across a canvas of tan skin and lean muscle. The racing stripe down his spine. The Vitruvian man across his shoulder blade, but different—modified with a tachometer halo. Spanish text you can't read winding through Buenos Aires street grids. Something in Japanese on his ribs. Cherry blossoms and a torii gate across his right shoulder, and below it—

A scar.

Across his ribcage on the left side. Long, healed, ridged.

Your fingers reach for it before you think.

He catches your wrist. Gentle.

"Later," he says. Not shutting it down. Just—redirecting. 

That's a conversation. Not now.

You nod.

His hands go to his jeans. Button. Zipper. The denim loosening around his hips and you see the V-lines you traced with your fingers earlier now in full—defined, disappearing below the waistband of black boxer briefs that are doing absolutely nothing to conceal how hard he is.

Your mouth goes dry.

He catches you looking. Of course he does.

"See something you like, Hachi?"

"Shut up and get over here."

His grin sharpens. He steps forward. Between your knees. Hands finding the tops of your thighs, palms warm and calloused, and the skin-on-skin contact—his bare torso against your bare chest—sends a current through you that makes your abs clench.

Your breasts press against his chest. Nipples still sensitized from his mouth, from his tongue, from the attention he's been lavishing on them for the past however-many minutes. The friction of his skin against yours—warm, slightly rough with hair—is a different sensation entirely. Less targeted. More encompassing. A full-body contact that makes you want to climb into him.

His forehead drops to yours.

"You're shivering," he murmurs.

"I'm not cold."

"I know."

His hand slips between your bodies. Travels south. Over your stomach—the muscles jumping at his touch, every nerve you own apparently now hardwired to respond to his fingers on autopilot. Over the waistband of your underwear. And he presses his palm flat against your clit through the fabric.

The sound you make is not subtle.

It's a gasp that cracks open into something longer and more desperate, your hips rolling up into his hand, and the pressure of his palm against your clit—even through cotton—sends a shockwave of sensation that makes your vision blur at the edges.

"God—" Your hand grabs his wrist. Not to stop him. To keep him there. "—right there—right there—"

"I know." His fingers press firmer. Feeling you through the fabric. "Fuck—Hachi, you're soaked."

Heat floods your face.

Because you are. You can feel it—the wetness that's been building since he started speaking Spanish, since the mountain, since his mouth found your breast.

The cotton between his hand and your skin is damp and getting worse with every roll of your hips.

"You—" He makes a guttural sound.

His fingers shift, exploring through fabric, finding the shape of you, and when his middle finger drags along your slit through wet cotton you hear him exhale like he's been punched.

"You're so responsive. I barely touched you and you're—mierda—"

He doesn't know.

Doesn't know that before him, responsive wasn't a word that applied.

He doesn't know that his thumb through pajama pants four days ago was the first time you had an orgasm in your life.

And now his hand is between your legs and you're soaked and every nerve ending is firing and your hips are grinding into his palm without your permission because your body learned something new that night in his twin bed and it's been starving for more ever since.

"You're so sensitive," he says, almost to himself.

His fingers tracing your folds through the cotton, mapping what he can feel.

"Right here—" His finger brushes across the spot where the Christina piercing sits and you jolt. "—fuck, right here, every time I touch it you—"

"It's—nnh—the piercing—"

"I know." He presses his thumb there. Holds it. Feels the metal bar through the fabric. "I know, Hachi. I remember."

He remembers.

Of course he remembers. He's a mechanic. He found the modification and he's been thinking about it ever since—where it sits, what it does, how it makes you react.

He's probably been lying awake at night reverse-engineering the optimal way to use it against you.

His thumb circles.

Slow. Over the piercing.

Your hand fists in his hair, and the sound you make has no consonants in it—just this open, vowel-heavy thing that bounces off the walls.

"That's it," he breathes against your mouth. "That's the sound. That's the one."

"Jimin—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He peels the underwear off. No ceremony. Just hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags them down, and the cold air hits slick skin and your thighs press together on instinct before his hands guide them apart again.

"No." Gentle but firm. His palms on your inner thighs, pressing outward. "Don't hide. Not from me."

You let him look.

You let Park Jimin stand between your spread knees in a mechanic bay at 1 AM and look at you—bare, wet, every part of your body exposed below the collarbone where his bite marks end and Rei's ignorance begins.

His thumb traces your hip bone. Down. Following the crease of your thigh. Close but not touching where you need him to.

"Beautiful," he says. Not performing. Not trying to be smooth. Just stating a fact in the same tone he uses to describe engine specs. "You're—every part of you is—"

His voice breaks off.

He picks up the condom.

Tears the foil with his teeth. One quick rip.

And your heart rate doubles. Because this is it. This is the line. Everything before was prologue—the texting, the offer, the twin bed, the mountain, the Spanish, the bites and the grinding and the ’me-dan-ganas.’

This is the part where it becomes real.

He pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free and your brain registers several things at once: the length, the slight upward curve, the way it twitches when the cold air hits it, the fact that he's thick enough that the logistics portion of your brain—the part that calculates clearances and tolerances for a living—immediately starts running numbers.

He rolls the condom on.

Then he looks at you.

"Last chance," he says quietly.

"If you ask me one more time I'm going to punch you harder than you punched Shinji."

His laugh is surprised out of him. Real. It crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth and makes him look like the boy who gives his brothers the bigger bedrooms and sends money home after every race.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

He steps closer.

His hands find your hips. Adjust you on the hood—shifting your ass to the edge, tilting your pelvis, and you recognize what he's doing because it's the same thing you do with cars.

Finding the angle. Optimizing the approach. Making sure everything lines up before the throttle drops.

You feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. Just pressure. Just there. Warm through the latex.

Your body pulses around nothing, clenching, wanting, and you hear yourself inhale sharp through your nose.

His forehead meets yours.

"Ready?" he murmurs.

"Jimin."

"Yeah?"

"_Put it in"

His exhale shakes against your mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay—”

He pushes in, inch by inch, the stretch of him filling you in a way that makes your mouth fall open and your nails find his shoulders and your brain go completely, catastrophically blank.

Because—

Oh.

Oh, that’s—

You’ve had sex before. You’ve had sex plenty of times. With Rei, in nice beds with nice sheets, and it was fine. It was always fine. Comfortable. Familiar.

This isn’t that.

This is your legs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper because your body wants more before your brain has finished processing enough.

He bottoms out.

Stills.

His forehead drops against yours. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your lips. His arms are shaking where they brace against the hood—that same tremor from before, except now he’s inside you and you can feel it everywhere.

“Tight,” he manages. “Hachi—you’re—fuck—”

You clench around him. Not on purpose. Involuntary. Your walls fluttering in these small, rhythmic contractions that you can’t control and didn’t know your body did.

His hips jerk. Forward. Half an inch deeper that shouldn’t be possible and a sound punches out of your chest—

“Ah—”

High. Thin. Needy in a way that makes your face burn because who made that noise. That wasn’t you. You don’t make noises like that. You’ve never made noises like that in your life. With Rei you were quiet. Controlled. Occasionally a soft exhale or a practiced moan timed to his rhythm because that’s what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Make the right sounds at the right times. Perform.

This isn’t performing.

This is your body making sounds without your permission because Park Jimin is inside you and your nervous system has apparently been asleep for years and just woke up screaming.

He starts to move, slow at first. Long pulls that drag the length of him against your walls—out until just the tip remains, then back in, deep, bottoming out with a controlled roll of his hips that makes the 86’s suspension creak beneath you.

“You feel—” His voice is wrecked. Shattered at the seams. “—Hachi, you feel increíble—”

He thrusts again. Deeper. The angle shifts and the head of his cock drags against something inside you that makes your legs lock tight around his waist.

“Oh—oh god—”

Too loud. Way too loud.

Your hand flies to your own mouth—

He catches your wrist. Pulls it away.

“Don’t.” His eyes find yours. Dark, focused, that laser-lock intensity he gets behind the wheel. “I told you. I want to hear you.”

“I’m being—nnh—loud—”

“Good.” He thrusts. “Be loud.”

“People will—ah—”

“Nobody’s coming back here, Hachi.”

Another thrust. Harder. Your back slides against the hood and he pulls you back by the hips, flush against him.

“And even if they did—” His mouth finds your ear. “—you’d still be making those sounds. Porque me encantan.” (Because I love them.)

The Spanish in your ear while he’s inside you short-circuits something fundamental in your wiring.

A whimper escapes. Actual whimper.

One of those sounds you’ve mocked in movies, that you thought was exaggerated, the kind that’s apparently just what happens when someone fucks you right for the first time in your life.

Your face burns.

Not from arousal—from embarrassment.

Because you sound desperate. You sound needy.

You sound like everything you’ve spent all your life proving you’re not—the soft girl, the fragile girl, the type of girl who would fall apart when a man touched her right.

You immediately yank him down, both hands fisting in his hair, pulling him forward until his face is buried against your shoulder and yours is buried against his.

Your nose pressed into the junction of his neck and collarbone where he smells like hinoki and sweat and sex, and your mouth is muffled against his skin so the sounds you can’t stop making at least go somewhere that isn’t the open air of the mechanic bay.

He adjusts. Doesn’t question it. Just shifts his weight, plants one hand on the hood by your head, and keeps moving—keeps fucking you with those slow, devastating strokes that somehow hit deeper at this angle.

“Ahí—ahí te gusta, ¿no?” (That’s where you like it, huh?) he murmurs against your shoulder. You feel his lips move against your skin with each word. “Right here? This angle?”

You nod against his neck. Can’t speak. Don’t trust what would come out if you tried.

“Mhm.”

He does it again. Same stroke, same depth, same spot. Your walls clamp down on him and his breath catches.

“Yeah. Right there. Te vuelve loca, ¿verdad?” (Makes you crazy, right?)

You whimper against his throat. Sink your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder to muffle it.

“Ngh—” His hips stutter. “—do that—do that again, nena, mordeme—” (bite me)

You bite harder. His groan vibrates through his chest into yours. His pace picks up—not faster, just firmer.

Your heels dig into the small of his back, sneakers pressing into the muscle above his ass, locking him close, keeping him deep.

Because every time he pulls back you feel the loss like a physical ache and your body says ’no, more, closer, stay.’

“Mírate,” (Look at you) he breathes against your hair. “So greedy, Hachi. Pulling me in with your legs like you can’t get enough—”

“Shut—ah—shut up—”

“¿Por qué? (Why?) If you could hear yourself right now—the little noises you make when I go deep—” He punctuates it with a thrust that drives the air from your lungs. “—esos ruiditos, nena. Me vuelven loco.” (Those little noises, nena. They make me crazy.)

You don’t understand the words. Don’t need to. The stupid Spanish is doing something to you that transcends translation.

“You’re close,” he says. Not a question.

And the terrifying thing is he’s right.

You’re close. Already. Embarrassingly, devastatingly close. The coil that’s been building since his mouth was on your breasts—since the mountain, since the Spanish rant, since four days ago in his twin bed—is wound so tight now that each thrust sends tremors through your thighs and your stomach muscles are clenching in rhythmic pulses that you can’t stop.

His hand finds your thigh. Grips it. Angles you just so—tilting your hips an extra degree that puts pressure on the front wall and the piercing simultaneously and—

“Ngh—fuck!—”

Your legs lock around him so hard your calves cramp. And the sound you make—this raw, cracked, open-throated thing—fills the mechanic bay and echoes back at you like evidence of a person you don’t recognize.

“That’s it—” His voice is strained. Marveling. “Come on, Hachi—come on—dale, dale—”

“I can’t—I’m going to—Jimin—”

“Sí—sí, así—say my name when you cum—decí mi nombre—”

The coil snaps.

Not the slow build-and-release from the twin bed. This is a crash.

Your whole body seizing, walls clamping down on him in hard, rhythmic contractions that make him curse, your spine arching, your fingers raking lines down his back through bare skin that you distantly know will be there tomorrow.

Your heels drive into his lower back so hard he grinds impossibly deep and holds there while you break apart around him.

“Ji—min—oh god—oh—”

His name in your mouth. Fragmented. Shattering like sugar under a boot heel.

The waves keep coming. One after another, rolling through your body in these full-system pulses that make your toes curl inside your sneakers and your thighs tremble against his hips.

You’re clenching on him—gripping his cock in spasms that you can feel and he can definitely feel because his breathing’s gone haywire against your shoulder.

“Mierda—Hachi—you’re—fuck—”

He thrusts slowly to help you ride it out while your body squeezes and releases and squeezes again around him and the aftershocks ripple through you in diminishing waves that leave you boneless against the hood.

Your arms are still around his neck. Trembling.

Your face is still pressed into his shoulder.

You’re not ready to come out yet.

Because if you look at him right now—if you see whatever expression is on his face—you might have to acknowledge what just happened.

That you came in maybe four minutes of penetrative sex after more than two decades of assuming your body didn’t work that way.

His hand comes up. Cups the back of your head. Holds you against him.

“Holy shit,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Almost awed. “That was—Hachi, that was fast.”

Your face burns hotter.

“I’ve never—”

He pulls back slightly. You tighten your arms.

“—gotten anyone there that quick before.”

‘Because nobody’s ever gotten me there at all,’ you don’t say.

“Not that I’m complaining.” You can hear the grin forming. Can hear the ego inflating in real time. “That’s—I mean—that’s gotta be some kind of record, right?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t.”

“Four minutes, Hachi. Maybe less. I didn’t even get to—”

“If you finish that sentence I will murder you.”

He laughs. Warm. Against your hair. The sound rumbling through his chest into yours, and your over-sensitized body responds to even that—the vibration making you clench around him, still inside you, still hard.

His breath hitches.

“Okay,” he says. Steadier. His hand strokes your hair once. “Okay. But I’m—I need you to know that my ego just grew about six sizes and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You bite his shoulder again. Gentler this time. A reprimand.

He hisses. Grins against your temple.

Swallows. You hear it—the thick, dry click of his throat working, the effort of it. Like he’s swallowing down everything his body wants to do and replacing it with something slower.

His hips shift. Start moving again.

Different now.

He’s not chasing your orgasm anymore.

He’s chasing his.

And the difference is something you feel in your spine.

Because when he was focused on you, every stroke was a question—’here? like this? is that good?’ Now each thrust is a statement. Selfish in a way that should make you feel used but instead makes your stomach drop, because there’s something unbearably hot about Park Jimin losing the choreography and just taking.

But then he slows. Just barely.

“Can I—” A breath. His hips grind forward, slow, deep, and the groan he makes is bitten off at the end. “—Hachi, can I go harder?”

You nod. Sheepish. Small. Arms tightening around his neck, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer because the embarrassment of wanting this is somehow easier when there's less space between you and him.

He reads the nod.

He goes harder.

And harder is—fuck, harder is a whole different animal. The first thrust at the new pace drives you back against the hood a full inch before his palm catches your hip and hauls you flush again. Deeper. Your breath leaves you on a sound that's more air than syllable.

You bury your face harder into his shoulder.

Nose pressed into the curve where his neck meets collarbone, mouth hidden against the heat of his skin, breasts mashed flush to his bare chest—soft into hard, the slide of sweat between you making everything slick.

You can feel his heartbeat hammering against yours.

Two engines out of sync.

His pace stutters. He lifts his head.

"Huh?"

Just that. Soft. The sound of him noticing.

"Hachi."

You shake your head against his shoulder.

"You going shy on me?"

You shake it harder. His laugh is breathless, broken in the middle by his own hips driving forward, by the grunt it punches out of him.

"You are." His hand slides up your spine, warm palm flat between your shoulder blades. "Nah, nah, nah. Where'd all that attitude go, huh? Five minutes ago you were—mmh—running your mouth at me. Me dan ganas, poor baby—now what?"

"Sh—shut up—"

"Ah, so that’s how you wanna do it."

He thrusts deeper. The angle tilts and that same thin high thing keeps slipping out of your throat without permission, and you make a sound of pure mortification against his neck, teeth catching his skin.

His hips jerk. Sharp. Out of rhythm.

"Puta madre—" (Motherfucker—)

His forehead drops to your temple. Breathing hard into your hair.

"Don't do that. Don't—Hachi, don't bite me and make that noise at the same time, I'm gonna—" A shaky exhale. "—lose the fucking plot. I swear to god."

You whimper. You don't mean to. It just—happens. Leaks out of you when he bottoms out and grinds, and the sound is small and high and needy in a way that lights your face on fire because you have never in your life made a noise like that.

Not once.

Not with anyone.

And now you've made it three times in the last minute and you can't stop.

"Fuck—" His voice drops. Ragged. "—okay, okay, okay—that sound, Hachi, Jesus Christ—"

He thrusts harder.

You whimper again. Higher.

"Mierda—again, otra vez, do that again for me—"

"I'm not—" Cracked. Muffled against his shoulder. "—I'm not doing anything—"

"Escuchate, (listen to yourself,) all these little—mmh—these little noises in the back of your throat—cada uno, (every one,) Hachi—"

His hand slides down, grabs your ass, angles you against his next thrust.

You burn hotter and press your face harder into his shoulder and your heels dig into his lower back, like if you just stay hidden, just keep him deep, just muffle everything against him, this new traitorous body of yours won't give you away.

"Hachi." He's panting. "Hachi, lean back—lemme—"

You shake your head.

"C'mon. Lemme see you."

"No."

"No?" A laugh. Incredulous. Ruined. "You telling me no right now? Squeezing me like this and telling me no?"

"Jimin."

The way his name cracks out of you—strangled, begging—does something to him.

His rhythm falters.

A groan sinks into your hair.

"Okay—okay—" His hand comes up, cups the back of your head, gentle in a way that doesn't match the rest of him. "Okay, mami. Shh. C'mere. Hang on."

He leans back just enough to get a hand between you, the other arm locked around your waist. He doesn't stop moving—keeps those slow, deep rolls of his hips going while he drags his thumb across the corner of your mouth.

"Open."

You blink at him.

Pupils blown. Mouth red. Hair falling in his eyes, a flush crawling up his throat, and he's looking at you like you hung the sun and made it shine just for him.

"Need something to muffle you, beba?" Thumb pressed gentle on your lower lip. "Open up. Chupá." (Suck.)

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips part. You don't decide to. Your body just—does it. His thumb slides into your mouth, warm, tasting like sweat and the salt of his skin, and your tongue meets the pad of it.

His eyes go dark.

"Dios." (God.)

You close your lips around it. Suck. Following the instruction because it gives your mouth something to do that isn't sounds you can't control.

His hips grind deep and hold there and he just—watches your mouth work around his thumb, and the noise that leaves him is pitched so low you feel it more than hear it.

"That's it." His voice has gone rough as asphalt. "Así. That's it, beba. Suck on it for me." (Like that.)

Your eyes flutter.

"Yeah?" A slow, ruined smile. "Tenés algo en la boca, ya no pensás tanto, ¿no?" (Got something in your mouth, can't think so much now, huh?)

You don't catch the words. You catch the tone. Low, indulgent, unbearably pleased. You suck harder around his thumb and whimper—and watch him break.

"Ay hijo de puta—" (Son of a bitch—)

His hips slam forward. Out of rhythm. His head drops back, throat bared, cords standing out.

"You're supposed to be—shh—quiet—" A laugh, winded. "—that's the whole point, beba. Carajo, Hachi, even with my fingers in your mouth you're loud as fuck, you know that? Me tenés re mal, te juro—" (You've got me so bad, I swear—)

He drags his thumb down, tugs your lip, pushes it back in. You suck. Automatic. A small moan vibrates around his knuckle.

"Mmph—" His eyes squeeze shut. "—sí, así—dios mío—" (yes, like that—my god—)

Your hands find his shoulders. Nails digging in. He's leaking—you can feel him twitch inside you, feel how hard he's holding himself, and the pace he was keeping stutters into something desperate.

His free hand drops between you.

Not to get you off. You're too raw for that—your first one is still shimmering through you in little aftershocks, your thighs still trembling, your stomach still fluttering. He knows better than to push you there again.

His fingers find the barbell instead.

The Christina. That small silver thing that lives just above everything else. His thumb presses flat over it—just once, just there—and he makes a sound like he's been reminded of something holy.

"Puta madre—" (motherfucker—) Low. Reverent. "—sigue ahí. (still there.) Hachi. This fucking—"

His voice fractures. He presses his thumb to the metal again. Just feeling it. Just proving to himself it's real, you're real, you're here, his, open around him, mouth full of his other thumb, this small piece of silver flush to your skin.

"No puedo—" (I can't—) "—Hachi, I can't, I'm—"

His rhythm collapses. Sloppy. Deep. Panting, and his thumb has slipped out of your mouth slick and trailing spit down your chin, and his whole body is going taut against yours.

"—me vengo—" (I'm cumming—) Urgent. Ragged. His hand fists in your hair. "—Hachi, beba, I'm—me voy a venir—(I'm gonna cum—) Hachi, c'mere, c'mere—"

His mouth crashes against yours open and wet and sloppy and he moans into you—this long, broken, involuntary sound that pours straight down your throat as his hips stutter and drive deep and stay there. His whole body going tight. Shaking. One hard grinding pulse and then—

"Mmph—ah—Hachi—fuck—"

He's talking into your mouth. Cumming and moaning and you can feel the words vibrate against your tongue in half-syllables and broken Spanish that doesn't connect to Spanish anymore.

"—tan—(so—) puta madre—(motherfucker—) tan linda—(so pretty—) ah, ah—"

His hand tightens in your hair. Hips grind deep. He spurts inside the condom in pulses you can feel, and each one jerks another fractured sound out of him—high, almost whiny, noises of a man who's been holding something back for longer than he'll ever admit.

You kiss him through it, swallowing every wrecked sound, your tongue sliding against his in a mess of spit and groans, his breath stuttering against your lips as the last pulse works through him. He's shaking. Actually shaking. His forehead presses to yours and his mouth doesn't leave yours even when the words stop—just keeps kissing you, sloppy and missing the aim half the time, catching the corner of your mouth, your chin, your lower lip, back to your mouth again.

"Hijo de—" (Son of a—) He laughs against your mouth. Cracked. "—dios mío. (my god.) Hachi. Hachi. Holy fuck—"

You can't speak.

He can't either, apparently, because for a good ten seconds all he does is breathe into your mouth, short ragged pulls of air, his whole body trembling where it's pressed against yours. His chest heaving against yours—your nipples still hard against his sternum, that soft-and-hard contact that made him lose it the first time and is apparently still doing something to him, because his cock twitches weakly inside you and he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

Then he collapses. Not fully—he catches himself. Forearms hitting the hood on either side of your head, body curving over yours like a bridge that just lost structural integrity.

You lie there. Under him. On the hood of your AE86. In the mechanic bay of Daikoku at—you have no idea what time it is. One? Two?

The lot’s probably clearing out by now. The race, the twins, the confrontation—all of it feels like it happened in another lifetime.

His forehead finds the dip between your breasts. Rests there.

Breathes.

You feel each exhale—warm, damp, slowing incrementally as his body comes back to earth. His hand is now on your breast. Palm flat. His thumb making the smallest unconscious stroke against the outer curve.

Your fingers find his hair. Card through it. Gently.

He makes a sound. Not words. Just this soft, humming exhale that vibrates through your sternum.

After a while—seconds? minutes?—he turns his face. Presses his cheek against the inner swell. Eyes closed.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

“I think you broke me.”

“I think you dented my hood.”

His laugh is airless. Barely there. You feel it more than hear it—his chest shaking against your stomach, his breath stuttering.

“Worth it.”

“My mechanic’s going to have questions.”

“Tell him a really heavy guy leaned on it.”

“You’re not that heavy.”

“Tell him a moderately heavy guy leaned on it with extreme enthusiasm.”

You huff, fingers still moving through his hair.

“Hachi.”

“Mm.”

His nose burrows into the crook of your neck. A long, slow inhale through his nose, like he’s pulling your scent into his lungs and holding it there.

Then he exhales, warm and loose against your throat. Content. Almost happy, which is a word you wouldn’t normally associate with Park Jimin but there it is—happy, sated, his body heavy and slack on top of yours.

“So,” he murmurs into your neck. “Guess I should start drafting that marriage proposal, huh?”

You snort, graceless and immediate and you feel his grin spread against your skin before you can take it back.

Because you remember. That morning in his kitchen, standing in his pajama pants with egg mayo on the counter.

«Nah. That comes after actual sex.»

“Told you,” he says, and the smugness is audible. “Told you there’d be actual sex.”

“You didn’t tell me anything. You implied.”

“And I delivered.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. Hair wrecked. Lips bitten. Eyes soft and stupid and pleased with himself in a way that makes you want to kiss him and shove him off the car simultaneously.

“Under-promise, over-deliver. That’s the Jaque guarantee.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You came in four minutes.”

“I will end you—”

He ducks down and bites your tit. Same spot he marked earlier. More of a nip than a bite.

But your body doesn’t know the difference—a sound escapes, and his laugh vibrates against your chest in a way that’s going to haunt you for weeks.

“Knew it,” he says into your skin. “So sensitive.”

He presses one last kiss to the mark.

Then he leans back. Pulls out—careful, slow, that brief wince of separation that you feel in your overstimulated walls—and deals with the condom while you blink at the ceiling and try to remember how your legs work.

Shop rag. Tied off. Tossed toward the trash with an arc that misses by a solid meter.

He doesn’t pick it up. Just stares at where it landed on the concrete.

“I’ll get it later.”

“You absolutely won’t.”

“I absolutely won’t.”

You push yourself up on your elbows. The hood’s warm under your forearms—body heat and friction and the ghost of everything that just happened soaked into the metal. Your AE86 is never going to feel the same again. Every time you rest your hand on this hood you’re going to think about—

Don’t think about it.

He’s pulling his boxers up. Jeans follow. The button takes two attempts because his hands are still slightly unsteady, which you notice and file away as a private victory.

His shirt comes next. Black cotton swallowing the tattoos, the scratches you left on his back, the Buenos Aires street grid and the cherry blossoms and the scar on his ribs.

All of it disappearing under fabric like a secret the world isn’t allowed to see.

He rakes a hand through his hair. Doesn’t fix it. It stays fucked up.

Then he looks at you—still propped on your elbows on the hood, shirtless, bite marks darkening on your tits, hair a disaster, and probably wearing an expression that’s way too open for someone who runs this parking lot.

“Drive you home?” he asks.

Simple. No performance. No innuendo.

You hum. “Sure.”

He nods. Grabs your shirt, panties and pants from the floor, your bra from wherever it migrated to during the proceedings, and holds both out without commentary.

You take them. He turns around—actually turns around, gives you his back while you dress, like this is the part that requires privacy and not the part where he had your nipple between his teeth two minutes ago.

Idiot.

Sweet, stupid idiot.

You clasp the bra. Pull the shirt over your head. The fabric settles against skin that’s still buzzing, still warm, still covered in evidence of him that nobody above the collar will ever see.

The leather pants take effort. They always take effort, but post-sex they take unreasonable effort, and you end up doing that ridiculous shimmy-hop thing that makes you look like a seal trying to climb onto a rock.

He hears the noise. Turns. Watches the last three inches of leather-versus-thigh warfare with an expression of pure delight.

“Need a hand?”

“I need you to stop looking.”

“Not a chance.”

You yank the waistband into place. Zip up. Fix your hair with your fingers because there’s no mirror and it probably doesn’t matter anyway.

He’s already at the bay entrance when you grab your keys. Leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. Watching you walk toward him.

Not satisfied. Not smug.

Just—looking at you. Like he wants to remember exactly how you look right now, walking toward him through a mechanic bay at whatever-the-fuck AM, in the aftermath of something neither of you has a name for.

You stop in front of him.

“So.”

“So.”

The night air drifts in from the lot. Cold. Carrying the faint smell of rubber and cigarette smoke and the last traces of a crowd that’s long since scattered.

“Same time next week?” he asks. That grin starting at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t push it.”

“That’s not a no.”

“That’s a go home, Jaque.”

“I’m literally offering to drive you.”

“Then drive me. Less talking.”

His grin cracks open. Full. That stupid, incandescent thing that makes him look like a boy instead of the man who just fucked you on the hood of your car.

“Vámonos, entonces.” (Let’s go, then.)

He pushes off the frame. Walks toward the R34. You follow—half a step behind, keys in your hand, the ache between your legs a low, warm reminder of what just happened every time your sneakers hit pavement.

The R34 smells like leather and hinoki and him.

You sink into the passenger seat. The leather’s cold through your clothes. It’ll warm up.

He starts the engine, Skyline settling into a low idle that vibrates through the chassis.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

He drives. Through Daikoku’s empty lot, past the shuttered konbini, onto the main road where Tokyo’s nighttime infrastructure takes over—traffic lights cycling for no one, vending machines glowing on empty sidewalks, the occasional taxi cruising the lanes like a shark through shallow water.

Your head rests against the window. Glass cool on your temple. The city scrolling past in streaks of neon and sodium and the soft blue of closed shopfronts.

And you think—quietly, in the private space between your reflection and the glass—

So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﻌ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

Support kiki

Support kiki

next | index

taglist

@pjmw1ngs @pleasantheartsworld @ami-s-k @yoongssi @jimineepaboya @nothingnothingnothing77 @cyyyvb @mima795 @safira9497 @celliez @megatroncam07 @Asstaeticcc @melizzzie @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear

© jungkoode 2025 | banner: @writesvani divider: @dailynnt no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[lilmeowzsworld]

Serendipity

One-shot

pairing: park jimin x reader

summary: You and Jimin have been together for three beautiful years now, and tonight he's acting completely suspicious. He's got that specific smile on his face, he's secretive and his hand hasn't let go of yours the entire drive. What starts as a simple anniversary dinner leads you to a rooftol straight out of a dream with fairy lights overhead, rose petals at your feet and Seoul glittering in the night. And you begin to understand that tonight was not just about the dinner after all.

trigger warning: happy crying, mild swearing, mentions of seperation, making-out, semi-public display of affection, exhaustion/overworking

masterlist

The gentle hum of the car was the only sound breaking the comfortable silence you both created inside this warm cocoon, well, minus the sound of the radio playing a low jazz tune Taehyung had recommended to Jimin. Both you and Jimin liked it, though. The city lights outside the window blurred into streaks of gold and white as you drove, casting fleeting reflections across his face that just made him look even more ethereal than he already was.

His breathtaking features carried the calmness you’ve witnessed time and time before, yet the corner of his lips betrayed him. Those soft lips that yours remember from so many make-out sessions were now curled upward, betraying that he carried a secret he clearly enjoyed keeping from you.

You leaned softly toward him, studying how his fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel in time with the music, how his eyes occasionally flickered your way before darting back to the road. It reminded you of that shy boy you used to know when you two first started dating. For a man who flirted on stage for a living, he’s quite shy.

Curiosity finally got the better of you, though. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” You asked, voice playful, but demanding of answers. “You’ve been so tight-lipped all evening, Mr. Park.” You nudge his arm very lightly, mindful that he’s driving.

He chuckled immediately and briefly met your eyes again before turning back to the road as he’d done a handful of times during the drive. “Where’s the fun in that, jagiya? It’s our anniversary, and I wanted to make it special. A surprise, just for you.”

Then he reached over, his warm hand finding yours on the top of your lap, and interlaced your fingers together, giving them a tender squeeze. It was a simple gesture, done a thousand times before during your quality time together, but it never failed to spread warmth through your whole body. It seeped into your chest, right where your heart beat, and lingered there. You glanced down at your interlocked hands, watching his thumb brush over your skin softly, and smiled to yourself.

The car went on for a little while longer, while you watched the city lights of Seoul twinkle like scattered diamonds as dusk truly settled over the skyline. The glow of neon signs danced across the windshield, continuing to paint fleeting colors on your faces as Jimin drove through the quieter streets. The hum of the city faded bit by bit, slowly replaced by the gentle rhythm of tires gliding over smooth pavement and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

You leaned closer to the window now, trying to catch any hint of where you were headed, but Jimin had chosen a route that gave nothing, absolutely nothing, away. Your hand was still in his, and you were surprised how well he could drive with one hand. And quite frankly, the sight of him made the car feel way hotter than before. Or maybe that was just you.

Finally, the car slowed to a stop in front of an elegant building tucked discreetly away from the main streets. Its clean lines and soft exterior lighting gave it an air of exclusivity, like a place that only allowed its presence to those who needed to find it. It gave off one of those magical kdramas you so often binge-watched with Jimin.

A valet appeared almost immediately, bowing politely as he opened both your doors one by one. The cool evening air met your skin as you stepped out. There was a faint scent of blooming night jasmine lingering somewhere nearby, a scent that always reminded you of your childhood because your parents had one in the garden. Jimin rounded the car and reached for your hand again. His fingers slid into place with yours perfectly. Then, without a word, he led you inside.

The lobby was luxurious, but it didn’t scream luxury. There was sort of a quiet elegance to it, in a way. Marble floors, soft lighting, and the muted sound of a fountain somewhere nearby. It was fancy in that carefully put-together way to feel calm and intimate enough for clients to feel comfortable.

Jimin guided you toward the private elevator that was tucked into the far corner, pressing the button for the very top floor of the building. The doors closed with a soft chime once you both entered. Inside was lined with mirrored walls and a warm, golden light. Then began the gentle whir of the elevator as it ascended. For a while, everything was silent, neither of you making a sound or a move.

Then Jimin shifted. The soft expression he wore since your date began faded away, and that playful glint lit up his eyes. It was very familiar to you, because he always had this expression when he was about to kiss you dumb. As usual, his smile widened, lips curving just enough for you to guess what he intended to do. And before you could say anything, he moved.

In a smooth motion, he stepped forward and closed the small distance between you two. Then you found yourself trapped against the cool mirrored wall of the elevator. His hold on you was firm enough to let you know that he’s not letting you move anywhere, but gentle enough not to hurt you. The impact was feathery light, but it still made your heart stutter in your chest. His hands found your waist and settled like they belonged there. Well, you wouldn’t complain if they took up permanent residence there.

You were so adjusted to Jimin’s antics that this didn’t surprise you at all. The scent of his perfume, a little musky but with that distinct whisper of orange blossom, wrapped around you instantly now that he stood this close. It carried hints of sun-warmed tangerine and lilac. The scent was soft and to you intoxicating enough that you’ve begun to associate these smells with him. It always lingered around you just enough to make you want to lean closer.

He was so close you could feel his breath, the tip of your nose touching his. And his eyes… those beautiful eyes, were locked onto yours. Then, as if he had all the time in the world, and not just until the elevator reached its destination, he leaned in and caught your lips with his.

This wasn’t one of his fleeting kisses, not a teasing one he sometimes used to make you laugh. This one was slow, the kind that made you forget to breathe for a moment. His lips moved against yours, deepening gradually until it felt like the world had tilted and settled around that single point of contact between the two of you. Nothing else mattered except it.

His hands stayed at your waist, holding you still, like you might run away, even though running away couldn’t be on your mind right now, while you were so deeply entangled with Park Jimin. It felt as if heaven itself couldn’t separate you two. You vaguely felt his fingers find their way under your shirt, even though his lips were distracting as it is. His thumb drew small, absent circles on your skin, and the feeling made you melt into him even further.

The elevator, its buzz, the light, the hum of machinery… it all became secondary to this. To him. All that remained was his warmth against yours, his fingers brushing against your skin, his soft lips pressing against yours ,and the thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears. He tasted faintly of the wine you two shared over dinner. It was sweet and a little sharp at the edges.

He finally pulled back just enough for the air to pass between you two, but he pressed his forehead against yours, staying as close as he could. Your lips still tingled with his touch after, like you still felt him touching you even when he’s already stopped. You could still feel your pulse racing somewhere deep in your chest, but that’s just the effect Jimin had on you, as always. If you were being honest, you had no idea when you closed your eyes during the kiss either; that's how much Jimin affected you.

You drew in a shaky breath, the best you could muster right now, and finally opened your eyes, only to find him already watching you. There was something in his gaze that made your heart literally stumble for a short moment. It was a mix of affection and satisfaction of knowing what exactly you were feeling right now, all thanks to him, of course. His eyes lingered on your lips for another second longer, then raised them to yours. You felt heat climb up your neck, all the way to your face, despite yourself.

You whispered his name, and it was as if the syllables barely left your lips, just loud enough for him here, even when there was no one but the two of you in the elevator. It came out even softer than you had intended, but it carried everything you couldn't say in this moment.

He just smiled slowly, giving you that same grin that always made you forget where you were or even what you'd meant to say. It wasn't cocky, not the kind he gave off on stage when he was Jimin of BTS, no. It was gentle, almost shy, actually. The one where his eyes disappeared slightly, and he looked like that freshly debuted boy with a big dream and a small budget.

The elevator came to a stop at last, and Jimin reluctantly stepped back half a pace, his hand sliding from your waist but not quite letting go. Jimin never shied away from physical contact, ever. Even if it was just holding your hand, he would do anything just to be closer to you physically.

As the doors parted, your breath caught. The world that was just revealed to you felt almost unreal. Jimin stepped out into the open expanse of the rooftop, and you followed after him. The rooftop garden seemed to hover above the city itself as you stood atop it. The air was cool, touched with the faint sweetness of flowers carried by the light breeze. Now you knew where the smell of the blooming night jasmine came from, somehow, the wind had carried it all the way to the ground. There was also a fountain, just like the one in the lobby. The sound of the water trickling slowly threaded through the still air up here.

Fairy lights stretched above you like a constellation brought down to earth just for this occasion, which you still haven't figured out what it was. The lights glowed softly, giving this place a warm atmosphere that you thought only came in movies or books. A narrow path of smooth stone led forward, guiding you two through clusters of green and pale blooms that caught the light and even faintly shimmered. The path led you to a couple of low tables, dotting the edge of the space. Each one was crowned with glowing lanters that swayed with the breeze. And scattered between the lanterns and on the ground were white rose petals. Your favorite flower.

Beyond this small rooftop garden, Seoul sprawled endlessly. Its skyline was a magical mix of colorful lights, with glass towers reflecting across the Han river below. You've never seen Seoul like this before. It was really the kind of view that made you feel small and infinite all at once.

„Jimin,“ You breathed out, turning to him. „This is... incredible. How did you even find this place?“ Your eyes were wide with wonder for the sheer beauty of this place. For all your time in Seoul since you moved in, you've never seen such a pretty place and view.

Jimin slipped an arm around your waist again, the movement as natural to him as pulling a complicated dance move on stage. He drew you closer to him until your steps matched. You moved down the path together. „I have my ways,“ he whispered, brushing his lips against your temple as he spoke. „I wanted somewhere beautiful, somewhere just for us, away from everything.“

You reached a space that was set apart from the rest of the garden. Here, the glow of the lights softened, and the hum of the city felt miles away. It was just for the two of you, the rest of the world didn't matter. A small table waited for you two beneath a wooden pergola, which was laced with strands of fairy lights that didn't glow as bright as the rest, creating a more intimate area. White roses were present too, woven through the beams. The chairs looked really soft and inviting, draped with soft throw blankets that caught the faint evening breeze. And the table... it was simple yet fancy, at the same time. Glassware shone lightly on top of it, reflecting the candlelight. A bottle of champagne rested in a bucket of ice beside them.

You turned toward him fully just then, your hands finding their way on top of his chest. Then your eyes searched his face, taking in how the soft light touched his perfectly smooth skin, and they caught the pride hiding in his expression. „You've outdone yourself, seriously. This is the most thoughtful anniversary gift. Just being here with you... It's perfect.“

Jimin smiled again, just like he did in the elevator moments earlier. It reached his eyes easily and made their corners crease the way they always did when he smiled this widely for you. He lifted his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You leaned into his touch until he cupped your face. This is where you felt the most loved.

„Nothing is too much for you, jagiya. Every year with you feels like a gift. You light up my world in ways I never imagined possible.“ His voice came out quiet, and he let the words settle between you two. Park Jimin was so full of love for you that it bled out in the way he looked at you, the way he held yo,u and the way he spoke to you. And God, it made your heart ache in the best possible way.

He let his hand fall from your face, only to take both of your hands into his. His warm palms pressed against yours, thumbs moving slowly over your knuckles. It was comforting. It was loving. His eyes stayed on yours, giving you a view of his vulnerability. He looked like he was about to hand you something fragile, like a piece of himself, as if he hadn't given you all of him already.

You felt your pulse quicken, that anticipation from before coming back. He brought you here for a reason, and you knew that. Everything around you both melted into the background: the lights, the distant hum of Seoul city life. This time, truly, nothing mattered. Not even the slightest. Jimin drew in a slow breath, and his expression shifted as well. You knew Jimin enough that you were partially ready for this. Ready by knowing that something was coming, but not ready at all for what was coming.

Then, a faint melody drifted through the air. It wasn't loud, it just simply existed. It found the space between the two of you and filled it, already touching your heart before you even heard the lyrics. And then came his voice. It was rich, smooth, and impossibly sincere. Every word carried the weight of his feelings and love. Every note bloomed into the next one as he began to sing:

All this is no coincidence

Just, just, by my feeling

The whole world is different from yesterday

Just, just, with your joy

When you called me

I became your flower

As if we were waiting

We bloom until we ache

Maybe it's the providence of the universe

It just had to be that

You know, I know

You are me, I am you

Your eyes widened, and your breath caught before you could stop it. The sound of his voice suspended everything around you. The wind, the lights, even time itself. You turned toward him, confusion flickering across your face at first, the kind that came when something feels too impossible to be real. But as the melody continued, understanding began to take its place.

This song... you'd never heard it before. It wasn't just the words or the way he sang them, no. It was the way they felt. Each line seemed to reach for you, to say everything he'd never quite fully put into words. His voice carried something he'd most likely guarded for a long time, as though he now stripped every layer of himself away until only the truth remained.

It sounded like him. Like every bit of his soul caught the rise and fall of the notes, every memory that lived between you two was stitched into the melody itself. The world around you was still distant, non-existent. You weren't sure you could ever feel like you existed anywhere else but right here in this moment, on the magical rooftop. There was only his voice, the weight of what it meant, and both of you.

Jimin's gaze never left you, not even for a second. You always thought that his eyes would be your undoing, and perhaps it finally came tonight. This wasn't him playing a song and asking your opinion, nor was it a performance. It was a confession, a simple truth that was hidden behind simple 'I love you's and bodies pressed together while his lips devoured yours. He was singing to you this time, not to an audience.

A single tear slipped free before you even noticed it. The tear slid down your cheek, feeling warm against the cool air. The melody carried on, and the garden seemed to breathe with it. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, and the lanters flickered in time with the soft beats. It was truly magical, as if the entire rooftop was listening to your love story too.

As much as my heart flutters, I'm worried

The destiny is jealous of us

Just like you I'm so scared

When you see me, when you touch me

The universe has moved for us

Without missin a single thing

Out happiness was meant to be

‘Cause you love me, and I love you

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The HYBE rehearsal studio was alive with the sound of a heavy bass vibrating, even through the floorboards if you focused enough. Sneakers squeaked with every turn in perfect sync with the seven boys practicing for their new single release. Sunlight filtered through the window, spilling onto the wooden floorboards. Dust caught in its light like glitter flying around the room. And the mirrored walls reflected the seven hardworking boys in motion.

In the middle of it all, Jimin was moving like a body of water. So graceful, one would be mesmerised with each movement he made. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead, the colored strands already damp with sweat. Even while fatigue was pulling at his muscles after almost the whole morning of warm-up and practice, he was still sharp as ever. This is the space he thrived in. The space he feels the most comfortable in, doing what he love,s and doing it with some of the most important people in his life: his members.

But he had this tendency that none of the people who loved and cared for him liked. Everyone knew about it. The said tendency was to forget the simplest things. Like eating, like drinking water. Or, like taking a break before his body protested. That was why the boys noticed before he did, the figure stepping inside and clutching a paper bag against their chest.

“Hyung,” Jungkook called out to him during the music break, since he was the first one to spot you entering. “Delivery”

Jimin’s head whipped toward the sound of Jungkook’s voice first, before it settled on you and suddenly his entire expression cracked wide open into a smile that made the corners of his eyes disappear. Almost instantly, his shoulders relaxed, despite his slightly uneven breath from the last run-through of the choreo.

“Y/N?” he breathed out your name so softly, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually come here today.

“Breakfast,” you said simply, lifting the bag to show him. “Because someone I know was about to go another five hours on nothing but coffee.” Your tone was light, but with a hint of accusation he knew all too well when it came to his dietary habits.

Taehyung grinned, taking off his cap and fanning himself dramatically. “Busted,” Came as a low amused mumble. All the boys knew there was no playing about eating when you’re around.

“I give it two minutes before Jimin forgets we exist,” Yoongi, who was already seated on the floor with a bottle of water, spoke with a smallest twitch of his lips. It earned a laugh from Seokjin, which sounded like an agreement. If anyone knew him inside out, it was the members. And they knew they were practically second to you on the Jimin hierarchy of needs.

And Yoongi’s statement wasn’t wrong at all. Jimin’s whole world seemed to tilt toward you the moment you stepped closer to him. As if you were the gravity holding him on the ground and he couldn’t fight it even if he wanted to.

“Did you walk here?” Jimin asked, already moving toward her before she could even set the bag down. His voice softened completely, it the way it only did for her and almost no one else. He reached for the bag automatically. A small crease formed between his brows, she recognized it as the one that always appeared when he was worrying about something. Her apartment was too far to walk here this early, and even though she looked fine, he still worried. He always did, it was simply his default feeling.

“No, I took a cab. Don’t worry, I wasn’t carrying this halfway through Seoul,” Y/N teased, with a smile tugging at her lips. She handed the bag over to him and he took it, gentle fingers brushing over hers. He gave her a look, half relieved, half scolding, and she couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out. She always found him adorable like this, when his concern showed in every tiny movement, every thought, like he didn’t know how not to care. That was just Jimin through and through: always looking after everyone else, but never realizing how much it showed in his actions.

He ran a hand through his hair, which was already damp from practice, letting his pale blond strands fall forward over his forehead. Without thinking, Y/N reached up and brushed the loose locks aside, before he could pull away. Her fingers grazed his skin and he almost shivered. The gesture was small, almost careless truly, but the effect was instant.

Jimin stilled completely, and for that brief moment, the noise in the room dimmed. His gaze flicked up to meet hers. The corners of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it, and instead he was caught somewhere between a memory and reality. He didn’t have to tell her anything, not really. She could tell what he was thinking, just from his look.

He was stretched out across the couch of his apartment, his head resting peacefully in your lap, body loose with the kind of calm that only came to him when the world finally went quiet. The soft fabric of your sweatpants had turned into the most comfortable pillow imaginable, and he looked perfectly at peace here like this. His eyes were half-lidded, threatening to take him down into a deep kind of sleep. And his lips, oh those were curved into a lazy smile that you knew all too well. The late afternoon light filtered through the window in golden streams. It spilled across the floor, climbed over the edge of the couch, and brushed over the blanket draped across his legs.

You sat quietly, your fingers tracing slow paths through his hair, as you often liked to do when you two sat like this together. His pale strands slipped between your fingers like silk, still a little unusual from his recent bleach job. It took a while to get used to his new looks, but by far, blonde has always been your favorite color on him. You combed through it with a kind of unconscious tenderness, and the motion of it lulled him further into the comfortable haze that lingered between sleep and awareness.

The faint scent of your lotion clung to the air, it was something floral, and beneath it, lingered the sweetness of the tea you had made earlier. The mix of it felt like home here, even though you two haven't made a home yet in either of your apartments. However, a specific place wasn't really a home for you two. Not when home was wherever you two were forever. Jimin's breathing had settled into a very steady rhythm, chest rising and falling slowly as you played with his hair.

„You know,“ You murmured, voice low above him. „I think I like your hair like this. It feels so... soft. Like a cloud.“ You tugged gently on a strand, watching how it cought the light.

Jimin let out a quiet sigh, but let the corners of his lips twitch up. „Is that so? I always worry about the damage from bleaching. But if you like it, then it's worth it.“ His voice was slightly drowsy, but touched with humor at the same time. At moments when he's too comfortable to hold anything back, his laugh came the easiest, as it did now. He shifted slightly to stretch his limbs and make himself more comfortable. A soft sound escaped him once he settled, and it sounded almost like a purr.

„Oh, don't say that!“ the sound of your brief laugh filled the room. „You shouldn't damage your hair for anyone, not even me. But really, it suits you.“ You run your fingers through his strands again, as if to make a point. „It makes your eyes stand out even more.“

He tilted his head slightly. „My eyes?“ he mumbled, cracking one open to look up at you. „What about my eyes?“

You smiled down at him, thumb brushing along his temple absently. „They just sparkle more against the lighter color,“ you saif softly. Your fingers never stopped their gentle work through his hair. The motion was soothing and unhurried, as if time has lost it's meaning completely and there is only him and you in this world. „Like little stars. And your smile... it looks brighter too. You know, you have the cutest smile in the entire universe.“

The sound that left his lips next was warm, simply a quiet laugh that settled between you both like it belonged. And, truthfully, it did. „You're just saying that because you love me.“

„Well, that's certainly part of it,“ you admitted, teasingly. „But it's also true. You know, sometimes I just watch you when you're busy with something, or when you're just deep in thought, and I think about how lucky I am.“

Jimin finally opened both eyes, lookng up at you with that gaze of his that always made your heart skip a couple of times. „Lucky? I'm the lucky one, Y/N. Getting to come home to this? To you, just being here, letting me rest my tired head on your lap, listening to you ramble about my hair. It's the best part of my day.“ He reached up and gently cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb across your skin upon contact.

The warmth of his palm against your skin made your breath hitch. The feel of his thumb brushing slowly against your cheekbone gave you the shivers right across your spine. Your heart fluttered in your chest. It was a quiet response to his touch, one he'll never know about because only you felt it.

„It's not rambling,“ you pouted first, but then a fond smile made your lips curl up. „It's appreciation.“ You leaned down toward him. Your eyes searched his face, commiting it to your memory for a hundreath time. Park Jimin was truly an angel in disguise, and he was your angel. „And if you're going to keep saying sweet things like that, you might get a reward.“

Before Jimin could even respond to that, you lowered your head completely. Your lips gently pressed against his soft ones. The kiss was soft at first, just a gentle meeting of your lips with his. His hand, lingering against your cheek just a second ago, drifted up to the back of your neck. You felt your fingers tangle into your hair urgently, a sensation that made you let out a brief sigh against his mouth. You leaned further down despite the awkward angle because it was worth it. So damn worth feeling his lips.

His head shifted slightly in your lap carefully, not to stop this moment, but to prolong it just a little longer. Your other hand slipped to his jaw, thumb tracing his smooth skin there. He was right here, kissing you back, loving you back. Nothing else mattered anymore. The world outside didn't matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, except what you two had right here.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and hazy, you stayed close. Your lips brushed his cheek once as you attempted to catch your breath. Then you rested your forehead against his, noses almost touching. Jimin's lashes fluttered and he smiled faintly, that beautiful smile you praised just minutes earlier. And your fingers, still tangled in his bleached hair, absently combed through the soft strands. You just weren't willing to let go yet.

„That was a very good reward,“ he murmured, his slightly husky voice almost sending your mind into a frenzy. Oh, you just loved knowing that you caused it. „Maybe you should appreciate my hair more often.“

The small intimacy display drew a chorus of muffled groans and chuckles in the background though. As much as they love how comfortable and happy Jimin is with you, they won’t miss a chance to tease. “Seriously, you two,” Namjoon muttered loud enough to be heard. But his complaint is betrayed by the amusement in his tone.

Jimin decides it’s better to ignore them. “You’ll stay while we eat, right?” He asks, not taking his eyes off you.

“Of course,” you said with the smallest of nods, and that was all he needed.

The boys dispersed quite quickly to their own devices, some grabbing water, others collapsing dramatically on the floor to scroll their phones or chat. But Jimin still hasn’t let go of your wrist, so he tugged you gently toward the corner of the studio. The spot was away from the mirrors and speakers, enough to help him pretend the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

He sank onto the floor beside you, enough to leave minimal space between both of you, as usual. He stretched his tired legs out, his chest still rising and falling with leftover effort. He watched you unpack the bag, not even looking at what you got him. He trusted your judgement when it came to what he ate, a lot. Meanwhile, you laid out neatly wrapped sandwiches and warm pastries, and almost immediately, the faint aroma of eggs and cheese wafted through the air. It was breakfast you two often got when he had a free morning. Sometimes it was easier to order than waste precious time cooking, time you could spend cuddling, of course.

Jimin finally laid his eyes on the spread and let out a small laugh, well, it was more half a laugh, half genuine awe. “God, I love you,” his voice carried that familiar hint of emotion that it felt as if the sun had moved closer when it reached your chest.

“You love food more,” you corrected while handling him the sandwich you knew he specifically always ordered.

He accepted it obediently with both hands, like you handed him a prize or something. But then he leaned closer until his temple brushed against your shoulder. “I love you more.”

The words were so natural coming from him. No matter how frequently he voices them, they never lose weight. Being loved by him wasn’t grandiose nor loud, no. He wasn’t one for grand speeches or sweeping gestures. Love from him didn’t come in fireworks, but in the slow burn of everyday kindness. His love showed up in the way he remembered your tea just the way you liked, in the way his hand pressed to the small of your back whenever he could. And especially in the way he listened, really listened, when you spoke.

As he unwrapped his sandwich, you caught him glancing at you more than the food. His eyes sparkled with warmth you were well familiar with. Despite the exhaustion clinging to him, he still had energy to admire you. His lips curled into that small, and almost shy smile that said a thousand different things at once.

You nudged his knee with yours. “What?”

“Nothing,” he murmured with a head shake. He looks down at his sandwich briefly, and before taking a bite, adds: “Just… you’re here. That’s all.”

The words were so simple, such bare minimum, but they still made your throat tighten because of the way he said them. In his world, they were sacred, carrying an entire universe within. But, from the other side of the room, he caught attention.

“Hyung, don’t get all sappy now. We’re trying to eat in peace here.” Jungkook called out between bites of his own food. You let out a laugh, Jimin groaned, and Hoseok clapped his hands together, throwing himself back onto an old bean bag that was there for convenience. Hoseok laughed with his whole body and it’s always good to have something soft beside him to land on.

He spoke once he calmed down and straightened up again. “Yah, Jungkook, let them be. We should be thankful, our Jiminie is this happy because of her. Look at his face!”

Jin, because why not, added: “Happier than when he gets extra rice cakes.”

The teasing simply rolled off Jimin like sweat beads after a concert. Normally, he might turn pink and deny it, but he was long past that phase of shyness. Now he only smiled wider, accepting every word they spoke. He even reached up and brushed the couple of stray breadcrumbs from your bottom lip with his thumb as though to prove every word they said true.

“You make me soft,” he confessed under his breath, just low enough for you to hear him. “I don’t even care if they tease me.” He said it and meant it. It didn’t help that the way he was looking at you made it impossible to doubt.

The two of you took your time finishing breakfast, lingering over each bite like there was no rush. He offered you sips of his water, fed you the last bite of his sandwich even though you protested, wiped your fingers with a napkin more carefully than necessary. His every action screamed devotion, no matter how quiet and small. It said a lot about him as a person.

When it was time to practice again, the boys were already back in their work mode. Jimin rose reluctantly and tugged you up with him. “Stay a little longer?” he asked, still holding onto your hand and brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

When you nodded, his whole face lit up at once. It struck you how love looked on him, like the music he and the boys worked so hard on to perfect for ARMY. His hands went around your face, gently holding it like a drop of water on the surface of his palm. His soft lips pressed a quick kiss to yours. It was short, yet loving, just enough to keep you both together for the next few hours of physical separation.

When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb against your cheek, and then stepped back to return to the center of the room.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The hallway outside Yoongi’s studio was dim at this hour, lit only by the soft glow spilling under his door. The rapper was hardworking as usual, staying later in his studio to work on beats, whether it was a group project or his solo stuff. Jimin admired that about him, since their first days together.

Jimin stood there for a few seconds longer than he had planned. He chewed on his bottom lip because he hasn’t felt this nervous about anything else other than performances and new releases. In his hand, he clutched folded pages of lyrics he’s been writing for a while. He wasn’t usually nervous about asking his hyung for help, Yoongi had always been dependable and ready to lend a hand, but this was different. It wasn’t a group thing, it wasn’t for ARMY. This one thing was for him and her. For something that mattered to him in a way he couldn’t even put fully into words with these lyrics he held.

He took a breath, and finally knocked lightly on the door.

A muffled voice came from inside. “It’s open.”

Pushing the door, Jimin stepped inside. The familiar scent of coffee and warm electronics greeted him, along with a subtle tang of whiskey Yoongi would indulge in, for inspiration, of course. There was a familiar comfort of the neat clutter of Yoongi’s space: stacks of notebooks, scattered cables, and the faint hum of a beat looping on the speakers. Jimin didn’t know how a man can make a mess but at the same time make it look… organized, the way his hyung does. Speaking of, Yoongi sat in his chair, spinning lazily from side to side since he couldn’t sit completely still the whole time. His hair, which he didn’t bother to push aside, fell into his eyes as he looked up at Jimin’s entrance.

“Oh,” Yoongi said casually. “You. Thought you were Hobi with more coffee.”

Jimin let out a small laugh and shut the door behind him. “Sorry to disappoint, hyung. It’s just me.”

Yoongi shrugged, gesturing vaguely toward the chair across from him. “Sit. You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” Classic Yoongi. The silent guy that knows them so well, possibly better than they know themselves. It comes from years of sitting silently, watching everyone and noting their words and interests to store into his internal memory of people he cares about.

Jimin crossed the room, feeling his nerves build more and more with each step. He set the folded papers on his lap and sat down. For a moment, he only stared at them, absolutely unsure where to begin. Yoongi didn’t press, he never actually did. Instead, he turned back toward the monitor, paused the track he was working on and leaned back in his chair. His hands folded loosely in his lap and Jimin knew the man meant business.

Finally, the younger man drew in a breath. “Hyung… I need a favor.”

His words got Yoongi’s complete, undivided attention. His head tilted slightly and dark eyes flicked over Jimin’s expression. “Big or small?”

“Big.”

Then, a quiet beat passed between them before Yoongi nodded once like that was it, all the info he needed. “Alight. What is it?”

Instantly, Jimin’s throat tightened. He cursed his own nerves, especially in moments like these when he needed himself to be at his best. Despite all that, he unfolded the papers and smoothed them out on the desk between them. His handwriting filled the pages in lines that were scribbled and rewritten, some verses were crossed out, there were even little notes in the margins all around. Yoongi leaned forward to glance at them, interest peaking right away, and Jimin felt his ears heating.

“It’s… lyrics,” Jimin explained, while keeping his voice even. Despite trusting Yoongi, even with his life, Jimin didn’t want his friend to see him so not composed as he usually is. “I’ve been working on them for a while now. They’re not for an album, or anything official. They’re just… for me. Well, for someone.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked up to him and Jimin knew he could read him like these messy words on the white paper. “Y/N.”

Was Jimin surprised? Not really. But he still swallowed hard and blinked at his friend. “That easy to tell?”

“You wouldn’t look this nervous if it was for anyone else,” Yoongi replied simply, like it was the most obvious thing. And it was, actually. He looked back down at the lyrics, taking the paper into his own hands. Jimin let him, trusting his judgement. The rapper skimmed the first few lines, lips pressed tight in thought. “What’s the occasion?”

There it is. The moment of reveal which had Jimin in a chokehold since he decided to come to Yoongi. His voice dropped when he spoke. “Our third anniversary. And… I’m going to propose.”

For the next moment, silence filled the studio again, except for the silent hum of the equipment that should otherwise be unnoticeable. But Jimin heard it, along with his own heartbeat. Yoongi’s brows lifted slightly, but his expression betrayed pride. That fact eased Jimin, just a little. He watched Yoongi lean back and cross his arms over his chest loosely.

“Well,” he said after the pause. “that explains the nerves.”

Feeling less rigid, Jimin laughed weakly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I want it to be special, hyung. I want to give her something that’s… just for us. A song no one else will hear. And I thought… I thought maybe you could help me make it real.”

Yoongi studied him for a moment, no judgement in those dark eyes at all. Then, he leaned forward again and looked back down at the lyrics, continuing to skim the rest. He was obviously imagining the beat, the rhythm, and probably how it will all turn out in a final draft already. Yet there was something… just a little curve at the corner of his mouth. It was subtle, but it gave Jimin all the answers he needed. “You really had to ask?”

Jimin blinked though, anxiety getting better of him. “What do you mean?”

“You know I’ll help you,” Yoongi said flatly, but his actions already contradicted the characteristic calmness he expressed. He picked up a pencil and started marking the margins of Jimin’s lyrics. He was tapping the desk with his other hand on the side, already working the rhythm as he read. “Doesn’t matter if it’s for release or not. If it’s important to you, I’ll make time.”

Jimin’s chest instantly tightened before he even finished the sentence. This was Yoongi. No drama follows this man, no noise in his actions, but he’s always there. Always. He was the kind of person who would never turn down a friend in need.

“Thank you, hyung,” Jimin said softly. He didn’t doubt Yoongi’s willingness to help, but he didn’t want to take it for granted either, especially not when he knew Yoongi was a busy man.

Yoongi’s response sounded distracted, since he was still focused on the words written. “Mmm. Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see what you’ve got here.” Jimin didn’t comment, just letting his friend do his music magic, or whatever it is he did to make everything about music and songs so magical and special. Speaking of Yoongi, he tapped a line with the eraser end of his pencil, humming to himself again. “This one’s good. Simple and honest. But the flow stumbles here, if you want it to sit over a melody, we might have to adjust. You okay with tweaking a few lines?”

“Of course.”

Yoongi nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Good. You already have a melody in mind?”

“Sort of. Just…” Jimin hesitated, unsure about something this important. “Bits and pieces. Nothing solid, really.”

“Sing it,” Yoongi said without looking up.

The younger man’s eyes widened. “Now?”

Yoongi finally looked up, giving him a look. “What, you want me to wait until tomorrow? Sing it.”

With a sheepish laugh, Jimin cleared his throat. He began humming the melody that’s been circling his head for weeks. It wasn’t perfect, not final yet. But it carried the feeling he wanted for this project: soft and yearning. As Jimin sang, Yoongi’s pencil started moving over the paper again. He sketched notes and little arrows only he could understand and connect across the page.

When Jimin finished, a third round of silence lingered for the shortest of moments as Yoongi finished sketching. Then he hummed the tune back slower, testing it against the words he newly added. “Not bad,” He finally said. “Needs some smoothing, but it works nicely. We can build around that,” He looked up, meeting Jimin’s eyes. “You want this to feel intimate, yeah? Just the two of you.”

Jimin nodded quickly. “Exactly.”

“Then we keep it stripped down,” Yoongi said, nodding at the paper. He was in full lyricist-producer work mode now. “Acoustic base, maybe piano. Let your voice carry it mostly. No need for heavy production or it’ll drown the meaning. You want her to hear you, not the layers around you.”

Jimin swallowed, slightly overwhelmed by just how easily Yoongi understood. “That’s… that’s perfect.”

Yoongi shrugged like it was nothing, just his usual daily thing to do. Well, truthfully, it was. He lived music. This truly was nothing. “When do you need it by?” He asked, flipping to a blank page in his notebook.

“The anniversary’s in two weeks,” Jimin admitted. “I know it’s short notice, hyung, but-”

“Two weeks is plenty,” Yoongi cut in before Jimin can begin rambling and panic about the due date. “We’ll get it done.” He added, matter-of-fact.

Jimin just blinked, his heart squeezing with so much love he thought was impossible to have for a man he considered a brother. “Really?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Yoongi shot him a flat look. He had a point, Yoongi never joked about finishing on time.

Jimin laughed, shaking his head. “No. I just… I didn’t think you’d drop everything for this.” If he was to be honest, now he felt guilty for pulling Yoongi away from everything else he had on his schedule. He’d hate to be the reason for Yoongi's dark circles.

Yoongi leaned back, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “You’re my brother. You ask, I help. It’s that simple.”

With Yoongi, words like that carried weight. He didn’t say them often and he didn’t need to. But everyone who knew him understood that when he did speak like this, it wasn’t to fill silence, it was because he meant it. Even when he spoke them as easily as saying a quick “hello”, those words pressed against Jimin’s chest and sunk deeper than he expected.

Sincerity has always been his quiet strength, not masked and dressed up in grand gestures or flowery phrases, but it was a certainty that made you believe him without question. And right now, Jimin believed him with everything he had. He ducked his head, suddenly shy as the papers in his lap rustled under his hands. “You always say things like that so easily.” he murmured, almost accusingly even when his voice carried nothing but warmth.

Yoongi glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, like he was debating whether to respond or not. And for a moment, Jimin even thought he’d hear something else, like a dry quip, or even a deeper, rarer confession. But then, Yoongi just closed his mouth and huffed out a breath through his nose. Then gave a small nod. Enough sentimentality for one night. Agust D wasn’t built to sit in feelings too long.

It was time to work anyway, Jimin knew so. He wouldn’t leave this studio without at least seeing the first draft, knowing how Yoongi operated. So, for the next fifteen minutes, Yoongi bent over the lyrics. His pen scratched the paper, leaving the gray mark on the paper, occasionally pausing to tap the desk in rhythm as he adjusted a phrase or mapped a possible chorus.

Meanwhile, Jimin sat quietly opposite him with his hands folded in his lap. His thumb and forefinger fidgeted, rolling the edge of the paper as he watched Yoongi work. At first, the silence made him aware of his own nervous heartbeat, but the steady sound of Yoongi’s pencil became a kind of anchor he could focus on and it was pulling him into the calm state he didn’t come into this studio with.

The reassurance Yoongi had given him was almost short, but it was still echoing in his mind. We’ll get it done. It was all he needed to hear to help the anxiety twisting in his stomach for days now to unravel finally. He knew that he had all the support from his members, without a doubt. But it still helped to know that for certain, since Yoongi was the first to find out.

His thoughts drifted toward what came after, more specifically, the anniversary and the proposal. He pictured it in flashes: her face when she hears the song, the way her hands might tremble, the way her eyes would widen. He imagined holding out the ring he already picked out, his heart thumping in his throat at that point. And then asking the question he’s been carrying for months.

It had to be perfect. It just had to. He knew life didn’t always give you perfect moments, but this one… he wanted to create it with his own hands for her. No, for them. Not just as an anniversary or a celebration of three years together, but as a promise. A marker of the day they’d step into the rest of their lives together. The happily ever after.

Once the clock Yoongi never glanced at, but kept in his studio just because, crept past midnight and that first rough demo was saved, Jimin leaned back in his chair and let his shoulders sag like he’d carried all the weight of the day upon them. The glow on his face wasn’t just from the screen of Yoongi’s monitor, it was actually the kind of tired brightness that came from pouring himself into something that mattered.

That’s when Yoongi slid a fresh cup of coffee across the desk without a word. He had taken a break to boil water in the kettle and poured in the little bag of 3in1 coffee he kept in his studio for emergencies. Not his usual go-to, but it works when he’s too work drunk to wait for an order to arrive. Jimin had no idea how many times he’s been in this situation back when he had to record his parts of group songs when he was too busy to be there for the group record sessions.

Jimin wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. His throat tightened impossibly tight, partly emotion about everything he has planned, partially the gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words right now. So, he decides not to address how much help Yoongi was and make the man go through all the sentimentality again. But, his anxiety flared up again about something. “Hyung,” he murmured, not daring to look up from the dark swirl of coffee. “she’s going to say yes, right?”

Yoongi didn’t laugh at his worry. Didn’t tease or mock him for being nervous, or make light of the question asked. Instead, he rested a steady hand on Jimin’s shoulder. The younger man felt the weight of it immediately and it was comforting. It was enough to pull Jimin out of the tangle of the doubts circling inside his chest.

“If she loves you the way these lyrics say she does,” Yoongi’s voice was even, but there was no mistaking the gentleness. “then she already has.”

Jimin let the words sink in as the room settled into a comfortable silence again. His lips curved just slightly, feeling the quiet reassurance anchor him more than any grand pep talk ever could. Sometimes you just need less words and more presence than a whole speech. And that was exactly what worked for Jimin right now. He couldn’t be more thankful for the people he’s surrounded himself with over the years. And he’s going to spend the rest of his life with one of them soon.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

Seoul never really slept, but inside the HYBE building there was this little studio called the Genius Lab that might as well have been its own world. Even before Jimin’s project, the studio lights were on until wee hours. Specifically this week, Jimin found himself there every night, slipping in after schedules ended, after rehearsals drained him of sweat and breath, and after laughter and chatter with the boys gave way to silence. He would knock gently and Yoongi would already be waiting inside with half-finished coffee on the desk and the light of his monitor shone brightly upon his face.

The first night had been a little shaky. Jimin’s voice trembled just a little when he hummed the melody and he knew it happened because he was afraid of breaking something so delicate he’s built in this song. But Yoongi caught it immediately and cast his chord magic that always left Jimin in wonder. Now, several nights later, the song was taking shape and what started as mere pencil-scribbles in messy margins of a notebook was slowly transforming into something special.

Jimin leaned against the booth wall, headphones slipping slightly over his ears. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his singing when he went over one line again, making it softer now and with less strain, as Yoongi suggested. He could already imagine her hearing it for the first time, while he knelt to the ground with that ring in his fingers, he can imagine her smile breaking open as she realized what it meant. That scene alone was enough to make his voice catch with emotion, but he didn’t let that stop him.

Yoongi listened, as usual when he worked on projects. His eyes were closed and head tilted slightly as though he could picture every note and imagine them settling into place within the walls of his mind. When Jimin finished, he looked through the glass that separated him and Yoongi.

“Better,” Yoongi finally opened his eyes, locking them with Jimin’s inside the recording booth. “You don’t need to push so hard. Let it breathe.” He adjusted a dial on his mixer and glanced back at Jimin. “Sing it like you’re whispering it to her.”

The words found their way to Jimin through the headphones and he nodded. He pressed the headphones closer and gave it another shot. This time, there was less force and more tenderness in how he sang it. When he finished, the look Yoongi gave him was subtle but approving in that Yoongi way. “That’s it,” the rapper murmured, already saving the take.

Jimin smiled faintly, heart full of love and whatever else it could muster up. “Hyung… thank you. Really.” He said, knowing Yoongi could hear him loud and clear.

The rapper didn’t answer right away though. Momentarily he busied himself with the screen to adjust what he deemed needed before finally saying, “Don’t thank me until she hears it. That’s when it matters.”

Days after that blurred together for Jimin. He had this song to work on and the group’s schedule was also very packed. Rehearsals that left everyone half-collapsed by evening, a variety show recording that stretched into the afternoon, and a whole lot of different things as well. Cameras followed them wherever they went, recording half their lives to be forever up on the internet.

And just beneath all the chaos and hectic work life, Jimin carried a secret sitting in his chest like he grew a second heart. It would often quicken like his actual heart whenever he looked down at his phone and her message sat in his notifications, the silly little hearts she always used making his day better. Every free minute, every silver of quiet he managed to catch during his busy day, his thoughts drifted back to that song, and the moment she heard it. The moment he goes down on one knee.

He didn’t tell the rest of the boys yet. Not because he didn’t want to. God forbid there was anything he didn’t share with them. But he was as nervous about it as he was when Yoongi found out, only five times over this time. He didn’t know how to do it, which might be stupid, considering he once shared a single bedroom with a bunch of bunk beds with these six guys. And a bathroom, for that matter. But the boys did notice he was different. Oh, they always notice.

It was Seokjin who caught on first, actually, during a late night group dinner they rarely had when life gets busy. Nothing ever went past those older brother senses of his. Everyone was eating noisily, especially the two youngest. Jungkook made a bet with Taehyung about who can eat his noodles sooner. But Seokjin? Oh, that man leaned back in his seat and eyes Jimin like he’s grown two heads. And Jimin was half-distracted with his chopsticks hovering and a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” Seokjin remarked casually, like talking about the weather. But that glint in his eyes said this was anything but casual. “Care to share why?”

The table quieted down just enough for Jimin to realize all five pairs of eyes had turned toward him (minus Yoongi who seemed to know where this was going, his cat sense tingling or whatever). Taehyung leaned in immediately, noodles forgotten and a boxy grin on display. Jungkook also forgot the bet, obviously and let his curiosity get the best of him. Hoseok also tilted his head and Namjoon simply waited and watched, so intensely that Jimin almost thought that the leader had him figured out already.

Speaking of Jimin, his face burned under their gazes and he let out a nervous laugh, trying to wave it off. That’s when Yoongi set his chopsticks down and glanced at Jimin, as if confirming whether or not he’s about to spill it. But for the rest of the boys, the silence and the glance was enough of an answer.

“Hyung!” Taehyung gasped almost dramatically, slapping the table. “You know something!”

Yoongi didn’t blink or flinch at the accusation. He only sipped his soda and let the chaos build around him. It wasn’t his place to tell, no matter how much he finally wanted the cat out of the bag, if he were honest.

“Tell us, tell us!” Jungkook leaned across the table like a child begging for candy.

Jimin ducked his head and pressed his lips into a smile he knew couldn’t be hidden anymore. He didn’t need to say the words out loud for the boys to know something big was going on. They just knew him too well. They felt it in his softness lately, in the way he disappeared after practice only to return the next morning glowing despite yesterday’s exhaustion. They saw it in everything.

And when he told them, they all burst into a fit of cheers so loud it made him flinch before he laughed. Hoseok jumped up first, nothing short of Hoseok-like, and practically dragged Jimin up on his feet to shake his shoulders before pulling him into a crushing hug. Taehyung was right behind him, clapping so hard his palms must’ve stung. He couldn’t resist hugging his soulmate, his best friend, the first one in the group to get engaged and live a happy life with his partner.

Seokjin did the most elder brotherly thing and smacked Jimin lightly on the back. It was a very proud and partially teasing gesture which the younger man appreciated very much. Jugkook was still as wide-eyed as Jimin remembered him from their debut days. He shouted something incoherent, which might have been something with the few beers the maknae had during dinner, and then threw his arms around Jimin. And Namjoon, always so damn composed, couldn’t keep his cool this time. His dimples graced Jimin’s view as the older guy laughed and wrapped him in a hug that felt more like being anchored safely than just a hug. Namjoon had that effect on people.

It was overwhelming in the best way possible, Jimin thought. Shouts, whistles, congratulations coming from all sides of him, coming from people he cared about the most (with the exception of one girl that waited for him after this dinner). The group’s joy was so unfiltered that it filled every corner of the room, bouncing off the walls, vibrating in Jimin’s chest until it nearly burst from inside out.

For a long moment, he could only stand there and watch his best friends being so happy for him they could light up a whole city with how much energy they’ve got going on here. It wasn’t just that they were happy for him, actually, it was that they believed in him and in what he was about to do. But then again, this was them, and even if he was climbing the rock bottom, they’d believe in him.

And for the first time, he could see the full picture of that day: the moment he would kneel before her, the song filling the air between them as his confession in the way he knew to confess best (through music), and his heart open and bare for her to softly take into her hands and care for. And the boys somewhere nearby, watching, maybe even holding back tears of their own.

He smiled to himself, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest that had been following him for months now.

Soon.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The final notes of the song faded, leaving a silence that settled over the rooftop, broken only by the faint sounds of life all around the building. Your hands trembled and you desperately tried to steady yourself, but it just wasn't working. You were rooted to that one spot, while every single emotion crashed into you at once. Your breathing was uneven, and the tears on your cheeks felt warm despite the coolness of the night air. The tears weren't those of sadness, not even close. They were tears that came when the heart overflowed with emotion and the body couldn't contain the feeling.

Jimin watched you with an expression that held nothing back. His eyes caught the light from the fairy strands above, giving that already soft pair a glassy shimmer. Moments ago, he'd been lost in the song, listening to his own voice carry over the rooftop. You could tell that each note carried a piece of his soul with the wind. Now he stood completely still in front of you, as if scared to disturb the moment.

„That song...“ You managed, but your voice was barely above a whisper. „Jimin, I... that was incredible. I've never heard it. Was that... you recorded that?“

Needing your proximity, Jimin stepped closer to you. His smile bloomed softly, hiding his perfect eyes. It warmed his entire face instantly. When he reached up to touch your cheeks, his thumbs brushed over the wet trails of your tears with care that made your breath hitch all over again. He held you as if you might shatter from the weight of this night and specifically this moment. He knew he was at the edge as well. This was such an important moment.

„I did. For you. It's been finished for a week or two, waiting for the right moment.“ He paused brefly before adding. „Our moment.“ His voice showed his calmness, which contrasted with the full force storm that churned inside of you. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the speech he's planned to deliver. No matter how many times he's rehearsed it, the speech never felt perfect enough in his opinion. But he had a feeling he won't mess it up. „The entire night, Y/N, it isn't just an anniversary dinner.“

He drew his hands away from your face even though he wasn't fond of breaking the physical contact with you. Jimin was the kind of clingy type of guy, but not in that overly clingy way, not really. He just needed reassurance that you're here by holding your hand. Just like now, when he laced your fingers together to gently guide you a few slow steps until you stood beneath the cluster of brightest light.

The pergola framed your two figures like you were on stage, even though nothing about this moment right now felt performative. Jimin had spent years mastering the art of the stage. He's given his everything, his blood, sweat and tears, to make something special for thousands and thousands of fans watching him. And he was brilliant at it. Together with his members, he was unstoppable, like a force that can conquer everything. But right here, where the two of you stood, none of it mattred. There was no audience or expectations to meet, just the two of you.

„I remember the first time I saw you,“ he finally spoke after giving you enough time to process the song and focus on the speech he was about to deliver. His voice dropped to a low note too, and you knew that you're not leaving this rooftop with dry eyes. „It was at that pop-up gallery opening, remember? The one near the river? I was supposed to be doing a quick appearance, get in and out. And there you were, not among the other people, but djusting the aperture on that vintage camera of yours, trying to capture the way the last rays of sun were hitting that single, overlooked sculpture in the corner.“

His voice carried you both back, and you could see the memory unfolding behind his eyes as the wind brushed the rose petals along the pergola. That faint scent of the flowers shifted around you two as the wind moved with a mind of its own. The only thing that kept you grounded right now and not floating around like this trail of flowers, was the feeling of his hands in yours. Then he let out a soft laugh, which sounded nostalgic while he relived your earliest memories.

„Everyone else focused on the obvous art, on all the flashy pieces,“ he continued speaking, and gave your fingers a gentle squeeze just because. The movement spoke more than his words alone did. „But you... you saw the subtle beauty in all the pieces. You were completely lost in your focus, oblivious to everything else around you. It was like watching a master painter, Y/N, except your canvas was the world, and your tool were your eyes.“

While he spoke, the lights above flickered softly. The light caught in the stray strands of hair that brushed over your cheek. And that endless city behind him faded away into a nightsky full of man made stars. And there he was: the center of those stars, delivering what seems to be the beginning of the most heartfel speech you've ever heard.

Jimin paused like he had all the time in the world to finish this night, or he just didn't want it to end so he was prolonging every moment he had. The silence stretched, but it was a perfectly calculated moment of nothingness. Jimin certainly knew how to deliver a speech, especially since he has experiences giving speeches. His eyes gazed upon you softly, which shouldn't be that special to you, since he always looked at you with these soft eyes. But in this moment, while you were uncertain what this all meant, the way his eyes shone with love, it took you off guard slightly. It made you feel seen, which unsettled you and grounded you both at once. Jimin finally spoke up. „That's what you do to my life, jagi.“

As if he wasn't already close to you, he made a point by stepping closer, bringing more warmth to you. The movement brought a fresh swirl of his cologne, which was citrusy tonight, into the air and the scent wrapped around you. „You teach me to stop looking at the stage lights and to focus on the soft light of the morning,“ He went on. „You taught me how to see myself, not just the image the world expects. You brought depth and color to a life that was honestly, sometimes, feeling a little too black and white.“ His words carried a kind of truth that, for a musician, was easier to say through a song, rather than speak them this openly.

„Our journey hasn't been easy, has it?“ he murmured, and this time his voice carried more weight and conviction than before. „We had to survive time differences and distances when I was on tours, the insane schedules of my life and constant secrecy. There were months where a ten minute video call felt like a miracle when I had pre-concert prep.“ With the remembrance of those nights when either you or he had to stay up late to greet each other even for ten minutes or less, he gave a small smile. „But every moment apart only solidified one thought for me: you are the place I want to return to, every single time. You are my home, Y/N. My peace.“

He lifted your joined hands with care, raising them between your bodies to plant a kiss on your skin. When his lips brushed the back of your hand, that kiss lingered. He didn't rush it because he didn't want just his words to present his love for you. Jimin, was a man of physical care, after all. He's done this so many times when the two of you had move nights, him laying between your arms because he loved the feeling of them wrapped around his body. He would raise your hand to his lips and paint butterfly kisses upon it. But this right here, oh it meant so much more. His warmth and the feeling of those soft lips against your skin tightened your throat and blurred the edges of your vision.

„That was my new song for you,“ he said. „It's called Serendipity, because that's what you are to me.“ He paused yet again, obviously loving this dramatic flair that came with the speech a little too much. He briefly let go of your hand and reached over to wipe the runaway tear on your cheek. You didn't even realize it fell, but you didn't care either.

„You are my Serendipity,“ he continued. „I didn't go looking for you, but the universe put you right in front of my lens, and suddenly everything clicked into perfect focus. Every memory we've made, every quiet moment in your apartment or mine, every ridiculous inside joke, every tear dried for the other... it all led to this rooftop tonight.“

Now he let one of your hands slip free for something that's going to take longer than wiping a tear, but kept the other tightly clasped in his. He ran his thumb once along your knuckles, either for his own peace of mind or yours, you weren't sure. But it didn't do much to help calm your nerves. Not when his now-free hand slid into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. For a brief moment, you noticed his hand shaking, and it hit you just how nervous he actually is.

When he pulled his hand from his pocket, he held a small velvet box of deep blue, nearly black, color. Jimin held it with a caution that spoke volumes and you knew exactly what it held. You had your suspicion since he brought you on this rooftop, but still a small part of you thought this wa sall just an anniversary gift and speech. But now you understood it a lot better: it WAS an anniversary gift, just a bigger one than you anticipated. Jimin's eyes lited to yours and in them you could now see the the hope burning so strong it rooted you in your place.

„I don't want a few days or a few weeks or a few months,“ Jimin said, voice carrying so many emotions at once that you couldn't keep up anymore. „I want forever. I want every single sunrise in every time zone, Y/N, as long as I get to see it with you. I want to spend the rest of my life showig you how much you are loved.“

He finally took a deep breath, the kind that was for him and him only: simply to steady him in what he's about to do next. Even the wind didn't blow anymore, as if it paused to listen too. Jimin released your other hand now as well, but his fingers trailed your skin for as long as they could before falling away. Then he lowered himself onto one knee. The movement was unhurried and it futher cemented your convinction about what this was.

The polished stone beneath him reflected faint glimmers of the string lights overhead in tiny little orbs which now trembled in your blurred vision. This time truly nothing else mattered. Not the city of Seoul, not the thousands of tiny lights that resembled stars on land, not the traffic below. Truly nothing could take your focus off this single moment: the man you loved on one knee in front of you.

Your breath caught when he opened the small blue velved box. Its hinge gave a soft click, barely audible really, but for you it echoed like a bell. It revealed a single diamond ring, bright enough to challenge every star on the skyline. It was so beautiful and so your style. But then again, this was Jimin who choose it. He was a man who knew you inside out, of couse he would choose the best for you.

The world shrank down, but not in that way that felt incredibly small, more in a way that felt focused. And focused it was: on the ring, the box, his fingers that still trembled but he tried not to let it show, and most importantly, on the hope that was printed so openly on his face. You felt your chest tighten even more, and heard your own heartbeat loud and clear in your ears.

It felt like an hour had passed, but in reality, you two have been stuck in this moment for half a minute max. Your hands lew up to cover your mouth, purely to silence a sob that sounded more like a gasp. This time, you felt your tears fall and didn't try stopping them, as if you could, even if you did try. Your vision blurred comletely with the neverending tears that just wouldn't stop, and those fairy lights above stretched into long, trembling streaks.

Down on his one knee, Jimin still looked impossibly handsome, yet achingly vulnerable. There was tension in his shoulders, as if every muscle held back a rush of fear and hope, both at once. His eyes were fixed on you, bright but filled with unshed tears. He was holding back from breaking a lot better than you were right now. „Y/N,“ he began again and his voice cracked slightly, because now it was an evident show of his anxiety and love. He swallowed and tilted his head up just enough to catch your gaze. You stood there frozen, unable to will yourself to move or to even say anything. The only movement came from your chest rising and falling unevenly.

„Don't stand there looking like you're about to faint on me, jagiya,“ Jimin chuckled nervously. The laugh wasn't enough to cut down on the tension though, but it eased it even if just by a little.

He took a deeper breath for what felt like a hundreath time this night, and the seriousness settled back over him once more. „I know this is sudden, even though we've built a life that feels like forever already. But I can't wait another day. Every morning I wake up, the first thought is you. Everytime I finish a grueling schedule, the only place I want to be is next to you, watching bad documentaties, or just talking about what photo you want to take next.“

For the first time in a while, the wind made its presence known again, brushing his jacket and carrying the faint scent of those roses again. Jimin lifted the box just a fraction higher and the light bounced off the surface of the ring in a single flash.

„They say that love is about finding the one who completes you, but that's not right,“ he continued, growing more and more confident in his own words as the speech went on. „You don't complete me, Y/N. You challenge me. You make me want to be better, softer, stronger. You are the only person outside the group who can look at me, at Park Jimin, and see just Jimin. Just the boy who loves dancing so much his feet hurt, the man who still gets nervous before every performance, the man who simply wants to share a quiet life with the most extraordinary person he's ever known.“

A single tear finally slipped from his eye and rolled silently down his cheek, cutting a clean line along his perfect skin. The tear moved slowly, catching on the curve of his jaw before falling. He didn't even think of brushing it away, even for a moment. He didn't look away either, instead he remained holding your gaze.

„I promised you a life of adventures, but our greatest ones are going to be the small, mundane things. It's going to be fighting over what takeaway to order on a Tuesday. It's going to be about holding your hand while we walk out dogs one day. It's going to be sharing our triumphs and shielding each other from the rest of the world's noise. It's going to be sitting on a porch one day, old and wrinkled, and still laughing at some silly jokes.“

The breeze drifted around again, this time it pushed a stray lock of his golden hair across his forehead. But Jimin didn't lift a hand to fix it. Instead, he was too focused on holding the velvet box as steadily as he imagined himself to be at this most vulnerable moment.

He still held your gaze even though you could barely see him through your tears. „I wrote Serendipity for you, because every day with you feels like fate smiling down on me. You are my beautigul, unexpected cosmic gift. I love your sharp mind, your incredible talent for seeing the beauty that everyone else misses, your kindness, your loyalty, and the way you can somehow always calm my anxieties with just your presence and silence.“

„Y/N, I need you to be my partner in everything. My confidante, my best friend, my future. I want to build a real home, a future, a forever with you. Please give me the privilege of calling you my wife.“

His voice deepened, dripped with hope, fear, love all in one as he finally asked the ultimate question:

„Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?“

There, that question was finally out in the open. This whole night led to this exact moment when he would ask the question that carried the weight of an entire lifetime waiting for you. The silence that followed his last words was agonizing. It stretched longer than any pause in Jimin's speech yet. And then you dropped your hands from your mouth since there was no point in hiding your cries any longer. Oh, how sweetly your chest ached with how much love for him it carried. Your shoulders shuddered when you began crying without a care anymore. Despite that, you smiled widely.

Jimin still watched you with tension that his whole body mirrored, and he waited for that answer that will change everything you two so far knew in your shared life. He even had to fight an urge to reach for you, even though he wanted to so badly. But he held himself back, just a little longer, giving you space and time to process everything.

You didn't speak, not because you couldn't voice anything out, but because your body moved before you COULD voice anything. First, a vigorous shake of head, not meaning 'no', it was the universal gesture of being overwhelmed, instead. And then, you threw yourself forward and sank down to the ground beside your boyfriend. The sudden movement almost knocked him over.

Your arms wrapped around him instantly, not even giving him a chance to steady himself. Your tears, which you still didn't care enough to stop, soaked into his shoulder, and he didn't care either. Not when he could finally wrap his own arms around you too. He felt relieved when he could finally pull you in, and rest his cheek on the top of your head.

Finally, you pull away enough to look at him and give him the answer he's been waiting for. „Yes! Oh God, yes, Jimin!“ The words sound choked, as you weren't done crying yet. Your arms tightened around his neck, fingers curling at the back of his jacket. „Yes! A thousand times yes!“

Jimin finally let out a huge sigh. It felt like he was holding his breath from the moment you two arrived at this rooftop. In the heat of the moment, he dropped the velvet box, which clattered softly to the ground. He didn't care about anything else more than wrapping his arms around your waist comfortably and pulling you closer, if that was even possible.

He tilted his head back and laughed. It was a sound of pure triumph over the worry he felt this whole time. All the weight of the last few months of planning and anxiety lifted instantly. In its stead came this intoxicating joy. And all the while, in his embrace, he held the most precious person in his life.

But then he was the one pulling back to look at you, and lifted his hands to frame your own tear-stained face. Your cheeks were wet, but your lips curved into a smile. This wasn't a combo he thought he would like to see on you, but he'd rather you cry of happiness than tragedy. „Are you sure? Say it again,“ he commanded softly, wondering if picking up the ring box off the ground was worth it.

„Yes, Jimin.“ You confirmed, widening your smile. „I will marry you.“

With those words in mind, his eyes fell to your left hand, which now seemed awfully bare, in his opinion. And he finally scooped up the box and opened it again. Up until now, he's been prolonging the moment with his speech, but there was nothing to prolong anymore. Jimin knew that he had to see this ring on your finger. And he needed it now. Which meant that he didn't waste time in picking it out of the box and sliding it onto your awaiting finger. It was a perfect fit, of course it was, he was a perfectionist when planning every tiny detail.

The metal felt foreign on your skin at first. It felt cool against the heat of your hand, but it belonged there. The stone glimmered in the overhead light with every small movement of your hand. Even the simplest lift of your hand to look at it better made the diamond flare. You wondered that if there was any life in space, could they see it shining from this rooftop?

„It's beautiful,“ you whispered, still turning it slowly to watch the light dance.

Jimin didn't wait anymore. He simply leaned in and captured your lips with his, something he hasn't done too long, in his opinion. It shocked you, at first, but you returned with equal need. The kiss wasn't neat, far from it, actually. The urgency in this simple act was possibly too much to handle, but neither of you were ready to pull away. Jimin needed the relief of finally feeling relief, and you needed him and nothing else. His fingers slid into your hair, deepening your physical connection.

And your hands moved up to cup his face, and to wipe the tear tracks off his face with your thumbs. Happy or sad, tears were something you did not want to see on Jimin. His body was warm against yours and he held you so close that there was no room for doubt or a change of mind. This man was your man, now officially.

The kiss stretched on until both of you couldn't breathe. But the longer it laster, the softer it became, until he pulled away when you both needed air. His eyes met yours and you knew, certainly, that you would never regret this decision.

[mikrokookiex]

PJM ANGST

★ Baby, Oh Please by @spicybutterfly (bf2l)

★ Safe & Sound by @mrsvante (idol au)

★ Can I come over? by @everybodysaynoooooo (college au)

★ Warm Hands (Ice Cold Heart) by @hobidreams (arranged marriage au)

★ Hopelessly Devoted by @jeonqkooks (unrequited love au)

★ Heartburn by @jiminrings (infidelity au)

★ Sweetheart by @gr4c3fu111 (slice of life)

★ Someone you loved by @krreader (childhood lovers)

★ The Regretful Argument by @itsarealshitshow

★ Beloved Jimin by @army-imagines

★ Letters to an angel by @bngtnblues (college au)

★ Drabble by @acopenhagenarmy (idol au)

★ Paper Bandits by @vantaenims (highschool au)

★ Yours by @lveclouds (unrequited love)

★ Leave by @scenariosandshit (misunderstanding)

★ For Granted by @taexual

★ Lost & Found by @alpacaparkaseok (soulmate au)

‧₊˚🖇️back to jimin's library 𐚁

‧₊˚🖇️back to the library 𐚁

[toxmioka]

WHO| PJM X READER

CHAPTER 5 " AT NIGHT"

Word Count: 3k+

Tag list: Open

Warnings: Mature Language and toxic relationships

Early access to chapters on wattpad

The sharp vibration of my phone dragged me awake far earlier than I would've liked.

I groaned quietly, squinting against the pale morning light spilling through the curtains before reaching toward the nightstand blindly. Father.Of course.

A tired sigh escaped me as I answered the call, voice rough with sleep.

"...Hello?"

"Good. You're awake."

I glanced toward the clock.Seven in the morning.Unbelievable.

"You called me at seven a.m. to confirm I possess basic consciousness?"

"You've slept through board meetings before."

"Once."

"Twice."

I rubbed tiredly at my face before sitting upright slowly. "What do you want?"

Silence lingered briefly. "The engagement announcement will be made in two weeks."

My body stilled instantly.The remnants of sleep vanished completely.

"...What?"

"The media teams are already preparing statements. Both families agreed it would be best to move quickly before unnecessary speculation begins."

I stared blankly at the sheets pooled around my waist. That was extremely soon and maybe even hasty.

In two weeks this stopped being private,the entire country would know.A strange pressure settled heavily in my chest.

"You're moving fast."

"The situation requires it."Of course it did.

I leaned back against the headboard slowly. "And Y/N agreed to this?"

"She understands the circumstances."Something about the answer irritated me immediately.

"That's not what I asked."My father sighed quietly through the phone.

"Yes Jim-in. She agreed."

I looked toward the bedroom door instinctively.It was still empty .Mi-young hadn't come home last night.

Or maybe she had and left again before I woke up.Honestly, I wasn't sure which possibility felt worse.My father continued carefully now.

"Jimin."I hummed distractedly.

"Do not make this harder than it already is."A humorless laugh escaped me.

"You say that like I'm the difficult one here."

"No," he replied calmly. "I say it because I know you."Silence settled briefly between us.

"You looked peaceful for the first time in years after dinner yesterday."

My brows furrowed immediately."...You saw me for ten minutes."

"And it was enough."

I rubbed my jaw tiredly. "You keep talking like this marriage is supposed to save me."

"I think stability would."

I scoffed softly. "You think Mi-young is unstable."

Another silence erupted. Well he didn't deny it.Interesting.Finally my father spoke quietly.

"I think some people enter your life like storms, Jimin."My jaw tightened immediately.

"And some people teach you that love should not feel like surviving one."

The words landed harder than they should have.

Because annoyingly enough,after dinner with Y/N,part of me understood exactly what he meant.

I hated that."I'm hanging up now," I muttered flatly."Tomorrow come see me at seven. Don't be late."

The line clicked dead.I stared at my phone for several long seconds afterward before dropping it onto the mattress beside me.

"Jesus Christ."The room suddenly felt suffocating. In two weeks there would be an engagement announcement. My fate would be sealed.

Something cold settled beneath my ribs.I swung my legs off the bed slowly before heading toward the kitchen.The penthouse remained eerily silent.

No music.No sarcastic remarks.No Mi-young.

A strange unease crawled through me.I grabbed a glass from the cabinet before freezing halfway through pouring water.There was a note sitting near the coffee machine.

My stomach tightened instantly.I recognized the handwriting immediately.

I went home because ,I ended space

-M

I stared at the note longer than necessary.Needed space?The words shouldn't have bothered me this much.Mi-young disappeared sometimes.

That was nothing new......

After yesterday everything felt different between us. It felt fragile like the cracked we had ignored for years were finally  impossible to look away from.I grabbed my phone again before I could think too hard about it.

The line rang twice.

"Hello?"Her voice sounded sleepy.

Relief hit me so quickly it almost irritated me."You left again."

"I figured you noticed."

I leaned against the counter tiredly. "Can I come over?"

Silence lingered briefly.

"...Okay."

Mi-young opened the apartment door wearing oversized sweatpants and one of my hoodies.

Her dark hair was messy, face bare, eyes slightly swollen like she hadn't slept properly.

Something in my chest tightened painfully at the sight.For a moment neither of us spoke.Then she stepped aside quietly.I walked in slowly.

The apartment smelled faintly like coffee and lavender.Mi-young shut the door behind me before folding her arms loosely across her chest.

"You look stressed."

I laughed quietly under my breath. "You always say things like they're observations from a science experiment."A faint smile tugged briefly at her mouth before disappearing again.

The silence that followed felt heavier.

"The announcement is in two weeks from now."Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

"Oh."

That single syllable hit harder than shouting ever could've. I dragged a tired hand through my hair. "Mi-young—"

"No." She shook her head softly. "It's okay."It very obviously wasn't okay.I looked at her carefully.She seemed smaller somehow today.

Less sharp and untouchable than yesterday.

She was just tired and suddenly I hated this entire situation with a violence that startled even me.

Mi-young looked away first."Do you know what's funny?" she murmured quietly.

I frowned slightly. "What?"

"We always talked about surviving the world together." A weak laugh escaped her. "Turns out the world wasn't even what destroyed us."

My chest tightened painfully."Don't say that."

"Why not?" Her eyes finally met mine again. "It's true."

"Did you like her?"The question settled heavily between us.

I thought about Y/N immediately.The strange calmness sitting underneath all her sadness.For the first time in years, answering honestly felt dangerous.

"No...I think I understood her," I admitted quietly.Mi-young's face fell slightly at that.Not because I said I liked Y/N.Mi-young looked away almost immediately after that.A strange heaviness settled into the room.

I watched her walk slowly toward the kitchen counter, fingers curling around the edge of it briefly as she inhaled through her nose.She was trying to steady herself.That realization alone made guilt crawl violently through my chest.

"Mi-young—" I reached out to her. "No, it's okay," she interrupted softly, though her voice sounded thinner now. "I asked."

I frowned. "You don't have to pretend this doesn't bother you."A quiet laugh escaped her.

"I'm not pretending." She turned toward me finally, exhaustion carved into every line of her face. "I think I'm just... tired, Jimin."

I stepped closer slowly. "Tired of what?"

Her eyes held mine for a long moment.

"Fighting so hard for something that keeps bleeding anyway."

The words lodged somewhere beneath my ribs painfully.Neither of us spoke afterward, because there wasn't really anything to argue against.She wasn't wrong.

We had spent years trying to survive each other.Years loving each other so intensely it bordered on destruction.Somehow somewhere along the way, survival had become the only thing holding us together.

Mi-young leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely across her chest now."When your father first told you about the arrangement..." she began quietly, "did part of you feel relieved?"I stared at her immediately.

"What?" She swallowed once before continuing carefully. "Not happy. Not excited." Her voice softened dangerously. "Just relieved."

The question hit far too close to something I hadn't wanted to examine yet. After sitting across from Y/N and feeling something calm for the first time in what felt like years.....

A tiny part of me had wondered what life would feel like if loving someone didn't constantly feel like drowning.The fact that I'd even thought that at all felt like betrayal.My silence answered for me.Mi-young shut her eyes briefly.

The grief on her face nearly knocked the breath from my lungs."I knew it," she whispered.

Immediately I stepped forward. "Mi-young, that's not what this is.""Then what is it?" she asked quietly, looking at me again. "Because I know you, Jimin."Her voice cracked slightly near the end.

And somehow that tiny fracture hurt more than screaming ever could've."You've spent years loving me like it was punishment," she continued softly. "And now suddenly you meet someone who makes you feel calm for one dinner and you look at me differently."

My chest tightened painfully."I don't look at you differently."Another weak laugh escaped her.

"You do." Her eyes shimmered faintly now. "You just don't realize it yet."Silence swallowed the room whole.

I couldn't fully deny it.Not because I loved Y/N. I didn't even like her .I didn't.

For the first time in years, another person had made me imagine what peace might feel like.

And once someone experiences that,even briefly,

chaos stops feeling romantic.It just starts feeling exhausting.

Mi-young looked down at her hands quietly.Then after a long pause:"Do you remember what you told me after the accident?"My body went completely still.

"Mi-young—"

"You held my face and told me we'd survive anything together." Her voice trembled now despite how hard she tried to control it. "And I believed you."

The memory crashed into me violently.

Her shaking so hard she could barely breathe.

And me,holding her like I could somehow stop the entire world from collapsing around us.

I swallowed hard."We did survive."

Mi-young looked up slowly then.The sadness in her eyes nearly destroyed me.

'No," she whispered softly. "I think we just kept bleeding slower. "The words settled between us like shattered glass .Neither of us moved.

Outside, Seoul continued glowing endlessly beyond the windows, unaware that somewhere inside this apartment two people were quietly realizing love alone had not been enough to save them.

I dragged a hand down my face slowly, exhaustion pressing heavily against my chest."Don't do this," I muttered quietly.

Mi-young gave a weak humorless laugh. "Do what? Be honest for once?"

I frowned immediately. "We've always been honest with each other."That made her actually laugh this time.

"Jimin," she whispered, "we've spent years romanticizing our damage ."The words hit far too hard.

Deep down,beneath the fighting and obsession and history,I knew exactly what she meant.Mi-young looked at me carefully now.

"You know what's terrifying?" she asked softly.I stayed silent.

"The fact that after one dinner with her..." She swallowed once. "You came here calmer than I've seen you in years."Something defensive rose instantly in my chest.

"Calm doesn't mean love."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like I've betrayed you."

Her expression shifted painfully at that."I'm not looking at you like you betrayed me." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm looking at you like I finally understand why your father did this."

Hearing that from her somehow felt worse than hearing it from anyone else.I looked away sharply toward the windows.

"You're making assumptions."

"No." Mi-young shook her head slowly. "I'm recognizing something."I inhaled slowly through my nose.This conversation was becoming dangerous.

Every sentence felt like another crack forming beneath something we'd spent years desperately trying to hold together.Mi-young stepped toward me carefully now.she looked so tired.

Worn down by years of loving someone the only way she knew how."I do love you," she whispered quietly.

The confession hit me like a bruise.I'd never doubted it.Not once.Even at our worst.

"I know," I answered softly.

Her eyes shimmered faintly.

"But I think somewhere along the way..." She let out a shaky breath. "We stopped knowing how to love each other without hurting ourselves in the process."

My chest tightened violently.I hated how true that sounded.The silence stretched painfully before I finally spoke.

"I don't want to lose you."Mi-young smiled sadly at that.That expression scared me more than anger ever had.

"You already are."The words hollowed something out inside me instantly.

I stepped closer without thinking, fingers brushing against her wrist gently.

"Mi-young—"Her eyes closed briefly at the contact.Even after everything,touching her still felt like instinct.

When she looked back at me, her expression had softened completely.

"If you marry her..." she whispered carefully, "something between us is going to change eventually."I opened my mouth immediately.

She shook her head before I could speak.

"And that's nobody's fault."

For the first time since this arrangement began, neither of us sounded angry anymore.Then finally she looked back at me with tears shining faintly in her eyes.

"I hope she makes your life softer, Jimin."

Mi-young's words lingered heavily between us.

"I hope she makes your life softer, Jimin."

"No."

The word left my mouth faster than thought.

Mi-young blinked slightly, caught off guard by the firmness in my voice.

I stepped closer instinctively, shaking my head once. "No. Don't talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this is over."

Her expression faltered almost imperceptibly.

"Jimin—"

"I'm serious." Frustration bled into my voice now. "You're acting like one dinner suddenly changed everything."

"It changed something."

"Not this." I cut in sharply. "Not us."

I still loved her.

I looked at her carefully, my chest tightening painfully at the exhaustion written across her face.

"You think I'm just going to stop loving you because my father arranged some marriage?" I laughed bitterly. "Is that honestly what you think of me?"

Mi-young swallowed once.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

She looked away briefly before answering quietly:

"I think people get tired eventually."

The words unsettled me immediately.

Because maybe she was talking about herself.

I reached for her wrist gently before she could step away again.

"Look at me."

Slowly, her eyes lifted back to mine.

And God.

The sadness sitting inside them nearly hollowed me out.

"This marriage..." I inhaled slowly through my nose. "It's duty. That's all it is."

Mi-young stayed silent.

"I barely know Y/N."

"You seem to like her though."

I frowned instantly. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

I stepped closer without thinking.

"You are."

The words came out rougher than intended.

"Mi-young, you're still the person I love." My grip on her wrist tightened slightly. "You're still the person I come home thinking about. The person I..." I stopped briefly, jaw tightening. "Nothing about that changes because of a ring or a press conference. "Her expression cracked slightly then.

"I don't want some perfect peaceful life with someone else," I continued quietly. "I want you."

A shaky breath escaped her.

"Jimin..."

"I mean it." My voice softened dangerously now. "I know what we are. I know we've destroyed each other sometimes. I know we're exhausting and complicated and probably toxic as hell but I don't care."I didn't care.Not when it came to her.

"I still believe in us."The confession hung nakedly between us.Mi-young's eyes glistened instantly."You shouldn't."

"Too bad."A weak laugh broke from her at that, trembling at the edges.

Even now I would've done anything to keep hearing that sound.

I brushed my thumb lightly against her wrist, my voice quieter now.

"This marriage isn't love." I swallowed hard. "It's obligation and family expectations."

Maybe somewhere deep down a tiny part of me understood why my father thought Y/N would be good for me,understanding something didn't mean wanting it.It definitely didn't mean choosing it, because my heart had already chosen years ago.Even if it chose badly.

I looked at Mi-young carefully."I'm going to marry her," I admitted softly. "But I will never love her the way I love you."The room fell painfully silent.Then finally Mi-young whispered.

"You can't promise things like that."

"Why not?"

"People change."I shook my head immediately.

"Not about this."Her gaze searched mine carefully then.

As if she wanted to believe me but no longer trusted herself enough to.A strange panic rose in my chest at that look.I stepped even closer.

"Wait for me. Please"Mi-young's breath caught softly.

"This arrangement..." I exhaled slowly. "We'll survive it. We've survived worse."The accident flashed violently through my mind.Her shaking in my arms.

Still we found our way back to each other afterward.Every single time.So how could this possibly be the thing that ended us?

I cupped her face gently before I could stop myself."You're still mine," I whispered.

Mi-young shut her eyes briefly, leaning into my touch for one fragile second before whispering shakily,"That's exactly what scares me."

Her words lingered painfully between us."That's exactly what scares me."I frowned immediately, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek.

"Why?"

Mi-young laughed softly then, but there was no humor in it. "Because you sound so certain now."

"I am certain."

"Jimin—"

"No." I shook my head firmly. "Listen to me."

She fell quiet.And suddenly the space between us felt unbearably fragile.

I swallowed once before speaking again, slower this time."This marriage isn't forever."

Mi-young's brows furrowed faintly."My father wants stability right now. The companies need it.

The media needs something else to focus on after the scandals. Everyone wants this polished perfect image of unity and legacy." I let out a bitter laugh. "Fine. They'll get it."

Her eyes searched mine carefully."But?"

"But once everything settles down..." My jaw tightened slightly. "I'll end it."The room fell silent once again.Mi-young stared at me like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to believe me or stop me from saying it entirely.

I continued quietly:"A year maybe. Two at most."

"Jim-in..."

"I mean it." My voice hardened with certainty.

"Once the businesses stabilize and the public loses interest, there's no reason to continue pretending. "Something flickered across Mi-young's expression then.

"You're already planning your divorce before the wedding even exists."I scoffed softly. "Because it isn't a real marriage."

Y/N would become duty. Nothing more a nothing less. A respectable arrangement. A temporary performance.

And afterward?I'd return to Mi-young.At least that's what I wanted to believe.

Mi-young looked down briefly before murmuring:"And what about her?"

I frowned slightly. "What about her?"

"She's still a person, Jimin."A strange discomfort twisted in my chest immediately.

Of course I knew that.That was exactly the problem.

I looked away toward the windows. "I'll be honest with her."Mi-young laughed weakly. "No, you won't."

My jaw tightened. "She already understands this marriage isn't about love."

"But that doesn't mean she deserves to become collateral damage in whatever this is." Mi-young gestured weakly between us.

Y/N wasn't manipulative , cruel, entering this arrangement with selfish intentions.She was sacrificing herself too.

That realization unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. I rubbed a tired hand over my face. "I'm not trying to hurt her."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like I'm some villain."

Mi-young's expression softened immediately.

"You're not a villain." Her voice quieted. "That's what makes this sad."The words settled heavily into my chest.

Nobody was evil here . We're just all trapped.

Mi-young stepped closer slowly now until barely any space remained between us.

"You really believe we'll survive this?" she whispered.I looked at her without hesitation.

"Yes."And I meant it.Completely.

After everything we'd already endured,the accident,the guilt,the years of breaking apart and finding each other again.

I couldn't imagine a future where I truly stopped loving her.

I brushed my fingers carefully through her dark hair, my voice lowering.

"You said it yourself once." A faint sad smile tugged at my mouth. "We always find our way back to each other."

Mi-young's eyes shimmered faintly.

"Sometimes I think that's the problem," she whispered.

My chest tightened painfully.

I leaned my forehead gently against hers.

"Then let it be our problem."For a moment neither of us moved.

The city glowed quietly outside the windows while somewhere beneath all the fear and exhaustion, I held onto the one thing I still believed with absolute certainty:

No matter what happened next. I belonged to Mi-young.

𝐖𝐇𝐎| 𝐏𝐉𝐌 - 𝐖𝐇𝐎

Read 𝐖𝐇𝐎 from the story 𝐖𝐇𝐎| 𝐏𝐉𝐌 by toxmioka (★𝑼𝒏𝒂) with 48 reads. unrequitedlove, parkjimin, btsfanfic. ——...

[toxmioka]

WHO CHAPTER 4| PJM X READER

CHAPTER 4: BUT SHE'S ALL I SEE

Tag List: Open

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: Mature language, insinuations of sex, manipulation ,toxic relationships, mentions of chronic illnesses

Early access to chapters on wattpad

(FLASHBACK CHAPTER BEFORE DINNER WITH JIMIN)

JEON Y/N

JEON JUNG-KOOK. The bane of my existence and unfortunately someone I could never fully separate myself from because, against my will , he was my younger brother .

To outsiders, he was charming. You could even say he was magnetic . The kind of person who could smile his way out of murder charges or have multiple women on their knees in second if wanted to. People saw the tattoos , the expensive suits, the effortless charisma and took him for a God.

Wherever Jung-kook went, trouble followed closely behind like an over enthusiastic golden retriever. Broken cutlery. Expelled tutors. Illegal street racing . Crashed sports cars. Property damage. Corrupt business deals. Money laundering. Street fights.Headlines. Scandals. Heartbroken women . Fights

Everything he did wrong, I had to pay for ever since we were kids . He destroyed things , while I repaired them.

His recent fraud scandal had been the nail in the coffin for me .Investors were pulling away from our conglomerate one by one and fast . Tabloids were relishing in our family's humiliation, and our stock prices were dropping violently. It was like a public execution.

Our family name was rotting from the inside out. And now suddenly- marriage? An arranged marriage with Park Jim-in of all people.

At first I thought it was purely strategic …. A merger disguised as a "tradition". Rich people did love packaging their schemes and manipulation in silk and gold after all.

Getting married to Jim-in would distract the public and restore the conglomerate to its former glory, not the sinking ship it was now with Jung-kook as its captain .

But the look on my father's face earlier definitely wasn't one of greed. He had given me a clear out if I didn't want to marry Jim-in but I could tell he would deeply appreciate it I did.

The look on his face…It had been fear and complete desperation. Which meant there was more to the story.My father would never sell me off for mere status.

He loved me too much for that . For all his flaws, I knew that much and unfortunately, the only person stupid enough to tell me the truth was Jung-kook.

So the moment my father left my office , I grabbed my phone and dialled my brother's number. The line rang several times before he answered with a groan.

"What do you want now,Y/N?" His voiced groggily .

I rolled my eyes almost immediately."Good morning to you too brother, you sound awful."

"That's because normal people are asleep at this hour."

"Jung-kook, most people are awake before noon, you overgrown bat."

A female moan echoed faintly through the speaker . I froze in realisation, horror flooding my body. "Oh my God." I deadpanned. "Are you seriously having sex while talking to me on the phone?!"

"Several poor decisions lead to this moment." He replied lazily."I did want to tell you I was kind of busy… "

I nearly threw my phone across the room."Jeon Jung-kook."

"What ?" He laughed. "You called me."

"You are absolutely disgusting!"

He chuckled louder. "Yet you still continue to love me."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed . " I need to talk to you."

"Then talk ." He replied with a heavy voice.

"Ew not over the phone, especially while you're indulging in your "pleasures"."

"I'll be busy."

A muffled moan was heard in the background followed by Jungkook chuckling under his breath. I swear my soul nearly left my body in that moment.

"You know what?" I muttered . "Never mind.Rot in hell and die slowly"

"Whoa, you are so dramatic . Give me thirty minutes."

I sighed heavily. "Fine. Your apartment. And you better put some clothes on before I get there or I'm telling father ."

That got his attention immediately. " You're absolutely vile."

"And you're an embarrassment, see you soon!" I said ending the call before he could respond.

For a moment I sat frozen behind my desk, staring blankly at my reflection in the darkened computer screen.

Marriage.

Park Jimin.

The name still left a bitter taste in my mouth even after all these years.

High school humiliation had apparently evolved into corporate negotiation.

How poetic.

I grabbed my bag and headed toward the underground parking lot, unease curling tighter in my stomach with every step.

Jung-kook opened the apartment door wearing grey sweatpants, messy black hair, and absolutely no dignity.

A lipstick stain decorated the side of his neck proudly.

I stared at him flatly.

"You look diseased."

He grinned. "Good afternoon to you too."

I pushed past him immediately. The apartment smelled like expensive cologne, whiskey, and bad decisions.

Some blonde woman wrapped in silk sheets peeked over the couch.

"Oh," she blinked. "You must be the sister."

I pointed toward Jung-kook. "See? Even she sounds disappointed in you."

He shut the door behind us with a groan. "Can we focus? You sounded homicidal on the phone."

I turned toward him sharply.

"Did you know about this marriage?"

The amusement vanished from his face instantly.

Which unfortunately answered my question.

"You did know."

Jung-kook exhaled slowly before walking toward the kitchen island. "I heard rumors."

"Rumors?" I repeated incredulously. "You heard rumors that our parents were arranging my marriage and somehow forgot to mention it to me?"

"I didn't think they'd actually go through with it."

I laughed humorlessly. "Right. Because forcing your daughter into corporate diplomacy is apparently beneath this family."His jaw tightened slightly.

That tiny reaction made my stomach twist.There it is.I stepped closer. "Tell me what's really going on."

"Y/N—"

"No." My voice sharpened instantly. "Father looked terrified earlier. Not ambitious. Terrified. So unless you want me assuming the worst, start talking."

Jung-kook dragged a tattooed hand over his face tiredly."Sit down."Cold dread pooled heavily in my stomach.

Jeon Jung-kook only got serious when situations became catastrophic. Slowly, I sat across from him at the marble kitchen island while he remained standing.

For the first time in years, he looked exhausted. "What did you do?" I asked quietly.

He let out a hollow laugh. "You always ask that like the answer could ever be simple."

"Jung-kook."

He stared down at the counter for a long moment before finally speaking."A few months ago… I borrowed money."

I blinked once. "How much?"

"A lot."

"Define a lot."His eyes finally lifted to mine."Enough to bury the company."

The room went still.I felt my heartbeat slow unnaturally."What."

"There were investors involved," he admitted quietly. "Dangerous ones."Ice flooded my veins.

No.No no no.I pushed back from the stool abruptly. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Oh my God."

Everything clicked together violently all at once.The urgency.The merger.The Parks.

"They're using me to stabilize the company," I whispered.Jung-kook said nothing.Which was answer enough.

Anger detonated through my chest so hard it physically hurt."You ruined us."Something flickered across his face then.Guilt.Real guilt.

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do know," I snapped. "Do you understand what this means for me?!"

His expression hardened suddenly."For you?" he repeated sharply.

"Yes, for me!"A bitter laugh escaped him.

"You think this marriage is just about business?"

Confusion flickered through my anger. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He stared at me strangely then.Almost disbelieving.

And suddenly I didn't like the look in his eyes at all.

"…Father didn't tell you?"A horrible feeling crawled slowly up my spine.

"Tell me what?"Jung-kook looked away briefly before muttering,"Jesus Christ." My stomach dropped."What?"

"Mom's getting worse." My whole world stopped. The sounds outside disappeared.My heartbeat disappeared.Everything inside me went violently numb.

"What?" I whispered.

Jung-kook swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes now. "The treatment isn't working the way they hoped."

I stared at him blankly.No.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."Something inside my chest twisted so sharply it felt physical.

"When did you know?"His silence lasted too long.

"When did you know?" I repeated, louder this time.

"A few weeks."

"A few weeks?!"

My voice cracked so violently the woman in the living room startled.I barely noticed.

"You knew for weeks and nobody told me?!" My breathing became uneven instantly. "Why would nobody tell me?!"

"Because Father didn't want you distracted—"

"Distracted ?" I laughed, but the sound came out broken. "She's my mother too!"Jung-kook looked miserable now.Good.I wanted him miserable.

My hands began trembling uncontrollably."No," I whispered shakily. "No no no, she looked fine yesterday."

The second the words left my mouth I realized how stupid they sounded.Fine.

As if exhaustion hidden behind makeup was fine. As if trembling hands were fine.As if forced smiles were fine.

Memory crashed into me violently.Her hugging me longer lately.Her constantly asking if I was eating properly.Her touching my hair absentmindedly like she was memorizing me.

The sudden fatigue.The hospital visits she kept dismissing as "routine."The way she'd started smiling at me .

My lungs burned suddenly.Oh God.Oh God.

The marriage.

The strange tears in her eyes at dinner last week.The way she'd squeezed my hand and whispered."I just want to know you'll be okay."

A choked sound escaped my throat before I could stop it. Jung-kook's face shifted immediately. "Y/N—"

"Don't."I backed away from him instantly.

Because if he touched me right now I would collapse.

I pressed trembling fingers against my mouth trying desperately to breathe through the crushing pressure building in my chest.

"How bad is it?" I whispered.

Jung-kook looked destroyed answering.

"…Bad."That single word shattered something inside me completely.

I turned away immediately as tears blurred my vision.My mother couldn't die.

She just couldn't.Not yet.

Not before I fixed things.Not before she saw me happy. A sob lodged painfully in my throat.And suddenly the marriage didn't feel like a cage anymore.

I hated myself for what came out of my mouth next.

"…Does she know?"

My voice sounded thin and like it barely belonged to me anymore.

Jung-kook stayed silent for a moment too long "Yeah."I squeezed my eyes shut.Of course she knew.Mothers always knew first.

How had I missed it?Or maybe I hadn't wanted to see it.Maybe denial was easier than imagining a world without her in it.

I let out a shaky breath and wiped furiously at my tears, humiliated by how quickly I was unraveling. Jung-kook shifted awkwardly beside the counter. "Please Y/N—"

My voice cracked. "Please don't start pretending you're emotionally intelligent now. I can't handle it."

His jaw tighten and his eyes widened but for once he didn't retaliate.That scared me more. It made it real.

I laughed weakly through tears. "Wow. Things must be catastrophic if even you're acting human."A faint huff escaped him before silence swallowed the room again.

I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, suddenly freezing despite the warmth of the apartment.

Everything hurt.My chest.My throat.My head.

Even breathing felt sharp.

Finally, after what felt like forever, I whispered, "Is that why she's been bringing up  my marriage so much lately?"

Jung-kook looked down at the marble counter "Yeah."

The single syllable nearly destroyed me.I remembered it all now.

Her casually showing me wedding venues online. Her pointing out jewelry stores while pretending it was a joke.Her asking me what kind of dress I'd wear someday.

At the time I'd laughed it off.Now every memory felt like a knife sliding slowly between my ribs.

Because she hadn't been fantasizing.She'd been running out of time.

A broken sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.Jung-kook finally moved then, stepping toward me carefully like I was something moments away from shattering.

"Y/N…"

"I can't lose her."My younger brother froze completely at the sound of my voice cracking apart.

"I can't," I repeated weakly. "I know people survive these things every day but I genuinely,I genuinely don't know how to exist in a world where she's gone."

The confession hung heavily between us.Jung-kook inhaled sharply.

"Neither do I."That startled me enough to look at him.

And suddenly he didn't look like the reckless disaster I'd spent my whole life cleaning up after. He just looked like a young terrified boy.

For the first time in years, I noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The exhaustion carved into his face. He looked like someone drowning silently.

A bitter realization settled in my stomach. He wasn't self-destructing for fun anymore.He was imploding.

I sank slowly onto one of the stools, pressing trembling hands against my face.

"When did everything become so awful?" I whispered.

Jung-kook gave a hollow laugh. "Honestly? I think we were doomed the second this family started treating emotions like weaknesses."

A humorless smile almost tugged at my lips.That sounded painfully true.

Silence settled again before he spoke carefully"Mom doesn't know about the debt."

My head snapped up instantly."What?"

"Father hid it from her." "Why would he—"

"Because stress could make things worse."I stared at him in disbelief.

"So instead they're planning to marry me off before she dies so she can leave this earth peacefully?" My voice sharpened painfully near the end. "Is that it?"

Jung-kook flinched.And that alone answered me.

Something hot and miserable twisted in my chest.I wanted to scream.

At my father , Jung-kook and the universe. At whatever cruel force thought this was fair. Instead, I laughed.A small broken laugh that sounded completely unhinged even to my own ears.

"This is insane." Nobody argued.

I looked toward the massive windows overlooking Seoul's skyline. The city glittered beautifully beneath the afternoon sun completely unaware that my life had just split open at the seams.Somewhere across this city sat Park Jimin.

The man I was apparently going to marry.

A stranger tied to me through desperation, illness, and collapsing empires.

The thought should've horrified me, but instead all I could think about was that Mom would get to see it happen.

That realization made fresh tears sting my eyes instantly.How pathetic.

How utterly pathetic that love could reduce people to bargaining with their own freedom. I swallowed hard. "Do you know what the worst part is?"Jung-kook stayed quiet.

"I was ready to reject the proposal."He looked at me then.

And for the first time since arriving, genuine panic crossed his face.

"Y/N—"

"But now?" I whispered. "Now every time I think about saying no, all I can picture is Mom looking relieved when she hears I'm getting married."

The room felt suffocating again.I pressed trembling fingers against my lips.

"I hate this."Jung-kook stared at me for a long moment before speaking quietly.

"I said you don't have to do it."I laughed bitterly.

"Don't say that like we both don't know I probably will."His silence confirmed everything.

Because beneath all my anger and fear sat one devastating truth.

If this marriage gave my mother peace, even if it was temporary peace…

I would walk willingly into the fire.

"Is this some sick plan of yours to get me to fall in love with you?" " Don't get ahead of yourself Park, I'm only do

More chapters posted on wattpad!

[jungkoode]

FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | 09

pairing: jimin x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 11,7k | warnings: here genre: latino!jimin, tokyo drift AU, street racing, rivals to lovers

"tanaka"

"You told yourself you could keep your worlds separate. Then Daikoku calls in the middle of your engagement dinner, Jaque starts throwing punches for your honor like a walking legal liability, and you have to prove—again—that respect is not requested. It is taken."

next | index | general masterlist | taglist

↦author's note: Hi, Kiki Nation. Welcome back to 5 Seconds To Freedom, also known as 'everyone needs therapy but unfortunately they have cars instead.'

This chapter is one of those chapters where the emotional engine and the actual engine are both overheating, which is very on-brand for this story and also probably a public safety concern. We are still deep in the territory of performance: the selves we build, the selves we hide, the roles we accept because they keep the peace, and the versions of us that come out when someone pushes the wrong nerve at the wrong time.

Hachi, my beloved emotionally constipated girlboss disaster, continues to be very normal about compartmentalizing her life. By normal, I mean she is one (1) minor inconvenience away from needing a flowchart, a cigarette, and an exorcism. She is operating under so many layers of control that even her control has control issues. I love writing her because she is not 'cold' in the empty sense. She is cold the way metal is cold before it sparks. Everything is under pressure. Everything is deliberate. Everything costs her something.

And Jaque…

Jaque is here. Jaque is Jaque-ing. Jaque continues to be a man who should have been put in rice and left overnight to see if the audacity would drain out. It did not. He is still damp with problems.

This chapter also plays a lot with power, reputation, pride, and the way communities create their own rules when the official world either ignores them or cannot understand them. Daikoku is not just a parking lot in this story. It is a social ecosystem. It has hierarchy, rituals, witnesses, consequences, and a very fragile kind of order. That means when someone disrespects the space, they are not just causing drama. They are challenging the structure that keeps everyone from turning into complete raccoon-coded chaos at 2 AM.

So yes. This is a chapter about cars. But, because I am physically incapable of shutting up about psychology for more than four paragraphs, it is also about identity, loyalty, self-restraint, emotional leakage, public masks, private hunger, and the very sexy narrative concept of 'what happens when a person who survives by controlling everything is forced into a situation where control becomes impossible?'

As always, thank you for reading, commenting, screaming, theorizing, and letting me trap you in my little emotional car blender. I appreciate you all so much. Truly. Disgusting levels of affection. Ew. Next.

Now buckle up.

No, seriously.

Buckle the fuck up.

P.S. By the way. I basically drew 5STF!Jimin so you guys would have a visual. You can check it out on my twitter art account!  <3

The meeting ran three hours over.

Three hours of quarterly projections and market analysis and questions designed to test whether you actually understand the industry or if you're just coasting on a family name nobody in the street racing scene knows you have.

You understand it fine.

Better than fine.

But, as always, you smiled. Nodded. Spoke when spoken to. Played the role.

Because that's what Hayashi daughters do.

And now it's 11:48 PM and you're pulling into Daikoku in your AE86 with your veins still buzzing from suppressed irritation.

The lot's alive tonight—bass thumping from someone's sound system, headlights cutting through darkness, the smell of burnt rubber and cigarette smoke thick enough to taste, clusters of people gathered around cars—some showing off new mods, some negotiating races, some just here because this is one of the few places where you go when the rest of Tokyo's gone to sleep.

You park near the edge. Kill the engine. Check your reflection in the rearview—makeup still intact, hair cooperating, the black leather jacket doing its job. The platform boots add three inches. The mini skirt is short enough to be interesting.

Not your racing outfit, because you're not here to race tonight.

At least, none have been announced.

So you're here to play another role. One, at least, you do like.

You step out. Immediately, heads turn. Not everyone—you're familiar enough that your presence isn't novelty—but enough. The newer guys still learning hierarchy. A few older racers who nod acknowledgment as you pass.

"Ey, boss lady!"

Rico.

He's leaning against a gutted Legacy B4, wiping his hands on a rag that was white maybe six hours ago.

You angle toward him.

"Rico."

"Damn, mami." His eyes sweep over you—appreciative but not creepy, the way a mechanic appraises a well-built car. "Who you trying to kill tonight?"

"Nobody yet."

"Uh huh." He grins. "Yang's around somewhere. Maya left like an hour ago."

You nod. Scan the lot.

Not looking for anyone in particular.

Just assessing.

"Where's he?" you ask.

Rico raises an eyebrow. "Who?"

You level him with a look.

He snorts. "Oh, him." Jerks his chin toward the far side. "Over there. Private area. Getting cozy with some company."

Of course he is.

"Thanks."

"Uh huh." Rico's still grinning as you walk away. "Have fun."

You flip him off without looking back.

The far side of Daikoku is darker. Less crowded. The kind of space people drift toward when they want to talk without twenty other conversations bleeding into theirs.

And there—

Jaque.

Sitting on the side of the hood of his R34. One leg bent, foot braced on the tire. Midnight purple paint gleaming under dim light.

Two girls standing in front of him. Talking. Laughing.

One touches his arm.

You don't stop walking.

The girls notice you first. Their smiles falter. They glance at each other—quick, assessing—then back at you.

You don't say anything.

Don't need to.

They know who you are.

"Uh—" One of them starts. "We should—"

"Yeah." The other's already moving. "See you around, Jaque."

They scatter.

Because when you show up, people move.

Jimin watches them go. Then his gaze slides to you.

That smirk spreads slow across his face.

"Hachiroku." He draws out every syllable. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You pull a lollipop from your jacket pocket—cherry—and unwrap it without breaking eye contact. The cellophane crinkles.

You pop the candy between your lips. Roll it once. Let him see.

His eyes drop, follow the movement, then drag back up like it costs him something. Tilts his head, looking up at you through his lashes.

"That a demonstration, mami?"

You take two steps closer. "How's the Mustang?"

"Fuck if I know." He shifts slightly on the hood. "Kenji's your guy. He's still got my baby."

"And you trust him with it?"

"I trust him because you trust him." His tongue peeks out, wets his bottom lip. "Your judgment. Your call."

Another step.

Close now, close enough to smell leather and hinoki.

"Nice skirt," he says.

"Thanks."

"I'm thinking about some places it'd look better."

The lollipop rolls to the other side of your mouth. "Like what?"

"Mhm." His grin accentuates. "The floor of this parking lot."

Heat licks up your spine.

You step between his knees. He doesn't move. Just watches you close the distance until you're standing in the space his bent knee creates, denim brushing the outside of your bare thighs, his face tilted up slightly.

"Bold," you say quietly.

"You like bold."

"I do?"

"Mhm."

His hand moves. Slow. Giving you time to step back.

You don't.

So his palm finds your waist, fingers spreading, thumb pressing just above your hip bone.

Then he pulls, gentle and insistent, and you let him. Let yourself be drawn forward until your mouth is hovering over his. Centimeters. Maybe less.

Close enough that when you breathe out, he breathes in.

"You're late," he murmurs.

"Had shit to handle."

"Mm." His thumb strokes once. "And now you're here."

"I am."

"Wearing this."

"It's just clothes, Jaque."

"Just clothes." His voice has dropped—rougher now, that teasing edge sharpening into something more focused. "Right."

The lollipop's melting on your tongue.

His eyes flick down to your mouth.

"You know what you're doing," he says, and it's not really a question.

"Do I?"

"Walking over here looking like that. Chasing off my company." His other hand comes up, fingertips brushing the side of your thigh. "Standing between my legs with that fucking lollipop."

The touch is barely there—just the backs of his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin. Up. Down. Up again.

Then his hand slides to the back of your thigh.

Your breath catches, and his face immediately tells you he caught it. That shit-eating smirk of his deliberately deepens.

His fingers trail higher—dallying, provoking—until they reach the hem of your skirt. The fabric's short enough that there's not much distance to cover, and when his fingertips brush the edge, he toys with it. Lets his fingertip—just the tip—drift underneath, barely. A fine contact against the sensitive skin of your upper thigh.

Heat floods your face.

"Where's that hand going, Jaque?"

His tone turns wicked.

"Hmm."

That fingertip traces another lazy circle under the fabric.

"She's got free will, gatita."

"Does she?

"Mhm."

And god, the rumble of his voice doesn't say as much as the darkness of his eyes.

They're black.

"She's a very, very bad girl."

"Is she?" you manage.

"Mhm." His hand flexes against your thigh—still under the hem, still toeing that line between playful and dangerous. "Just like someone I know. Who sent me some very explicit messages a few days ago."

Shit.

Your pulse kicks up.

His grin widens. "Remember those, Hachi?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe." There's an incredulous chuckle trapped behind his teeth. "Messages about your knees. And my dick. And—" His voice drops lower. "—the back of your throat. Ring a bell, mami?"

"And you've been thinking about it," you say.

"Every. Fucking. Hour."

Each word punctuated by a slow drag of his thumb.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

"Depends."

"On?"

His gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there.

"On whether you want me to kiss you right now—" His gaze drags upwards to your eyes reluctantly. "—or if you want me to keep being good."

The lollipop's almost gone. Just a sliver of candy left on the stick. You pull it out slowly, allowing his eyes track the movement as you drag it past your lips, as your tongue catches the last trace of cherry sweetness.

Then you toss it, stick hitting pavement somewhere behind you.

"I don't need you to be good," you say.

"No?"

"No."

"What do you need, then?"

You lean in, so close that your lips brush his when you speak.

A promise of what could happen if either of you moved half a centimeter more.

"Guess."

His exhale ghosts across your mouth.

Hot.

Unsteady.

You feel his fingers dig into your thigh. Feel the tension in his thigh where it presses against yours. Feel the way his whole body has gone taut like he's fighting every instinct that's screaming at him to close the gap.

"Hachi—" Your name comes out rough. Wrecked. "—you're unfair."

"Am I?"

"Yes." He shifts in the hood again, like he's adjusting. "Standing here looking like that. Talking to me like that. With your mouth right fucking there—"

"We can't," you breathe against his lips.

"I know."

"Anyone could see."

"I know."

His pupils are blown. Almost black in the low light.

"Tell me something," he murmurs.

"What?"

"That skirt." His gaze drops. Drags down your body. Back up. "You wear it for me?"

"Maybe."

His hand slides to your lower back. Pulls you impossibly closer. Your hips are almost flush against his now.

Almost.

"So mean to me."

"You like it."

"I really do."

Your mouth is still hovering over his. Still not touching.

The restraint is killing you—this bitter, aching want to just close the distance, to feel his lips properly instead of this ghost of almost-contact.

But you don't.

Because he's right.

Anyone could walk over. Anyone could see.

And if they did—

His hand tightens on your lower back.

"I want to kiss you so bad," he breathes against your mouth.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders.

"Then why don't you?"

"Because—"

"¡LA CONCHA DE TU MADRE, OTSUKA!" (FUCK YOU, OTSUKA!)

Taeyang's voice cuts through the night like a blade.

You jerk back. Jimin's hands drop immediately.

Both of you turn toward the sound—coming from the main lot, where something is very clearly going wrong.

More shouting. Scuffling. The distinct sound of bodies hitting metal.

"The fuck—" Jimin's already sliding off the hood.

You're already moving, running towards the commotion, adrenaline spiking, every nerve that was focused on him two seconds ago now locked on ahead.

You hit the crowd at the same time Jimin does. Push through.

People are circling something—that universal human instinct to watch a fight without getting involved. Someone's got their phone out. Someone else is yelling for them to stop.

And there—

Kenji and Taeyang.

Not quite throwing punches. Not yet. But close.

Taeyang's got a fistful of Kenji's jacket, shoving him back against someone's JZX100. Kenji's planted his feet, yellow-tinted sunglasses knocked askew, and he's laughing—that short, cutting sound that means he's two seconds from making this actually violent.

"—don't fucking lecture me about—"

"I'll lecture you about whatever the fuck I want, Kang—"

"You're ten times worse Otsuka—"

"At least I'm not a fucking coward—"

You step forward, and the crowd parts without a second thought.

Taeyang sees you first. His grip on Kenji's jacket loosens. Just slightly.

Kenji follows his gaze.

His whole expression shifts—from combative to something smoother, that trademark grin sliding into place even though his hair's messed up and there's a red mark forming on his jaw.

"Hello, gorgeous."

The scuffle dies.

Taeyang releases Kenji's jacket. Steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, jaw working like he's biting back approximately fifteen different things he wants to say.

Kenji straightens his jacket. Adjusts his sunglasses. Pulls a toothpick from his jeans and places it between his teeth like all this was just a minor inconvenience.

You cross your arms, let the silence stretch for a few beats so the gravity of the situation dawns upon these two fuckers.

Behind you, you can feel Jimin's presence—close but not too close, watching but not interfering. Rico's somewhere to your left. A few other regulars have stopped pretending they're not paying attention.

"Kenji," you say quietly.

The use of his first name lands exactly how you intended.

His grin falters. Just a fraction.

"Panda. You look—"

"What's going on?"

Kenji glances at Taeyang. Back to you.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"Just a... disagreement."

"About?"

Taeyang's jaw tightens. He looks away—toward the far end of the lot, toward anywhere that isn't you or Kenji or the twenty people still watching.

Kenji shifts his weight. The toothpick moves to the other side of his mouth.

"Your Mustang situation," he says finally.

You raise an eyebrow. "My Mustang situation?"

"His Mustang situation." Kenji jerks his chin toward where Jimin's standing. "The cherry red Boss 429 I've been hiding because you asked. Which, by the way—" His tone sharpens. "—I just found out is connected to the Tanaka twins' cousin."

Shit.

You keep your expression neutral. "And?"

"And?" Kenji laughs—no humor in it. "Panda, you know damn well I broke my 'info goes to whoever pays best' rule for you. I don't ask questions when you need something handled. I just handle it, because it's you." He takes a step forward. "But that doesn't mean I like meddling in territories I don't know about. The Tanakas aren't small-time. Their cousin? Even less so. If this blows back—"

"It won't," you say.

"You don't know that."

"I know Jaque won the car clean. Fair race, witnesses." Your voice stays level. "The cousin lost. That's on him."

"Sure." Kenji's eyes narrow. "And when he decides he wants it back? When he brings friends? What then?"

"Then we handle it."

"We." He scoffs. "Right. Because that's gone so well in the past with—"

"Otsuka." You step closer. Lower your voice just enough that the crowd has to strain to hear. "I said it won't blow back. You trust me or you don't. Which is it?"

Silence.

Kenji holds your gaze.

Then he exhales. Long. Slow.

"I trust you," he mutters. "Obviously I trust you. That's why I'm here instead of letting Park's stupid car get impounded."

"Then we're good."

"We're not good." He points at Taeyang. "Because this asshole—"

"Watch it," Taeyang warns.

"—is the reason I'm pissed off in the first place."

You glance at Taeyang. Back to Kenji.

"Where's Zhang?" Kenji asks, eyes still locked on Taeyang.

Taeyang's expression goes flat. "None of your business."

"It's absolutely my business when she's not here."

Kenji spreads his arms.

"We've been at Daikoku for two hours. Maya hasn't missed a Saturday night in six months. So either—" He counts on his fingers. "—you didn't tell her we were meeting, which means you don't care enough to include her. Or—" Second finger. "—you upset her and she left. Neither of which are good, Kang."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" Kenji's voice rises. "Didn't notice she wasn't here? Didn't think to check on her? Didn't bother to figure out why the girl who's been putting up with your hot-and-cold bullshit for months finally decided she had better things to do?"

"Kenji—" you start.

"No." He doesn't look at you. Keeps his focus on Taeyang. "I'm done watching this. You want to string her along? Fine. That's between you two. But don't expect me to pretend it's not happening when she's my friend and you can't even—"

"She left because we fought," Taeyang cuts in. Jaw tight. "Happy now?"

Kenji's eyebrows climb. "Oh, you fought. Great. What'd you do?"

"The fuck do you care?"

"The fuck do I—?!"

Kenji laughs, and it's humorless.

"Listen here, you dimwit. You like her. She likes you. You sleep together, then you ghost her for two weeks. She gets upset. Rinse and repeat. The only complicated part is you refusing to actually commit to—"

"You don't know what you're talking about—"

"Miss me with that bullshit." Kenji shouts. "You're doing the same shit you've done for months. And Maya's the one who keeps getting hurt. So yeah, Kang—I know exactly what I'm talking about."

The parking lot's gone quiet.

Everyone's watching now. Not even pretending otherwise.

Taeyang's hands curl into fists. Uncurl. His shoulders are tense, jaw working, and you can see him fighting the urge to either walk away or throw an actual punch.

"Otsuka," you say. Firm. "Enough."

Kenji glances at you.

"I mean it. Stand down."

He holds your gaze for another beat. Then exhales through his nose and steps back.

Adjusts his jacket. Straightens his sunglasses.

"Fine," he mutters. "But I'm saying it now—if he keeps pulling this shit with Zhang, I'm not staying out of it."

"Noted."

You turn to Taeyang. "Where is she?"

"Home. I think." He won't meet your eyes. "She said she needed space."

"And you gave it to her?"

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Go after her," Kenji snaps from behind you.

Taeyang's jaw tightens. "She asked for space—"

"That's not what she meant and you know it—"

"Enough." Your voice cuts through. Final. "Both of you. This conversation is over."

Kenji makes a sound—half-scoff, half-laugh—but doesn't push.

Taeyang just nods. Once. Stiff.

The crowd's already dispersing. Fight's over. No punches thrown. Boring.

You feel Jimin move closer. Not touching. Just... there. A presence at your shoulder.

"All good?" he murmurs.

"Fine."

Kenji's watching you. Then his gaze slides to Jimin. Back to you.

"Well," he says, voice clipped. "Gotta bounce. Someone needs to actually check on Zhang since this fucker—" He jerks his chin at Taeyang. "—clearly doesn't give enough of a shit to."

Taeyang's whole body goes rigid.

"Watch your fucking mouth, Otsuka—"

"Or what?" Kenji spreads his arms, grinning sharp and humorless. "You gonna actually do something for once? That'd be a first."

"I'm warning you—"

"Warn me all you want, Kang. Doesn't change the fact that Maya's somewhere upset right now and you're here." Kenji takes a step forward. "Standing around like it's not your problem. Like she's not—"

Taeyang moves.

Fast.

Closes the distance, hand already coming up—

Kenji's ready. Feet planted, shoulders squared—

Your hand hits Yang's chest.

Flat palm. Firm pressure.

He stops.

Doesn't step back yet. Just freezes, eyes still locked on Kenji.

"Yang," you say quietly. "No."

His gaze drops to you.

You don't move your hand. Don't ease the pressure.

"Fine," he mutters.

You let your hand fall.

Kenji's still standing there, fists clenched, breathing hard through his nose. Rico's appeared from somewhere to your left—hand on Taeyang's shoulder, murmuring something low in Spanish that makes Taeyang exhale hard and step back.

Kenji adjusts his jacket. Runs a hand through his platinum hair.

"Maya's not at her house," he says, talking to you now. Deliberately not looking at Taeyang. "Probably at the bathhouse in Nakano. That's where she goes when she needs to think."

You nod once. "Thanks."

"Yeah." He starts to turn. Stops. Looks past you toward where Jimin's standing.

And his expression does something complicated.

Not quite anger. Not quite suspicion. Something in between that makes your stomach drop because you know that look—that's Kenji putting pieces together you weren't ready for him to see.

"And you—" He points at Jimin. "Park."

Jimin raises an eyebrow. Hands still in his pockets. Unbothered. "Otsuka."

"You better be thankful she's on your side." Kenji's voice has gone flat. "It's the only reason I'm not disappearing that Mustang and letting you explain to the Tanaka cousin why his car's in pieces at the bottom of Tokyo Bay."

Jimin raises an eyebrow. Hands in his pockets. "Noted."

Kenji holds his gaze for another beat.

Then he's turning. Walking away. Weaving through the crowd, platinum hair catching the overhead lights.

Gone.

The crowd disperses. Slowly.

Show's over.

Taeyang's already moving toward his RX-7. Rico follows, still talking low.

You exhale.

Jimin shifts beside you. Close but not too close.

"Behave," you say without looking at him.

"Me?" His hands come up from his pockets—palms out, picture of innocence. "I'm an angel, Hachi."

You snort. "Right."

"What? I am." That grin's back. "Ask anyone."

"I'd get very different answers."

"Only from people who don't know me well enough."

You shake your head. Turn toward your AE86, right where you left it.

You slide into the driver's seat. Close the door.

Your phone buzzes before you even start the engine.

𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎

You stare at the screen.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎? 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝?

Three dots appear immediately.

𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 :) 

𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 

𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝

You lock the phone. Start the engine.

The rumble fills the car, vibrating through the seat, grounding.

You pull out of Daikoku without checking your mirrors to see if he's still standing there.

Even though you know he is.

Bertha Benz didn't ask permission.

That's the part they always leave out.

The textbooks frame it as a milestone—first long-distance automobile trip, 1888, 106 kilometers from Mannheim to Pforzheim—but what they don't tell you is that she left before Carl could say no—not that he had much ground to stand on, given whose dowry had built the thing. She loaded her two sons in the back, and drove it across the German countryside to prove to the world that the invention worked. She bought ligroin from a pharmacy and unclogged a fuel line with a hatpin and invented brake pads on the side of the road because the ones they had were garbage.

She didn't plan to become the face of automotive history. She just needed people to see what the machine could do.

You wonder sometimes—did she know?

Standing in that pharmacy, covered in road dust, haggling for solvent while her sons sat in a horseless carriage that half the country thought was a joke.

Did she know that proving the car worked meant she'd spend the rest of her life performing the role of the woman who proved it?

That every interview, every gala, every public appearance after that drive would require her to be Bertha Benz, Pioneer—capital P—instead of just Bertha, the woman who liked engines and got impatient waiting for her husband to do something about it?

Probably not.

Nobody ever tells you that the price of proving yourself is having to keep proving yourself.

Forever.

On repeat.

In increasingly expensive outfits with increasingly rigid smiles.

Your fork pauses over the wagyu.

The private dining room at Ryugin is doing its job tonight—the lighting is good and the tasting menu arrived in nine courses, each one smaller than the last and more architecturally ambitious than anything you'd find at the konbini stands around Daikoku.

Fresh flowers on the table—your mother's favorite, which means Mizuki called ahead. A bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket to your left, half-empty, because Rei poured you a glass forty minutes ago and you've been nursing it since.

Two tables over—separated by frosted glass partitions that offer the illusion of privacy without actually providing it—there's a couple laughing.

It sounds real.

Must be nice.

"You're quieter than usual."

Your fork stops mid-air. Eyes flick to his.

Rei looks good tonight. He always looks good—that's never been the issue. The tailored navy suit, the watch that catches the candlelight every time he lifts his fork, the way his hair falls just right because he probably spent twenty minutes getting it there.

He's handsome in the way that photographs well for shareholder newsletters.

It's also the kind of handsome that doesn't make your hands shake.

You dab your lips clean with the napkin. Lip tint tonight—strategic choice. No reapplying gloss between courses, no checking your reflection every time you take a drink.

Even celebrating your own engagement requires logistical planning.

Especially celebrating your own engagement.

Because there are people in this restaurant who know the Hayashi name even if they don't know your face, and being caught with smudged lipstick at a place like Ryugin would somehow, somehow, circle back to your mother by morning.

Performance. Always performance.

Bertha at least got to drive.

"I was thinking," you say.

"About what?"

About what indeed.

About what a life looks like when it's held together by handcuffs the color of white gold and a four-carat diamond you didn't pick out.

About how Bertha Benz cleared a fuel line with a hatpin and you can't even clear the lump in your throat when someone asks about wedding dates.

About the fact that three nights ago you were standing between Jimin's legs at Daikoku with his hand up your skirt and right now you're cutting wagyu with a man who thinks you spent that evening working.

About all the versions of yourself you've had to kill to keep this one alive.

"About possible venues," you say instead. "For the wedding."

Rei's face does that thing. That softening. The way his eyes crease at the corners when something genuinely pleases him, the slight duck of his head as he looks down at his plate, that quiet smile he saves for moments he considers private even though nothing in your life has ever actually been private.

He takes a bite of his steak. Chews. Swallows.

"My father had a suggestion, actually."

"Oh?"

"He said we should have it where we met."

Where you met.

The Tokyo Motor Show, 2004. You were five. He was seven. Both of you dragged to the Makuhari Messe convention center by parents who cared more about networking than the fact that their children were bored out of their minds.

You remember exactly two things from that day: a candy-apple red concept car on a rotating platform that you stared at for twenty minutes straight, and a boy with neat hair and a blazer two sizes too big who offered you half his melon bread because you looked hungry.

You weren't hungry. You were overwhelmed.

You took the bread anyway.

Decades later, that boy's sitting across from you in a Michelin-starred restaurant suggesting you get married at a convention center.

A laugh escapes before you can shape it into something appropriate.

"My mother would have a stroke."

Rei grins. Actually grins—not his boardroom smile, not his press-photo smile, but the crooked one that makes him look seventeen again. The one that reminds you why you do care about him, even when caring feels like wearing shoes that are half a size too small.

"Oh, she'd be furious," he agrees, entirely too pleased with the mental image. "Can you imagine? Mizuki Hayashi's daughter getting married at a trade show venue?"

"Between the Lexus pavilion and the Bridgestone tire display."

"Exactly. Cocktail hour near the EV charging stations."

"First dance in the press conference room."

"Reception catered by the food court."

He's laughing now, shoulders shaking more than it fills the room.

Rei doesn't laugh loud—never has.

"Let him dream for a bit," Rei says, still smiling, settling back into his chair. "He brings it up every time I visit the office. 'Rei, the Messe has excellent capacity. It's excellent. And the parking is unbeatable.'"

"The parking."

"The parking. For the Sakamoto patriarch, that's basically poetry."

You smile.

Because Rei is funny. He is. He's kind and witty and he makes you laugh in these small, unexpected ways that catch you off guard precisely because you forget he can.

You forget that behind the pressed suits and the investor meetings and the carefully planned future, there's still that seven-year-old who shared his melon bread with a stranger.

And then the moment passes.

And you're back to the napkin on the left side of the plate, and the champagne going flat in its flute, and the ring catching light every time you move your hand.

Your bag buzzes.

One vibration against the leather interior of your clutch, muffled by the napkin draped over it but unmistakable.

You keep your face neutral.

Because your phone is on Do Not Disturb. Has been since you sat down two hours ago.

And DND only breaks for two contacts on this planet.

One being Maya.

And Maya knows you're here. Knows what tonight is. Knows you're sitting across from Rei in a private dining room celebrating the engagement she privately thinks is a slow-motion car wreck.

If she's texting anyway—

"Will you excuse me for a moment?"

The words come out smooth. Rehearsed. The exact right blend of apologetic and casual, because excusing yourself mid-course at a place like Ryugin requires a specific performance. Too abrupt and it reads as rude. Too lingering and Rei will ask if something's wrong.

He looks up from his steak. Eyebrows lifting—not suspicious, just mildly curious.

"Of course."

You smile. Pick up your clutch. Stand without rushing.

Heels click against polished hardwood as you navigate past the frosted partition, past the couple still laughing at their table, past a server carrying something that smells like fish.

The restroom is down a narrow corridor lined with that same dark wood paneling. Warm lighting. A single orchid on the counter because even the bathroom in this place has to perform.

You lock the door.

Pull out your phone.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚘𝚔𝚞 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. The orchid watches from its little ceramic pot on the counter, serene and completely unhelpful.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

The Mustang.

Of course it's about the Mustang.

The cherry red Boss 429 that you helped hide, the car Kenji took up the mountain route to stash somewhere safe, that you literally fled from cops in.

The car Jimin won fair and square off the Tanaka cousin in a race that half of Daikoku witnessed.

But you didn't.

The same car Kenji warned you about not even forty-eight hours ago.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚝. 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎

You lean against the counter. The marble is cold against your palm, grounding in a way that ¥48,000 wagyu will never be.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒𝚍𝚔. 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚏?

You stare at the screen. Then your eyes flick upward to the reflection on the mirror—lip tint still intact, posture still Hayashi-perfect, every strand of hair exactly where your mother's stylist placed it four hours ago.

The woman in the mirror looks like she belongs at Ryugin. Like engagement dinners are her natural habitat. Like she's never once smelled burnt rubber at 3 AM or felt her spine slam into a bucket seat at 200 kilometers per hour.

The woman in the mirror is a lie.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚘𝚔𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚐𝚘

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝

You can picture it.

Jimin squared up in that parking lot, weight forward, jaw set, that sparkle he gets when something crosses from banter to threat.

The version of him that doesn't smirk, doesn't flirt, doesn't deflect with Spanish or charm.

The version that made his name in the first place.

The version that gets people hurt if nobody steps in.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

Three words. And they sit heavier than anything Rei said at that table tonight.

Because Kenji was right. Warned you. Told you this would happen. And you stood there in Daikoku, looked him in the face, and said it won't blow back.

You can't leave. Not now. Not from this dinner, this specific dinner, the one where both families' PR teams will want photos for the engagement announcement next week. The one your mother called ahead to arrange flowers for. The one Rei's been looking forward to all month with that careful, quiet excitement he saves for things that matter to him.

You've been gone too much this week. Stayed at 'Maya's' one night, came home late two others, brushed off his calls with vague excuses about work deadlines.

Rei doesn't push—he never pushes—but you caught the way his texts got shorter yesterday.

He's not suspicious. He's just... waiting. Patiently. The way he always does.

And patience like that has a shelf life you can't afford to test right now.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚒 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚓𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜

You do know. That's the problem.

Jimin doesn't back down from confrontation. Never has. He meets force with force, insult with insult, threat with that particular brand of calm that's more dangerous than yelling because it means he's already decided how this ends.

And the Tanaka twins aren't the type to appreciate calm.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘

You lock the phone. Screen goes dark.

Your reflection's still there. Patient. Waiting for you to put the mask back on.

One hour. You have to sit across from Rei Sakamoto for one more hour, eat dessert you don't want, laugh at whatever his father said about the Messe parking, and pretend the only thing on your mind is seating charts and venue deposits.

One hour of being the Hayashi heiress—composed, grateful, present.

And then you drive to Daikoku and become someone else entirely.

You run the tap. Cold water over your wrists—an old trick from your mother, ironically. It resets the nervous system, dear. Very effective before press conferences. Mizuki Hayashi, dispensing survival tactics disguised as beauty tips since you were born.

You dry your hands. Check the lip tint one more time. Adjust a single strand of hair that moved when you leaned against the counter.

Breathe.

The Tanaka twins roll up in matching Silvias like it's a fucking anime opening.

Jimin spots them from across the lot—white S15 and black S15, parking side by side with the kind of synchronization that's supposed to be intimidating but mostly just looks rehearsed.

He takes a sip of his canned coffee. Leans back against the R34's hood.

Shinji's out first. Blonde hair, that jerky energy he carries everywhere—bouncing on his heels, cracking his knuckles, looking around Daikoku like he's scoping exits. Akira follows slower. Black shirt, combat boots, that dead-still thing he does where he stands in one spot and lets the silence do the threatening for him.

They've brought friends. Four, maybe five guys trailing behind them who aren't regulars—muscle, probably.

Rico notices from across the lot. Straightens up. Catches Jimin's eye.

Jimin shakes his head once. Don't.

"Jaque." Akira stops about three meters away. Hands loose at his sides.

"Akira." Jimin takes another sip. Doesn't stand up. "Shinji. Looking good, bro. New highlights?"

Shinji's eye twitches. Akira doesn't react.

"You have our cousin's car."

"Pfft." Jimin snorts into his coffee. "I have my car. That I won. In a race. That people saw. With their eyes."

"The race wasn't legitimate."

"According to who?"

"According to us."

"Ah." Jimin nods, slow, like he's considering this deeply. "Counterpoint—no."

Shinji steps forward. Akira's arm comes up, blocking him. Patient.

"We're not asking, Park."

"Good, 'cause the answer's still no." He drains the last of his coffee, crushes the can one-handed, tosses it over his shoulder into the bin without looking. "Your cousin bet a car he couldn't afford to lose. That's on him. Not my problem."

"We can make it your problem."

"You can try."

The lot's gotten quieter. People drifting closer without drifting closer—that gravitational pull of a confrontation, everyone pretending they're just checking their phones while their eyes cut sideways.

"Look." Jimin pushes off the hood. Stands. Still relaxed, still loose, still holding that grin like a shield. "I'm not racing for a car I already own. That's not how this works. Your cousin lost, you're embarrassed, I get it. Go home. Sleep it off. Buy him a beer and tell him to pick better battles."

Akira's jaw shifts.

"Foreigner comes into our scene," Shinji mutters, loud enough to carry. "Takes our shit. Acts like he belongs."

The grin that was plastered on his face freezes. Goes from warm to cold without changing shape.

"Careful, Shinji." Still smiling. Doesn't reach his eyes anymore. "You're about to say something you can't walk back."

Maya's there suddenly—materializing from wherever she'd been, stepping into the gap between them with her arms crossed and that don't-fuck-with-me posture she wears better than anyone Jimin's ever met.

"Alright, enough. Both of you."

She looks at Jimin first, in that way Jimin knows means 'stand down'.

Then at Akira.

"You want to dispute a race, you bring it to Panda. That's how it works here. You don't just roll up and start making demands."

"Panda's not here," Akira observes.

"I'm here," Maya says flatly. "And I'm telling you to wait."

Something passes between the twins, that silent communication they do—Shinji's fingers flexing, Akira's chin dipping a fraction.

Jimin exhales. Forces his shoulders down. Steps back.

Not because the twins scare him but because Maya asked and Maya's yours and he's not about to disrespect the chain of command in your territory.

He raises both palms. Fine. Whatever.

Turns away.

Gets about two steps before Shinji opens his mouth.

"Maybe when Panda shows up she can settle this on her knees. Heard she's pretty good at giving head."

The parking lot goes silent.

Jimin stops walking.

Everything in him goes very, very still—the one that happens right before something irreversible, that stupid half-second between the light turning green and the engine exploding off the line.

Maya's saying something. He can hear it—distant, muffled, like audio through water. Her hand's on his arm. Pulling.

Doesn't matter.

He's already turning.

Already closing the distance.

Shinji sees it coming—has just enough time for his expression to shift from smug to 'oh shit'—and then Jimin's fist connects with his jaw.

A single, clean right hook that ends with Shinji's head snapping sideways, the crack of knuckles on bone loud enough to cut through the silence.

Shinji staggers. Doesn't go down—catches himself on the hood of someone's Evo—but his lip splits. Blood on his teeth.

Akira moves at the same time three of the backup guys move. Taeyang's already moving, Jimin clocks it in his peripheral—Yang shoving off the RX-7, fists balled, that particular set to his jaw that means someone's getting dropped. Three meters behind him, Rico's pushed past some dude mid-conversation without so much as a 'sorry bro', boots eating pavement.

And Jimin knows—with the same clarity he knows an apex line, knows the exact RPM to shift, knows when a gap is his before it exists—that he just fucked up.

This isn't his territory. This is yours. Daikoku is Panda's house, your rules, your name stamped on every dispute, every race, every agreement that keeps fifty-plus racers in line and the cops looking the other way. Everything that happens in this parking lot reflects on you. Directly.

And he just threw a punch.

Which means Daikoku started it. Your territory initiated violence against visitors. Doesn't matter that the visitors rolled in talking shit. Doesn't matter that what Shinji said about you was filthy enough to earn dental surgery, not just a split lip.

On paper? Jaque, a Daikoku regular, assaulted a Shibuya racer on home turf.

Bad.

Really, really bad.

And yet, Jimin finds himself thinking he'd do it again.

Because Shinji said that about you. In your lot. In front of people who respect you. People who fear you.

And if Jimin lets that slide—if he swallows it, walks away, plays diplomat—then it's out there. The comment lives. Gets repeated, gets twisted, gets passed around until it's not just Shinji being a piece of shit but something that clings to your name.

Nah.

Suddenly—steps.

And the cadence of the movement is one he'd know blindfolded.

You come through the gap the crowd makes and Jimin needs about fifteen minutes and a miracle.

Dark leather pants hugging your legs. Black sneakers instead of heels or platforms, and they still somehow manage to turn your legs into something that should require a government license.

You look as hot as you did 3 days ago when he played with you skirt in the back of the lot.

Dios mío.

He wants to get between those thighs and set up permanent residence.

Not the time, Park Jimin. Absolutely, categorically, not the fucking time.

You also happen to have a lollipop in your mouth. Cherry, from the color. Stick poking out between your lips, rolling from one side to the other while you scan the scene with eyes that don't miss a single thing.

His survival instincts and his dick are having a disagreement and neither is winning.

Akira sees you. His posture shifts. Not softer. Tighter. More careful.

Because whatever the Tanaka twins are, whatever shit they talk and whatever threats they throw, they're not stupid enough to pretend you don't matter.

You stop. Six feet from the twins. Weight on one hip. Arms at your sides. Lollipop rolling.

Two words.

"Cherry Boss?"

That's it.

Jimin watches Akira swallow.

"The car Park took from our cousin." Akira's picking his words now, threading traffic. "The race wasn't clean. Witnesses are divided. We want the Mustang returned—or a rematch."

You don't respond.

The lollipop clicks once against your teeth.

Akira continues, because whatever's behind your silence is worse than anything he's prepared for. "Our cousin's word should—"

"Who says the race wasn't clean?"

"What?"

"Witnesses are divided. That's what you said." You tilt your head a fraction. "So who's saying it wasn't fair? Give me names."

Akira hesitates. First time tonight Jimin's seen him hesitate about anything.

Shinji's still dabbing blood off his chin. Still looking at Jimin with murder in his eyes. But even he shuts up when you talk.

Everyone shuts up when you talk.

"We don't need names," Akira says, less diplomatic. "Our cousin's word is—"

"Not enough. Not in my lot."

The words spread across Daikoku like coolant on a fresh burn.

Akira's jaw tightens. Shinji's bouncing gets worse.

"We want the rematch," Akira repeats.

You study him. One second. Two. Three—long enough that Jimin can see tiny folds forming on Akira's frown under the weight of your attention.

Then you nod, one shoulder lifting in a shrug so unbothered it borders on disrespectful.

"Alright. I'll race you."

A low murmur ripples through the lot outward like tires losing traction.

Jimin's body moves before his brain signs off—one step forward, mouth already open, because no.

You're not putting yourself on the line for his car, for his mess, for the fight he started by throwing a fist he doesn't regret but—

Your hand comes up.

Not toward the twins. Toward him. Palm out, fingers spread.

Without turning around. Without even looking.

Stop.

His mouth closes.

The words die somewhere between his chest and his teeth—swallowed whole, instantly, because that hand means 'I've got this' and 'shut the fuck up' and 'trust me' compressed into five fingers and he obeys before he's finished deciding to.

The twins exchange that look. Silent twin shorthand—Shinji's busted lip pulling into something smug, Akira's eyes narrowing with satisfaction.

"We figured you'd be reasonable," Akira says.

"Don't get it twisted."

You walk past the twins, through the gap between them, close enough that Shinji has to shift to avoid contact. Close enough they feel you pass like a blade.

"Jaque's not racing you for a car he won clean," you mutter offhandedly, "I'm racing you because you walked into my territory making demands."

You keep walking—not toward your AE86, which is parked near the entrance where you left it.

The opposite direction.

Toward him.

You stop close. Closer than the situation calls for. Close enough that he catches something powdery-sweet beneath the parking lot smoke—that matcha-adjacent scent that's been rewiring his brain since the first time he got near enough to notice it.

"Keys," you say, low, just for him.

And, suddenly, he gets it.

The Mustang. The cherry red Boss 429 he's just finally brought back to Daikoku storage.

You're going to race the Tanaka twins in the car their cousin lost.

That's either the most brilliant or the most ruthless thing he's ever witnessed and his brain refuses to pick one.

He puts the keys in your palm. Doesn't hesitate.

You turn back toward the twins. Hold up the keyring. Let the lot lights catch the metal.

"And in my territory—" Your fingers close around the keys. "—we don't do demands. We do respect."

Akira's expression goes flat. Shinji makes a sound—not a laugh, not a scoff. Something small and sour.

"So I'm going to race you." You're walking toward the storage bay. "Driving the Boss 429 your cousin bet and lost to Jaque."

Shinji mutters something, pitched for his brother and the guys flanking them.

Jimin hears it.

His whole body goes rigid—forward momentum building, hands already fists, because that's twice now, twice this piece of shit has said something about you that deserves reconstructive surgery—

Maya's palm lands on his chest. Hard. Doesn't even look at him. Just a wall.

He stops. Barely.

"Oh." Your voice cuts the air clean. "One more thing."

You turn, slowly in a way that makes people forget to breathe because every degree of that rotation is premeditated in a way that's just you.

The stick of the lollipop slides from between your lips and Jimin feels it in the base of his spine.

You hold it up. Study it.

Then you drop it.

Small wet 'tck' on the pavement.

Your sneaker follows, pointed toe finding the candy and pressing down. Slow. Grinding it into the asphalt in one long, thorough rotation.

Crushed. Completely. Methodically.

Every man within earshot shifts his weight.

"When I win, I want you to lower your heads. Properly. Hands flat, foreheads on the pavement, the whole thing."

Daikoku doesn't make a sound.

Cherry stains on pavement under your foot like fresh blood.

"I'd hate to hear you talk about someone giving head when you can't even bow yours."

Rico's got the drone case open on the hood of Taeyang's RX-7, fingers moving fast, talking to himself the way he always does when he's nervous—half-Spanish, half-Japanese, full nonsense.

"Okay, okay, la batería está en—wait, no, this goes here—mierda, Kenji makes this look easy—"

You watch him fumble with the propeller guard, snap it into the wrong slot, yank it off, try again.

The drone is Kenji's baby—a DJI Mavic 3 he modded with an infrared camera and an extended battery pack for mountain runs. It follows the race from above, records the footage, acts as proof if anyone disputes results.

But Kenji's not here tonight. Which means Rico's flying it.

Rico, who once crashed a toy helicopter into a ceiling fan and blamed the wind.

"You good?" you ask.

"Define good."

"Can you fly the thing without killing someone?"

"Eighty percent sure, boss." He snaps the last propeller into place. "Maybe seventy."

"Rico."

"I'm kidding! Sixty-five."

Taeyang reaches over and silently adjusts the gimbal Rico installed backwards. Rico stares at it. Then at Taeyang. Then back at the gimbal.

"I was testing you," Rico says.

"Sure you were."

The controller lights up. Rico runs through the startup sequence with the concentration of a surgeon—or at least a surgeon who keeps muttering 'ay dios mío' every three seconds. The drone lifts off the hood, wobbles once, stabilizes, climbs. The camera feed comes through on Rico's phone, mounted to the controller with electrical tape and what appears to be a hair tie.

Professional operation right here.

"Okay," Rico breathes. "Okay, she's up. She's flying. Nobody touch anything."

You leave him to it.

The Mustang's already been pulled from the storage bay. You popped the hood when you first got in, ran a quick visual—oil level, coolant, belts, nothing loose. Kenji maintained it properly while it was stashed. Engine's clean. Battery's charged. Tank's three-quarters full.

You exhale.

429 cubic inches of American fury sitting in a Japanese parking lot, waiting to be pointed at a mountain that wasn't designed for it.

The Mustang weighs 4,000 pounds. The Silvias are under 2,800.

On a mountain course with switchbacks and elevation changes, that's not a disadvantage—it's a handicap. Like bringing a greatsword to a knife fight. More power, more weight, more inertia, and approximately zero of the nimble cornering ability that the S15 chassis was literally engineered for.

The twins know this. That's why they agreed.

"The mountain?" Shinji had scoffed when you announced the route, still pressing his sleeve against his split lip. "That's your territory."

You'd looked at him. Patient. Like you were explaining a concept to someone who should already understand it.

"You came to my territory. You showed up at my lot, brought muscle, made demands. And now you want to dictate where we race?" A pause. "I don't think you appreciate how generous I'm already being."

"It's not fair," Shinji pressed. "That mountain—you've run it a thousand times. We'd be at a disadvantage—"

"You're in S15s." You let the silence sit for a second. "I'm in a 4,000-pound American boat with rear-wheel drive and and factory brakes barely rated for this. You want to talk about disadvantage?"

Akira had put a hand on Shinji's shoulder. Squeezed once.

Shut up.

Shinji shut up.

"Mount Hakone," Akira confirmed. "Downhill. Start to finish."

"Start to finish," you agreed. "Standard rules. Clean racing. First one past the final hairpin wins."

Akira nodded. Then: "Both of us."

"What?"

"Both of us race. Not one. Both."

Two cars against one. Two Silvias boxing you in on a narrow mountain road, coordinating moves, alternating blocking positions while the other attacks.

That's their signature—the reason the Tanaka twins have a reputation in the first place.

They don't race fair. They race together.

"Fine," you said. "Both of you."

Because what you didn't say—what you'd never say out loud—is that you've studied their tactics. Watched the drone footage Kenji archived from three of their Shibuya runs. You know how they operate: Shinji leads, aggressive and twitchy, burning through tires and making risky entries. Akira hangs back, patient, letting Shinji create chaos while he picks the clean line through the mess.

Shinji's the distraction. Akira's the threat.

And you can beat a threat.

What's harder to beat is not knowing who to watch.

Now you know.

You close the Mustang's hood. Run your palm across the cherry paint one last time—feeling the clear coat, the smoothness, the life underneath the metal.

The convoy heads out—three cars snaking through Tokyo's late-night streets toward Hakone—your red Mustang in front, the white Silvia behind, the black Silvia bringing up the rear. A handful of Daikoku regulars follow at a distance in their own cars, because nobody misses a territorial race if they can help it. Rico's somewhere above in the drone, the little red light blinking against the sky like a mechanical star.

Maya's in Taeyang's RX-7, running comms through a burner phone on speaker. Taeyang's driving. You can hear them arguing about the radio station even through the static.

The mountain road opens up twenty minutes outside the city. Streetlights thin. Buildings give way to trees, dense black walls of cedar and cypress pressing in from both sides. The road narrows, curves tightening, elevation climbing. The temperature drops three degrees between the base and the first proper switchback.

You feel the Mustang adjust beneath you. The suspension loads differently here—nose heavier on inclines, rear end wanting to step out on descents. American muscle on Japanese asphalt. Two cultures of engineering that never agreed on what a car should be.

The starting point is a lookout pull-off near the summit. Enough space for the three cars to line up and the spectators to park along the gravel shoulder.

Maya materializes at your window as you pull in.

"Feed's good," she says, tapping the phone. "Rico's holding altitude. Camera's tracking all three cars."

"He manage not to crash it yet?"

"He hit a tree branch about four minutes ago but the drone survived."

"Inspiring confidence."

"That's what I said." She leans in. Lowers her voice. "You sure about this?"

"No."

"Cool. Just checking." She squeezes your arm once through the window. "Go fuck them up, babe."

The twins are already lined up. White on the left, black on the right. Engines idling, turbos spooling with that high-pitched whistle that tells you they're running at least 15 PSI.

You settle the Mustang between them.

Red flanked by black and white. A cherry bomb sitting between two bullets.

Someone from the Daikoku crowd walks to the front. Raises a phone light. Starts the countdown.

Three.

The 429 rumbles. You can feel it through the floor, through the seat, through your spine. An angry, muscular vibration that says 'point me at something and watch what happens.'

Two.

Shinji revs. High, aggressive, the SR20DET screaming past 6,000 RPM in neutral. Akira's Silvia stays quiet. Idle. Patient.

The distraction and the threat.

One.

Your foot covers the clutch. First gear. Right hand on the shifter. Eyes on the road.

The phone light drops.

Go.

The Silvias launch like they were shot from a rail gun. Both turbos spool to full boost simultaneously—that synchronized Tanaka start that's rattled opponents before—and they're gone, vanishing into the first curve before you've even cleared the pull-off.

Because Mustangs don't launch like that.

They build. Torque stacking, rear tires finding purchase on cold asphalt, the weight rocking back as the front end lifts a fraction and then the power delivery arrives all at once—a deep, rolling wave of force that slams you into the seat and turns the speedometer into a blur.

You're behind. Twenty meters. Thirty.

Good.

Because the first section of Hakone's downhill is exactly where you want them ahead of you. It's tight. Technical. A series of linked S-curves where the Silvias' lightweight advantage means everything and the Mustang's 4,000 pounds means you'd be fighting the car through every transition.

Let them pull away. Let them think the weight is killing you.

Study their lines.

The first proper switchback comes fast—a right-hander that drops sharply, the road falling away like a shelf. You brake early. Earlier than you'd brake in the 86, because the Mustang's mass means stopping distances are measured in prayers, not meters. The nose dives. Weight transfers forward and the rear end goes light, that nervous float that tells you the back tires are begging for an excuse to step out.

You countersteer. Half a degree. Hold the brake. Release. Turn in.

The Mustang pivots—not gracefully, not with the precision you're used to, but with a kind of violent commitment that's all its own. The chassis rolls, suspension compressing, and then you're through and the exit opens up and you feed the throttle and 500 horsepower hits the rear wheels and you launch out of the corner.

Shit.

That was ugly. Effective, but ugly.

You're used to the 86. To balance and finesse and the car doing exactly what your hands ask the millisecond you ask it. The Mustang doesn't do that. The Mustang takes your input, thinks about it for half a beat, then executes with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Ahead, the Silvias are running side by side through the S-curves. Shinji on the inside, Akira on the outside. Alternating positions through each curve—inside, outside, inside, outside—so whoever's behind you never has a clean pass line.

Textbook twin formation. The rolling wall.

You push harder. Close the gap through the next straight section—what counts as straight on Hakone, which is about 200 meters before the road bends again. The 429 eats that distance in a heartbeat, the power advantage absurd on any stretch that doesn't require turning.

Fifty meters behind now. Forty. You can see the turbos' blow-off valves venting between shifts, little puffs of pressurized air catching your headlights.

The next section is the medium-speed sweepers. Long, flowing curves where the road follows the mountain's contour. Here, the Mustang's mass becomes less of a liability—you can use the weight, lean into the curves, let momentum carry you through instead of fighting it.

You find a rhythm.

Not the 86's rhythm. Something new. Something heavier and angrier and less precise but somehow—

Powerful.

The Mustang carves through the sweeper and you feel the rear end settle into a long, controlled slide. Not intentional. Not the kind of drift you'd initiate in the 86 with a flick of the wheel and a tap of the brake. This is the car telling you it's at its limit, that 500 horsepower on rear wheels through a mountain curve means the laws of physics are suggestions and the tires are negotiating on your behalf.

You hold it. Countersteer. Modulate throttle. The slide extends through the entire curve—forty meters, fifty, the Mustang sideways on the mountain road with cedar trees flashing past the passenger window and gravel spitting from the outer tires.

The exit comes. You straighten. Accelerate.

Twenty meters behind now.

They're speeding up.

The next section is where things get bad.

The tight switchbacks. Hakone's signature. Five consecutive hairpins stacked one after another, each one tighter than the last, each one dropping in elevation. The road narrows to barely two cars wide. Guardrails on one side, rock face on the other.

This is where lightweight wins. This is where 2,800 pounds of nimble Silvia chassis should bury a 4,000-pound muscle car that has no business being on this mountain in the first place.

You know that.

Shinji knows it too, because he pushes harder into the first hairpin. The white Silvia's brake lights flare late—dangerously late—and then he whips the car around the apex with that twitchy, aggressive style that burns through tires but looks spectacular. Akira follows, smoother, clipping the apex at the exact right point.

You brake.

Hard.

The Mustang's nose drops like an anchor. Your seatbelt locks against your chest as inertia tries to throw you through the windshield. The brake pedal's firm under your foot—no fade yet, the previous owner upgraded to proper performance pads—but you can feel the heat building. Four corners of steel and friction trying to stop 4,000 pounds of American metal.

You turn in. Too fast. You know it's too fast the moment you feel the front tires lose grip, the understeer pushing you wide, and for a horrifying half-second the Mustang's heading straight for the guardrail.

Shit—

Brake. Harder. Weight forward. Front tires bite again.

You make the corner. Barely. The mirror clips the guardrail—a metallic scrape that makes your teeth clench—and then you're through, barreling toward the second hairpin with zero time to breathe.

Second hairpin. Tighter. Left-hander this time.

You adjust. Brake earlier. Sacrifice entry speed for control. The Mustang groans through the turn—you can feel the suspension protesting, the body roll excessive, the weight transfer sluggish compared to what you're used to.

Behind the wheel, your body wants to drive the 86. Wants to flick and rotate and dance through these corners like you always do.

But the Mustang doesn't dance.

The Mustang brawls.

And if you keep trying to make it do something it's not, this mountain's going to eat you alive.

Stop fighting it.

Third hairpin. You change your approach.

Instead of braking in a straight line and turning in clean—the technique that's been your gospel since you started racing—you trail-brake into the corner. Let the weight stay forward longer. Let the rear end rotate on its own, using the Mustang's mass to swing the tail around the apex.

It works.

Sort of.

The rotation's aggressive. More than you intended. The rear tires break loose and suddenly you're sliding through the hairpin at an angle that would make your insurance company cry.

But you're through. And the exit speed is better—much better—because you used the car's weight instead of fighting it.

Fourth hairpin. Same technique. Trail-brake. Rotate. Slide. The Mustang slams through the corner with all the grace of a bar fight but none of the consequences.

Fifth hairpin. You're catching them.

Ten meters behind Akira's black Silvia. Close enough to see the exhaust note change as he downshifts, close enough to see the turbine wheel through the exhaust tip when his blow-off valve vents.

The medium-speed section opens up again and you close the gap to nothing. Right on Akira's bumper. The Mustang's headlights flooding his rear window, the 429's roar drowning out his SR20DET.

He doesn't move.

Holds the center line. Forces you to either pass on the inside—dangerous, narrow, gravel on the shoulder—or the outside, where Shinji's white Silvia is lurking two car lengths ahead, ready to squeeze you into the rock face.

The wall.

You feint left. Akira adjusts. You feint right. He mirrors.

Controlled. Coordinated. They've done this a hundred times to a hundred different drivers and it works every single time because the math is simple: two cars occupy more space than one, and on a road this narrow, there's nowhere to go.

Unless you make somewhere to go.

The next curve approaches. A long right-hander that feeds into the final descent section—the last three kilometers before the finish. It's wide. Not a lot, but wider than the hairpins. Maybe two and a half car widths.

Akira takes the racing line. Clean. Clips the inside and drifts toward the outside on exit.

Which means, for approximately one and a half seconds, there's a gap on the inside that shouldn't fit a Mustang.

You've seen this gap before.

Six months ago.

When a midnight purple Skyline threw itself sideways into the apex to cut you off and walked away from a maneuver that should have ended in twisted metal.

That shouldn't have worked.

But it did.

Because Jimin didn't calculate the gap, he created it. Used the oversteer to rotate the car mid-corner, swinging the tail out to change his trajectory, effectively shortening the car's footprint through the apex.

The gap didn't exist for a car traveling in a straight line.

But a car that's sideways—a car that's perpendicular to the road for a fraction of a second—

That car fits.

Your hands move before your brain finishes the thought.

You yank the wheel left. Simultaneously stab the throttle—hard, brutal, all 500 horsepower hitting the rear wheels at once.

The Mustang kicks.

Rear tires break loose. The tail swings right. Violently. The car rotates—ten degrees, twenty, thirty—and suddenly you're sliding sideways through the corner, the nose pointing at the inside guardrail and the ass pointing at the rock face and there is nothing between you and a very expensive crash except the friction coefficient of two rear tires and whatever luck you were born under.

The gap appears.

For exactly one and a half seconds, the Mustang slides through the space between Akira's Silvia and the inside of the curve—a gap that doesn't exist for a car pointing forward but fits perfectly for a car pointing sideways.

Akira sees it too late. His brake lights flare—startled, reactive—and he overcorrects, the black Silvia twitching as he tries to close the door that's already been blown open.

You countersteer. Hard. The Mustang's nose swings back toward the direction of travel, rear tires biting, and for one sickening moment you think you've overcorrected, think the pendulum's going to swing the other way and send you into the rock face—

Catch it catch it catch it—

Your hands find it.

Half a degree of steering. The exact throttle position. That impossibly precise balance between too much and not enough, the razor's edge between recovery and catastrophe.

The Mustang straightens.

You're ahead.

The force of it slams you back in your seat as the 429 surges forward, rear tires gripping, the exit straightaway opening up ahead of you like a runway.

Behind you: chaos. Akira's trying to recover. Shinji's braking to avoid his brother. The formation is broken. The wall is gone.

And you're gone.

The final descent is a power game. Long straights connected by gentle curves.

Exactly where the Boss 429 was born to live.

You bury the throttle and the speedometer climbs—120, 140, 160, the engine screaming at peak RPM before you grab the next gear and it starts all over again.

The Silvias can't catch you here. Not with 500 horsepower and a straight road and the kind of top-end acceleration that would make a drag racer weep. The turbos spool, sure. The SR20DETs hit boost.

But they're down 200 horsepower and the gap is already too wide and getting wider with every second.

Two kilometers. One and a half. One.

The final hairpin appears in your headlights. The last corner before the finish—a wide left-hander that curves around the base of the mountain before dumping onto a residential access road where a cluster of Daikoku regulars are already parked, phones recording, headlights pointing at the road.

You brake. Late. Feel the heat in the pedal now—there it is, that soft, spongy fade that means the brakes are cooked—and for a terrifying second the car doesn't slow down the way it should.

Pump it.

You pump the brake. Once. Twice. Fluid firms up. The car decelerates and you throw it into the hairpin with every ounce of the trail-braking technique you've been learning for the last eight minutes of your life.

The Mustang rotates. Slides. Cherry paint reflecting off guardrail metal.

Through.

And out.

You cross the line.

The crowd goes insane.

Horns. Actual car horns. The Daikoku kids laying on their steering wheels, headlights flashing high-low-high-low, and someone—probably Rico—is screaming something in Spanish that the mountain bounces back twice.

You pull the Mustang to the shoulder. Kill the engine. Your hands are shaking. Not from fear—from adrenaline, from the chemical cocktail that floods your system when you've just done something that should have killed you and didn't.

The steering wheel's hot under your palms. The brakes are smoking. You can smell them through the closed windows—that acrid, metallic heat that means the pads are done, absolutely done, probably need replacing before this car moves another hundred meters.

You sit there for a second. Two. Let your heartbeat find something resembling a normal rhythm.

Then you open the door.

The mountain air hits you—cold, cedar-infused, the smell of burnt rubber and brake dust mixing in. Your sneakers find gravel. Your legs feel strange, like they belong to someone else.

The Silvias haven't crossed yet.

You wait. Arms crossed. Leaning against the Mustang's fender.

Shinji's white S15 comes through first—fast, angry, the engine note telling you he pushed it too hard through the final section. Akira follows. Calmer. More composed.

But behind. Both of them behind.

They park.

Shinji doesn't get out. Just sits there, hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at nothing.

Akira gets out. Walks toward you. Stops.

His expression is—

Complicated.

Not angry, not exactly. Something closer to the look you had six months ago when Jimin's taillights disappeared around the final corner and you sat in the 86 trying to understand what the fuck just happened.

Recognition. Of someone who just did something that shouldn't have been possible.

You hold his gaze. Don't speak. Don't need to.

The crowd speaks for you—cheering, yelling, the kind of noise that carries through mountains and doesn't need translation.

Akira exhales.

Turns.

Goes back to his car.

Doesn't kneel. Doesn't apologize.

But he also doesn't argue.

And in this world, that's close enough.

The convoy barely makes it back to Daikoku before Maya's out of the RX-7 and sprinting.

She hits you at full speed. Arms around your neck, feet actually leaving the ground for a second because she's jumped and committed to this hug with her entire body weight.

"THAT WAS THE MOST INSANE SHIT I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!"

Your back hits the Mustang's door. You catch her on reflex, staggering, laughing despite yourself.

"Maya—"

"THE SLIDE! THE FUCKING SLIDE! You went SIDEWAYS through that gap at like A MILLION KILOMETERS—"

"It was maybe eighty—"

"Rico almost DROPPED THE DRONE! He was screaming! I thought you DIED!"

"I didn't die."

"I KNOW THAT NOW BUT FOR LIKE THREE SECONDS I DIDN'T!" She pulls back, grabs your face between both hands. Her eyes are wet. "Don't ever do that to me again."

"I can't promise that."

"I know. I hate you." She hugs you again. Tighter. "I love you so much."

"Love you too."

She lets go. Wipes her eyes. Immediately turns the emotion into something sharper: "Also I got footage. Ken's drone caught the whole thing. This is going to be LEGENDARY."

Taeyang's next. He walks up slow—Yang's always slow, always measured—and when he reaches you, his hand comes out.

You take it.

He daps you up. Clean. Precise. Then pulls you in for a half-hug, one arm around your shoulder, his mouth near your ear.

"That move," he says quietly. "That was his move."

You don't answer. Don't need to.

Rico practically launches himself at you from wherever he was standing—controller still in one hand, phone in the other, the drone apparently landed on someone's roof and he'll deal with it later.

"BOSS! BOSS! Mami, that was—dios mío—I almost pissed myself filming that, I'm not gonna lie—"

"Rico."

"The gap! The fucking gap! You went THROUGH it!"

"Rico, your drone is on someone's roof."

"I'll get it later. PRIORITIES." He grabs your hand, daps you up with both of his, the handshake evolving into something elaborate involving finger snaps that you don't fully follow but commit to anyway. "Respect, boss. Full respect."

"Thanks, Rico."

"No, like—full respect. Like I'm going to name my firstborn after you. Gender-neutral, works for anything."

"Please don't."

"Too late. Already decided."

He's still talking when you look up.

And see him.

Jaque.

Leaning against the R34 at the far edge of the lot. Arms crossed. Legs planted.

He came.

Of course he came. He probably followed the convoy at a distance, probably parked where nobody would notice, probably watched the feed on his phone or listened to Rico's frequency or did whatever it is Jaque does when he can't control a situation but refuses to let it happen without him.

He's watching you.

And he's not smiling.

What you're seeing is something you've only seen once before, in his kitchen, when Camilo said the word dad and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

He's pissed.

Colossally pissed.

He tips his head. A single motion, directed at the mechanic bay at the back of the lot—the enclosed space where cars get worked on, where the lights are dimmer and the walls muffle sound.

Not an invitation, a summons.

His arms uncross. He pushes off the R34. Turns. Walks toward the bay without checking to see if you're following.

Because he knows you will.

Maya catches your eye from across the lot. Raises an eyebrow.

'You okay?'

You give her a short nod. Fine.

Then you follow Jimin into the bay.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﻌ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

Support kiki

Support kiki

next | index

taglist

@yoongssi @jimineepaboya @nothingnothingnothing77 @cyyyvb @mima795 @melizzzie @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340

© jungkoode 2025 | banner: @writesvani divider: @dailynnt no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[toxmioka]

WHO | PJM X READER

CHAPTER 3

“PUT IT ALL ON THE LINE”

Word count: 1k+

Tag list : Open

Warnings: Mature language , manipulation, toxic relationships and attachment issues

Early access to chapters on Wattpad!

PARK JIMIN

The echo of the slammed door still lingered in the room, but Mi-young wasn't finished with me. She stood at the far end, one heel tapping against the polished floor, arms folded across her chest like armor.

Her glare was merciless.

"So?" she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "You've finally decided to be a good little puppet, haven't you?"

I stood near the kitchen counter, unmoving. My throat burned with words I hadn't figured out how to say.

"You're quiet now?" she pressed. "After parading around with that porcelain doll your father handpicked for you?"

"It wasn't like that," I muttered, jaw tight.

"Oh, really? Please enlighten me," she hissed. "Was it a tragic mix-up? Did your driver accidentally take you to the restaurant? Did you trip and fall face-first into an arranged marriage?"

"Mi-young..." I warned, voice strained.

She threw her hands up. "Do not 'Mi-young' me. You went. You sat across from her like some obedient heir and smiled like it didn't rip me apart."

"I didn't smile," I snapped. "I barely spoke. The entire night felt like slow poison."

She scoffed and walked toward me. "Still drank it, didn't you?"

I turned away, gripping the counter so tightly my knuckles turned pale. "Do you think I wanted this? Any of this?"

"I think you've always craved someone easier," she said, circling me like a predator. "Someone quieter. Someone who won't challenge you, won't make you scream at 2 a.m., won't call you out for being a coward."

"I never wanted easier," I said.

"Then what are you doing?" she shouted. "You're marrying another woman, Jimin. You're giving her my future."

"I'm trying to protect you," I burst out, every word shaking. "From him. From everything."

She froze.

"I lost everything for you.I took you back when you only used me," I said quietly. "When everyone told me not to. When my father threatened to cut me off, when the entire board whispered I was delusional. I chose you."

"And now you're choosing someone else.

"No," I said, stepping closer. "I'm choosing survival."

"You always use that word—survival—like it's noble," she spat. "It's pathetic."

"Since she's already agreed to it , there's no way out of it.He'll just always find someone else.I'm doing this to keep you safe," I growled. "I can't reject Y/N, everything collapses if I do.He'll take everything again.He'll crush my name, my credibility—and drag you through it. You think I'm doing this for love?"

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. "There is no love here."

"I know."

"Then why dress it up in sacrifice?”

I didn't respond. Because she was right. I hated every second of this. Hated smiling at Y/N. Hated pretending the future wasn't already a cage closing around me.

Mi-young stepped close, her breath brushing my cheek. "You think I asked you to be my savior?" she whispered. "I didn't. I never needed saving."

"You needed someone to fight for you," I murmured. "And I did."

"No—you needed someone who would never leave you. Even when you were at your worst."

My heart thudded painfully.

"But I did leave, didn't I?" she said, voice cutting sharp again.

I flinched.

"And you still came crawling back," she continued. "Like some wounded pet who thought loyalty would fix everything."

"I thought you regretted leaving," I said.

She didn't deny it. But the silence stretched, heavy and loud.

"I did," she finally said. "For about five minutes. Then I remembered how much quieter my life was without your storms. Without your sleepless nights. Without your guilt."

My shoulders tensed. "Then why are you still here?"

"Because I like watching you ruin yourself for me."

Her words hit harder than any slap. A slow, ragged breath left my chest.

"You're cruel," I whispered.

She smiled—slow, venomous. "I learned from the best."

I closed my eyes. One breath. Two.

"I have to marry her," I said. "Not for love. Not for legacy. For survival."

Mi-young leaned in, her mouth brushing my ear. "Then survive. But don't expect me to stick around watching you play house with someone who doesn't know you the way I do."

"You already left once," I said.

"I can leave again. And this time, I won't answer when you beg."

My chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

"I won't beg," I said.

Her lips brushed my jaw. "You always do."

She pulled away and walked toward the door—slow, powerful, untouchable. With her hand on the knob, she spoke one last time.

"Marry her. Pretend it's noble. Lie to her. Lie to yourself. But when you wake up next to someone who thinks you're perfect... remember that I'm the one who knew you were broken and still kissed you anyway."

Then the door shut.

And I stood alone in the silence—heart fractured, future decided, and ghosts creeping back into the corners of the room where I'd tried to bury them.

The city is quiet now. Quiet in that haunting way only the early hours can be—when everything is still except your mind.

The shadows feel heavier tonight.

She left, again. The room still smells faintly of her perfume—lavender and smoke—and the echo of her voice keeps threading through my thoughts like a needle pulling every soft part of me tighter.

Mi-young.

God, even her name feels like a bruise.

The things she said... they weren't kind. Most of them weren't even fair, but they were honest. Brutally so.

And yet,despite every venom-laced word, every blow she knew would land.I still can't let go.

I still believe she's the one.

The one my soul has memorized in every lifetime. The one who sees me through the rage and the ego and the silence and still doesn't blink. She doesn't pacify. She doesn't pretend. She knows.

Mi-young is a storm,yes. But she's my storm. The only person who ever made love feel like survival and destruction at once.

People always say soulmates are soft things. Gentle. Nurturing. But I don't think that's true.

I think soulmates are the ones who gut you open, rip your scars to the surface, and dare you to become something more than what the world said you had to be.

She did that.

No one has ever made me feel more alive than when I'm fighting to hold onto her.

Not Y/N. Not even myself.

Y/N is calm water. She's grace and silence and everything the world says I should want. She's beautiful. Kind. Measured. And I'm going to marry her—for reasons that have nothing to do with her, and everything to do with legacy.

But Mi-young is fire.She's the truth I keep in my bones. The chaos that reminds me I have a pulse. When she looks at me—even when she's angry—it's like she's reading every confession I never said aloud.

And maybe that's toxic.

Maybe it's wrong.

But love has never made sense to me. It's never been the warm blanket people write about. For me, it's been shouting matches at midnight, shaking hands, tear-stained apologies, and that magnetic pull toward someone I know could ruin me... and still I'd say thank you.

I don't care what my father says.

I don't care what the world expects.

Mi-young is the woman I burned for. Still burn for.

And if fate has cursed me to love someone who makes breathing hurt... then maybe pain is just part of the story.

Because when she's gone, the silence is unbearable.

And when she's here,even if it's war,it feels like home.

"Is this some sick plan of yours to get me to fall in love with you?" " Don't get ahead of yourself Park, I'm only do