Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The alarm rang softly in the corner of their bedroom a low rhythmic chime designed to coax rather than startle. It was set to be gentle Jimin hated the jarring blare of a regular alarm. 

But this morning it felt like an intrusion.

Yoongi as usual was pretending it didn't exist. He was curled into a tight ball beneath the duvet only the top of his dark hair visible his face buried deep into the pillow as if he could physically hide from the day.

Jimin blinked awake the gray light of dawn pressing against his eyelids. But the first thing he felt wasn't the familiar grounding warmth of the man beside him.

 It was the nausea. 

It didn’t hit him all at once. It bloomed slowly, a cold oily slick coating the bottom of his stomach. It wasn’t pain exactly it was a profound sense of wrongness. A biological treason that made his skin prickle.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut breathing through his nose waiting for the room to stop spinning before it had even truly started.

“Stress” he told himself the lie tasting like copper in his mouth.Just last night’s dinner. He barely slept last night. Just exhaustion

The room was submerged in the bruised purple light of early morning. The world outside was still holding its breath and for a moment it felt like they were suspended in amber. It was preserved, safe and untouched.

He lay there for a moment. Beside him Yoongi was a steady heavy anchor. His arm was thrown loosely over his waist,fingers curled into the fabric of his sleep shirt with a grip that suggested even in dreams he was afraid to let go.

Jimin turned his head on the pillow the movement making the room tilt slightly. He watched his husband’s shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

Yoongi slept with a heaviness that bordered on exhaustion lips parted dark hair falling messily over his forehead. There was something achingly unfair about how peaceful he looked in the morning. How young.

Jimin knew it was time to move. The clock was ticking. But a sudden fierce desperation pinned him to the mattress. He didn’t want to leave this warmth.

He shifted closer fighting the vertiginous swim of his head. He slid his hand into Yoongi’s hair. It was soft and a little messy from sleep and smelled of their shared shampoo. Jimin gently brushed the stands away from his eyes.

“Yoonie..” he whispered voice cracked brittle and dry. 

“Time to get up.”

Yoongi stirred faintly at the sound of his voice. A low vibrating hum in his chest against Jimin’s rib.

“Mmm….” 

A muffled protest came from under the covers.

“You’ll miss your plane if you keep hiding.” Jimin teased stroking his head gently.

Another muffled sound a groan of pure resistance before Yoongi turned just enough to expose his cat eyes, puffy from sleep narrowed in annoyance and glared with zero intimidation.

“Five more minutes." he rasped the words thick with sleep.

 “Please.”

It was always the same. Jimin couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips but it felt fragile.

“If I’m late to the station the whole country won’t know what’s happening today.” he said dramatically. 

Yoongi's eyes blinked open slowly unfocused at first then soft when they found Jimin's face. There was always that moment when recognition settled in and Yoongi's entire expression changed. It becomes warmer and private only for this room. Only for Jimin.

“Imagine the scandal.” Yoongi mumbled voice rougher now.

“Chaos.” Jimin agreed.

Yoongi groaned rolling onto his back and staring at their blue ceiling as if offended by its existence. 

“They’ll survive without your morning charm for one day. The world won't end”

Jimin laughed softly leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth. 

“But I won’t survive without seeing the love of my life up and awake to curse the whole country.”

That finally earned him a quiet huff of laughter a vibration Jimin felt against his own chest. Yoongi turned his head their lips brushing in a lazy yet deep kiss that tasted of absolute devotion. It lingered. It dragged on longer than it needed to. Neither of them pulled away as if they were trying to breathe each other in.

It was slow.  It was warm. 

Eventually Yoongi sighed breaking the kiss and sitting up running a hand through his chaotic hair.

 “You’re annoying.”

“I know and that's why you love me.” 

Jimin whispered while moving to slide out of bed intending to head to the kitchen. But the moment his feet touched the floor and stood the world didn't just tilt it dropped. 

The nausea twisted violently a sharp hot lurch up his throat.

He swallowed body swaying, his hand slapping against the dresser to catch himself. His vision went white at the edges.

“ Why does my body hate me…” he muttered under his breath.

Yoongi frowned slightly. The sleepy haze evaporated instantly.

“You okay?”

Jimin hesitated. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to protect the peace of their little moment.

But he is Min Yoongi and he will notice immediately.

“Yeah. Just… a little nauseous.”

Yoongi was moving before Jimin finished the sentence. The rustle of sheets the thud of feet and then Yoongi was there his hand pressing against Jimin’s forehead. His palm was cool his touch seeking.

“You feel warm.”

“I’m not.” Jimin protested though his voice lacked any real fight. 

“I just feel weird.”

Yoongi stepped back his dark eyes scanning Jimin's face searching for any cracks. He looked at the pallor of Jimin’s skin the sight trembling in his hands.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too much lately.”

“It’s just work, hyung.”

“You say that about everything.”

Yoongi’s thumb brushed lightly under Jimin’s eye tracing the dark circle there.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” Jimin lied.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Jimin smiled faintly. 

“Reporter privilege. I only lie professionally.”

Yoongi didn't smile back. He let out a small exhale leaning forward to rest his forehead against Jimin’s. He was grounding him sharing his gravity.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Minnie” Yoongi whispered.

The words hit Jimin like a physical blow. His throat tightened a sudden lump forming that had nothing to do with the nausea. 

It was just a sentence. Just words. But the way Yoongi said it steady and absolute as if he could carry the weight of the sky so Jimin wouldn't have to made something fragile inside him tremble.

“I know,” Jimin replied softly closing his eyes.

They stayed like that for a moment under the gray light of the morning. Breathing the same air.

The nausea eased.

But the alarm rang again.

Yoongi groaned immediately the sound vibrating against Jimin's skin as he buried his face into the crook of Jimin’s neck. 

“Cancel the world.”

“I wish.” Jimin whispered threading his fingers into the hair at Yoongi's nape.

They stood there tangled together in the dim room longer than they should have. Longer than practical. 

Jimin traced the curve of Yoongi’s back lazily memorizing the familiar shape of him soaking his body heat.

If he had known 

If he had known this was just another morning disguised as ordinary.

If  he had known, he never would have let go.

Eventually reality pulled at them.. 

“Five more minutes.” Yoongi mumbled into his skin.

“ You said it last time.”

“I did not.”

"You have a plan to catch.”

“You have a nation to inform.”

They both knew how this went. They knew the steps of this dance.

Jimin pulled out first. It took physical effort. The cool floorboards bit at his bare feet making him shiver slightly. 

The nausea fluttered again. A warning beat in his chest. His body swayed again. He had to grip the doorframe.

Yoongi noticed immediately. He always noticed.

“Jimin.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted too quickly. Too brightly.

Yoongi sat on the edge of the bed shoulders slummed watching him.

“You’re not.”

Jimin forced a smile. Then he turned his back to hide the grimace.

“It’s probably just acid reflux or something. Don’t start diagnosing me. Dr. Min.”

He walked toward the kitchen focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Yoongi watched him carefully but didn’t push. 

Jimin expected to hear the bathroom door close. He expected the sound of the shower.

Instead he heard the soft barefoot padding of steps behind him.

Yoongi didn’t go to the bathroom. He didn’t go back to sleep. He followed Jimin to the kitchen silent and shadowing.

That was Yoongi’s way of worrying. He didn't make a sound; he just refused to let Jimin be out of his sight.

The kitchen smelled of roasted coffee beans and warm, buttered toast. A domestic perfume that usually made Jimin feel settled. Today however the scent of the coffee hit him like a physical blow heavy and cloying. 

Jimin leaned against the granite counter gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white while waiting for the kettle to scream. He was waiting for the room to stop listing to the left and closed his eyes briefly. Forcing his breath to even out.

In through the nose. 

Out through the mouth.

He didn’t hear Yoongi approach. He felt him.

There was a shift in the air a familiar warmth radiating behind him and then Yoongi’s arms were wrapping around his waist locking him in.

Jimin didn’t just lean back; he melted. He surrendered his entire weight against Yoongi’s chest letting his husband be the pillar that held him up.

“Eat something light,” Yoongi murmured chin resting on Jimin's shoulder. His voice a low rumble against his spine.

“You’re pale.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Yoongi’s hands shifted sliding flat over the fabric of Jimin’s shirt to rest absentmindedly over his stomach. His thumbs brushed back and forth in a slow soothing rhythm.

Neither of them noticed the symbolism.

Jimin turned in his arms looking up at him. Yoongi’s face was close. His eyes dark and searching stripped of their usual sleepiness.

“You’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care.”

“You say that now.”Jimin teased softly.

Yoongi didn’t smile. Instead he brushed his thumb over Jimin’s lower lip tracing the shape of it. 

“Call me if you feel worse. I don't care if I am in a meeting. I don't care if I'm in the air. you call”

“I won’t need to.”

“You will.”

“I’ll be fine. Hyung.”

Yoongi sighed softly a sound of frustrated affection.  

“You always say that.”

And Jimin always meant it. He had to be fine.

They ate a small breakfast together. The silence between them thick but comfortable. They talked about nothing in particular. They talked about the weather, about the broken faucet, about nothing that mattered. Everything felt safe, ordinary and filled with the soft glow of routine.

But they were stalling. Every sip of coffee,every bite of toast was a delay tactic. A way to keep the clock from ticking forward. But time indifferent to their wants, moved on.

When it was finally time to leave Jimin watched Yoongi gathering his bags by the door. He hated this part. The departures. The zipping of zippers, the checking of pockets.

Yoongi’s job as a neurologist often pulled him away from Seoul for days at a time and while they both tried to treat it as normal Jimin always felt a phantom ache in his chest the moment the suitcase hit the floor.

The drive to the station was quiet in a comfortable way.

Jimin insisted on driving despite Yoongi offering to take a taxi.

“I want to.” he said simply.

He needed the distraction. He needed the physical act of driving to keep his hands from shaking.

The city was waking up around them. Traffic lights blinking from red to green in a sleepy rhythm. Small shops lifting their shutters. A radio host’s voice hummed softly through the car speakers talking about weather forecasts and commuter updates.

It felt almost cruel that the world was so normal when Jimin wasn’t feeling anything normal.

Yoongi watched Jimin more than the road.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

Jimin nodded gripping the steering wheel tight. 

“Stop asking.”

“You almost fainted getting out of bed.”

“I did not.”

“You grabbed the dresser like you were on a boat.”

Jimin huffed trying to laugh it off. 

“You’re dramatic.”

Yoongi reached over and squeezed his thigh lightly his fingers digging in.

“Just… take care of yourself. “

Jimin’s breath hitched.

“I will.”

But there was something in his chest that wouldn’t settle.

Not pain.

Just unease.

A hollow feeling. As if something was shifting quietly beneath the surface of the day

The airport was busier now. A stark contrast to the quiet morning. Announcements echoing through the high glass ceilings. Footsteps overlapping on the polished terrazzo floors. Suitcases rolling across with a rhythmic thrum.

Jimin parked and walked Yoongi inside past the sliding doors and towards the departure level instead of saying goodbye at the car.

They moved slower than the rushing crowd around them.

Yoongi adjusted his carry-on strap. Jimin straightened his coat unnecessarily. His fingers lingering on the lapel. Both avoiding the inevitable.

“Three days.” Yoongi said gently reading the tightness in Jimin's shoulders as they approached the security checkpoint.

“I know.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Yoongi smiled faintly and reached for Jimin's hands. Intertwining their fingers right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Hey.”

Jimin’s eyes lifted.

There it was again. That look.

The one Yoongi only ever gave him.

It was soft, open and unarmored. A vulnerability that was terrifying because it meant losing him even for a few days would leave a void.

“You don’t have to look like I’m leaving forever.” Yoongi teased lightly though his grip tightened.

Jimin forced a laugh but his fingers held on just as desperately.

“I just… don’t like it.” he admitted quietly.

‘Everytime you fly I miss you so much.’

“Me neither.”

The announcement for boarding echoed overhead. It was sharp and sterile.

Jimin’s stomach twisted again and this time it wasn’t nausea. It was dread.

He stepped closer without thinking pressing his face briefly against Yoongi’s chest hiding there. Just for a second.

Yoongi froze slightly then wrapped his arms around him fully shielding him from the chaos of the airport.

The crowd moved around them indifferent to their bubble.

“You’re shaking,” Yoongi murmured into his hair.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Jimin swallowed hard. 

“I just have a weird feeling.”

Yoongi pulled back enough to look at him properly. His eyes searching Jimin’s face. 

“About what?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Yoongi brushed his thumb under Jimin’s eye again like he had earlier that morning wiping away a tiredness that wasn't just physical. 

“It’s not stupid.”

Jimin hated how emotional he suddenly felt. It made no sense. He blinked rapidly fighting the stinging in his eyes.  

“Call me when you land there.” he said voice thick.

“I always do.”

“Even if you’re tired.”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s late.”

“Yes, Minnie.”

“And text me when you board.”

Yoongi smiled which was sad but soft. 

“Okay.”

The final boarding call came. the security line was moving. It was time.

This time Yoongi had to step back.

Then they kissed.

Not quick.

Not rushed.

Slow. 

Familiar. 

Anchoring.

A kiss that tried to say everything words couldn't amidst the noise of the terminal.

Wait for me. 

I'll be back. 

You're my home.

Yoongi rested his forehead against Jimin’s one last time. 

“Take medicine if you feel worse.”

“I will.”

“And eat.”

“Yes.”

“And don’t skip lunch because of work.”

“I won't.”

Yoongi hesitated. He looked at Jimin as if he wanted to stay right there. Forever.

Then softer:

“I love you.”

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat.

“I love you too.”

Yoongi turned before it got harder.

Jimin stood there and watched him walk away.

He didn’t wave immediately.

He just watched.

Watched until Yoongi reached the glass barrier.

Watched until he put his bag on the belt.

Just before stepping through the scanner Yoongi turned back. He found Jimin in the crowd instantly as if pulled by a magnet. He raised two fingers lazily in a small, familiar salute.

Jimin forced a smile and lifted his hand in return a weak flutter.

Then Yoongi stepped through disappearing into the sea of strangers.

Jimin didn’t leave immediately.

He walked to the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac. He stood there arms crossed tight over his chest, watching the ground crew, the baggage carts and the massive metal birds lining up.

He waited until he saw Yoongi’s plane push back from the gate.

He watched it taxi slowly to the runway.

He watched until the engines roared lifting the plane into the gray morning sky turning his whole world into a small speck in the clouds.

The terminal suddenly felt too wide.

Too empty.

Too quiet

Jimin pressed his palm against his stomach unconsciously. His hand finding the exact spot Yoongi had rested earlier.

The nausea returned in a soft sickening wave.

He inhaled slowly trying to steady himself against the sudden vertigo.

“It’s just stress.” he whispered to the glass.

He didn’t know that inside him something fragile and miraculous had already begun.

He didn’t know that this morning would become a memory he would replay for the rest of his life. Analyzing every touch, every word, every second.

He just stood there a little longer than necessary staring at the empty sky.

“ Come back to me.” he whispered.

Then turned.

And walked away alone..

Chapter Text

Morning didn’t end when Jimin left the airport.

It followed him.

It clung to him the way steam lingered on mirrors long after a shower fading but stubborn. It was in the silence of the car in the empty passenger seat where Yoongi's warmth should have been.

Jimin kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting uselessly on his thigh fingers twitching as if they were still searching for a hand to hold.

The nausea came back while he was stopped at a red light in downtown Seoul.

It wasn’t sharp. It never was.

Just a slow rolling unease that made his stomach tighten and the back of his throat feel thick. Jimin leaned forward slightly breathing through his nose eyes fixed on the pedestrian signal watching the little green man blink into red as if the rhythm could give him the permission to exist normally again.

“You didn't even eat properly.”he scolded himself gently. The voice in his head sounding suspiciously like Yoongi’s. 

You’re tired. That’s all.

Still, his chest felt wrong. It felt heavy and pressurized. As if something unseen had shifted inside him like a tectonic plate slipping out of alignment and refusing to settle back into place.

He turned the radio on desperate to fill the silence.

Static. 

News headlines. 

Traffic updates.

It was just noise. Meaningless noise. He turned it off again.

By the time he reached the broadcasting building the sky over Seoul had begun to cloud over not storm dark, not dramatic, just dull and oppressive gray. The kind of sky that pressed down on the city muffling the world.

Inside the elevator Jimin leaned his forehead against the cool metal wall and closed his eyes.

He saw Yoongi again. Not the wave at the gate but the moment before. Standing on the terminal his coat buttoned wrong because Jimin had been the one to do it, his fingers brushing Yoongi’s throat as he fixed the collar. It had been instinct. Muscle memory.

“Text me when you land.”Jimin had said.

Yoongi had smiled. That soft reassuring smile that always felt like it was stitched together from patience and trust.

“I should have held on tighter.” Jimin thought a sudden, irrational pang striking his heart.

The elevator dinged.

FLOOR 14: Seoul Daily Broadcast Newsroom.

The doors slid open and the silence shattered.

Reporter Min Jimin didn’t get to be fragile.

The newsroom was not a place for the weak and it was certainly not a place for the sick. It was a living, breathing organism of noise. A cacophony of ringing landlines, the aggressive clatter of mechanical keyboards, the hum of servers, and the shouting of editors across the open floor plan. It smelled of stale coffee, printer ink, and the sharp, metallic tang of high-voltage stress.

Usually Jimin thrived in it. He loved the pulse of it. But today the noise didn't sharpen him. It scraped against him.

He walked to his desk feeling porous. As if his skin had thinned letting every sound and every flicker of movement penetrate too deeply.

“Morning, Jimin,” one of the senior editors said.

“Morning, Sunbae-nim.” he replied voice steady.

He sat down and stared at the glowing cursor on his monitor. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly behind his eyes. Then read through his schedule. There were local politics, a hospital funding segment and a short human-interest piece that had been bumped twice already.

It was normal. 

It was predictable.

It was safe.

Yet his hands shook when he reached for his coffee.

He stared at the cup for a long moment before pushing it aside.

“Not hungry?” a producer asked casually as she passed.

“Just… not feeling great.” Jimin said forcing a small smile.

She nodded already moving on.

No one ever stopped long enough to notice the quiet things.

Get it together Jimin.

“Jimin-ssi, the script for the 2:00 PM segment needs your approval.”

Jimin jumped his heart hammering against his ribs.

A junior intern, Min-jae was standing there holding a tablet.

Jimin exhaled forcing his shoulders to drop. He put on his mask the professional and polished mask that he wore like armor.

“Sorry, Min-jae.” Jimin said his voice steady despite the dryness in his throat. 

“Let me see.”

He scanned the lines yet the words swam. He forced them into focus. 

“Change ‘allegedly misappropriated’ to ‘accused of embezzlement.’ It’s punchier. And cut the adjective in the intro. We report facts not feelings.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you, Sunbae-nim.”

Min-jae hurried away

Jimin slumped back in his chair. The brief burst of focus left him dizzy. He reached for his phone

10:42 A.M

The phone screen was dark. No new messages. No new notifications.

He told himself it was too early. Yoongi’s flight hadn’t even landed yet. Neurology conferences ran on tight schedules. Yoongi had warned him that the moment he touched down he’d be ushered into meetings, briefings and endless academic politeness.

He unlocked it anyway opening his chat with Yoongi.

[My Yoonie 🐱]

08:15 AM

Boarding now. Don't worry about me. Focus on work.

I love you.

[Jimin]

08:16 AM

I love you too. Text me the second you land. Seriously. The second.

[ My Yoonie 🐱]

08:17 AM

I will. Try to rest when you can. Don't skip meals. Drink water.

Jimin smiled despite himself, something soft and private curving his lips.

[Jimin] 

8:19 AM

Yes Doctor.

That was it. The last digital footprint.

Jimin stared at the timestamp. 08:17 AM.

Yoongi’s flight was four hours. He was currently somewhere over the ocean, suspended in a metal tube thousands of feet above the earth.

Jimin’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to type: 

I feel sick.

 I miss you. 

Come back. 

But the messages wouldn't deliver. Yoongi was in the air. Unreachable.

A sudden sharp spike of anxiety pierced through Jimin’s chest so intense he actually gasped. It wasn't a thought. It was a physical sensation. A sudden drop like missing a step on a staircase in the dark

He dropped the phone on his desk as if it had burned him.

“You okay, Park?”

Jimin looked up. Hoseok the sports editor and one of the few people who knew about Jimin’s marriage was leaning over the partition.

“I’m fine.” Jimin said automatically.

Hoseok raised an eyebrow. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’re pale as a sheet.”

“Just... stomach bug. Maybe food poisoning.”

“Yoongi left this morning?”

Jimin nodded while rubbing his temples. 

“Yeah. 8:30 flight to Tokyo.”

“Ah... separation anxiety.” Hoseok teased though his eyes were kind. 

“He’ll be back in three days. Don’t pine too hard.”

Jimin forced a smile. 

“I’m not pining. I’m just... off.”

Hoseok patted his shoulder and walked away but the feeling didn't leave.

The hours passed strangely.

Too fast. Too slow.

Jimin filmed his segment with a professionalism that felt automatic muscle memory guiding his voice, his posture, his expressions. On camera he was calm. 

Clear. 

Grounded.

Off camera his body betrayed him.

Jimin went to the restroom to splash water on his face while the nausea twisted low in his stomach. He didn’t vomit. He never did. It just sat there unresolved like a question he didn’t yet know how to ask.

He looked at himself in the mirror dark circles, translucent skin. Why do I feel like this?

It wasn't just the sickness. This felt like waiting for a bomb to go off.

He pulled his phone out again.

[Jimin]

11:05 AM

I have a bad feeling. Just... tell me you’re okay when you see this. Even if it’s silly.

The message sat there. Unread. One gray checkmark.

When he walked back into the newsroom ten minutes later the atmosphere had shifted.

It wasn’t the usual chaos. The hum had changed pitch.

People weren't whispering anymore. They were shouting. Phones were ringing louder. Producers were moving faster.

He saw a cluster of people gathered around the main wire desk, the nerve center where the international feeds came in. The breaking news monitors usually a mix of stock markets and weather maps were all flashing red.

Jimin’s steps slowed. A cold prickle danced down the back of his neck.

He walked toward his desk but his eyes were glued to the huddle. He saw the Chief Editor, Mr. Choi, standing in the center, his face grim, a phone pressed to his ear.

“Confirm the flight number,” Choi was barking. 

“I don’t want speculation. I want the flight number.”

Flight number.

The words echoed in Jimin’s head.

He stopped walking. He stood in the middle of the aisle a statue in the stream of rushing people.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Hoseok was standing near the monitors. He looked up and saw Jimin his face went slack. The color drained out of him instantly.

He started walking toward Jimin.

 Fast.

“Jimin...” Hoseok said his voice tight and unnatural. 

“Jimin maybe you should sit down.”

“What’s happening?” Jimin asked. His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

“There’s... there’s a report coming in from the Sea of Japan.”

“What report?”

Hoseok reached him putting a hand on Jimin’s shoulder. It wasn’t a friendly touch. It was a restraint. 

“Jimin, please.”

Jimin shrugged him off stepping closer to the monitors.

The big screen on the wall flickered. The breaking news banner scrolled across the bottom in jarring yellow and black.

BREAKING NEWS: CONTACT LOST WITH COMMERCIAL AIRLINER OVER EAST SEA.

Jimin stared at the words. They didn't make sense. They were just shapes.

“Flight 892,” someone shouted from the wire desk. 

“It’s Flight 892 out of Incheon!”

The world stopped.

The noise of the newsroom the phones, the typing, the breathing it all vanished. It was sucked out of the room, leaving a vacuum so absolute it made Jimin’s ears pop.

892

Jimin knew that number. He had stared at it on the boarding pass screenshot Yoongi had sent him last night. He had memorized it.

Flight 892. Incheon to Narita.

No,” Jimin whispered.

It was such a small word.

RADAR CONTACT LOST 45 MINUTES AGO. SEARCH AND RESCUE DEPLOYED.

Lost contact. That meant... that meant they couldn't find it. That meant silence.

The nausea from the morning returned not as a wave but as a tsunami. Jimin swayed, his vision tunneling to a pinprick.

“Min Jimin!”

The sharp bark of his name snapped his head up.

Chief Editor Choi was looking at him from across the room. He didn't look sympathetic. He looked like a general in war. He was holding a file.

“My office. Now.”

Jimin didn't know how his legs moved. He didn't feel his feet touching the carpet. He felt like he was being dragged by a hook in his chest.

He walked into the glass walled office. The sounds of the newsroom were muffled here but the tension was thicker.

Choi didn't sit down.

“We have a situation...” Choi said. He was avoiding Jimin’s eyes.

“I know.” Jimin said. His voice was steady. Why was it steady? He was screaming inside. He was screaming so loud he thought the glass would shatter. That’s Yoongi. That’s my husband.

It’s a catastrophic failure.” Choi said looking out the window. 

“They’re saying it went down fast. No distress signal.”

Jimin’s hand drifted to his stomach again. No distress signal.

“The coast guard is setting up a press perimeter at the harbor in Sokcho. That’s where they’re bringing... debris. That’s where the families are gathering.”

Debris.

Families.

I’m sending a team.” Choi said. He looked at Jimin now. 

“I need a lead reporter on site. Someone who can get the emotion. Someone who can get the story.”

Jimin realized what was happening a second before Choi said it.

The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

“I’m assigning you to the crash site, Jimin.”

Jimin’s knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk to keep from hitting the floor.

“I can’t.!” Jimin choked out. The mask shattered. 

“Sir, I can’t... my husband... he’s...”

Choi’s expression didn't change.

“You’re a reporter first, Min.” Choi said his voice low almost gentle but lethal. 

“If you stay here you’ll just sit in the lobby and wait. If you go you’ll be the first to know. You’ll be right there.”

It was a manipulation. It was monstrous.

And it was true.

If he stayed he was just a husband waiting for a phone call that might never come.

If he went he was part of it. He could be close to him.

Jimin felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. A phantom hope flared in his chest Yoongi?

He pulled it out with trembling fingers.

It wasn't Yoongi.

It was a news alert from his own station’s app.

BREAKING: PASSENGER JET CRASHES IN EAST SEA. NO SURVIVORS EXPECTED.

The words blurred. The room spun.

“The chopper is waiting on the roof.” Choi said handing him a press pass.

 “Go.”

Jimin looked at the pass. He looked at the phone where Yoongi’s last message sat. 

Drink water.

He felt the nausea rise  violent and uncontrollable but he swallowed it down with a force that burned his throat.

He didn't cry. He couldn't. If he started crying he would never stop. He would dissolve into the floor.

He had to work. If he worked it wasn't real. If he held the microphone, it was just a story. It was just a script.

Jimin straightened his spine. It felt like his bones were made of glass ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

“I’ll go” Jimin whispered.

He turned and walked out of the office moving through the newsroom like a ghost. He didn't hear Hoseok calling his name. He didn't feel the eyes of his colleagues.

He only felt the terrible silent static in his head.

And the crushing weight of a text message that would never be marked. 

“Read.”

As they handed him his gear one thought kept looping in his mind, relentless and unkind—

Why does this feel like it’s already too late?

Chapter Text

The world didn't smell like the ocean anymore.

Sokcho Harbor, usually a place of salt spray and drying squid now smelled of kerosene, wet ash and something metallic that coated the back of the throat sharp and bitter. Smoke crawled upward into a sky that looked torn open.

The helicopter ride had been a blur of gray clouds and static, but the ground was a high definition nightmare. The moment Jimin stepped onto the tarmac the noise hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't just sirens. It was a roar of the collective sound of hundreds of people moving, shouting, weeping, praying and running. Somewhere close by someone was screaming in a voice that sounded like it had already broken beyond repair.

Police tape fluttered violently in the coastal wind. Emergency lights red, blue, yellow sliced through the gloomy afternoon fog turning the gray mist into a disco of tragedy.

“Min! Over here!”

Jimin turned, his movement mechanical. His cameraman frantic and pale was waving from near the barricade.

Jimin walked toward him. He felt like he was piloting his body from a great distance. His feet moved, his hands gripped the microphone but his mind was hovering somewhere above refusing to land.

“This is just a story” a voice whispered in his head. 

“You are Min Jimin, Senior Reporter. You are here to work.”

He had covered disasters before-floods, fire, collapses.

He knew how to stand straight when everything was falling apart.

He stood in front of the camera. The red light blinked on.

‘’ Reporter Min Jimin min live from the crash site…”

The producer counted down in his earpiece.

Three 

Two 

One

Jimin inhaled the smell of smoke burning his throat.

And then he began 

"We are live at the Sokcho emergency command center.” His voice was steady. It was a miracle. It was a lie. 

“Rescue operations are currently underway for Flight 892. The Coast Guard has deployed twelve vessels…”

He spoke the words but he didn't hear them.

His eyes were scanning the horizon.

Out on the water gray ships were cutting through the chop. Helicopters hovered low their downdraft kicking up spray. They were looking for something. They were looking for someone.

Please be the exception Jimin prayed as the nausea rolled in his gut like the tide. You’re stubborn Yoongi. You’re too stubborn to die in the water. You hate the cold.

He finished the segment. The red light blinked off.

The moment the camera cut, Jimin doubled over dry heaving.

“Jimin-ssi, do you need water?” the cameraman asked reaching out.

Jimin waved him off straightening up.

“I’m fine. Get B-roll of the ambulances.”

He wasn't fine. The nausea was a living thing now clawing up his throat. It wasn't just the sickness anymore. It was the terror.

He moved through the crowd. He wasn't supposed to cross the police line but he flashed his press badge with a desperation that made the young officer flinch and step aside.

He walked toward the triage tent.

This was where the survivors would be.

But the tent was empty.

Rows of cots. Stacks of blankets. Oxygen tanks.

All unused.

The silence of the empty tent was louder than the sirens outside. It screamed the truth that no one wanted to speak on air. There is no one to treat.

Jimin stumbled out. The air in his lungs feeling too thin.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. His heart jumped violently.

He stepped aside and checked it with trembling fingers.

No new messages.

Just signal fluctuation.

He dialed anyway.

The ringing tone cut through the chaos like a fragile thread.

Once.

Twice.

Then nothing.

Call failed.

“It’s just network congestion.” he whispered to himself.

Then..

“Move! Make way!”

A shout from the pier.

The crowd surged. A collective gasp rippled through the families gathered by the fence. A Coast Guard boat was docking.

Jimin pushed forward. He used his elbows. He didn't care about politeness. He didn't care about his suit. He needed to see.

The boat bumped against the tires of the pier.

They weren't unloading passengers.

They were unloading bags. Long, black, zippered bags.

Jimin stopped breathing. The world tilted on its axis.

No,no,no,no....

He watched as they carried them off. 

One.

 Two. 

Three.

Then the stretchers came. These weren't in bags yet. These were just covered hastily draped in stark white sheets that fluttered in the wind revealing glimpses of soaked clothes and muddy shoes.

Jimin’s eyes darted frantically.

Yoongi was wearing a black coat. He had his silver carry-on. He was wearing the scarf Jimin bought him.

He scanned every stretcher. 

Not him. That one is too tall. 

That one is wearing a red dress. 

That one is... too small.

The chaos around him crescendoed. A mother near the barricade screamed a sound so raw and primal it sounded like an animal dying. It tore through the air vibrating in Jimin’s bones.

But suddenly  Jimin couldn't hear it.

The sound dropped out.

The sirens muted. The shouting became a distant hum. The wind died down.

All he could hear was the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Because he saw it.

Two medics were carrying a stretcher off the boat. They were struggling slightly with the weight. The wind caught the edge of the white sheet  whipping it furiously

The body underneath was still. 

So still.

Jimin took a step forward. Then another. He was drawn to it by a horrifying magnetism.

As the medics stepped up onto the concrete of the pier the motion caused the arm of the person on the stretcher to slip.

It slid out from under the white sheet.

A pale hand. Long slender fingers. Veins that mapped a familiar path under the skin. He knew those fingers. 

He held them that morning.

He had held them as long as he could remember.

And there catching the dull gray light of the afternoon was a flash of silver.

Time didn't just stop; it shattered.

It was a watch.

A vintage silver Rolex with a midnight blue face.

Jimin remembered the day he bought it. Their third anniversary. He remembered Yoongi scolding him for spending too much. He remembered clasping it around Yoongi’s wrist kissing the pulse point right beneath the metal.

And below the watch on the ring finger was a simple platinum band glinting softly against the ash gray sky.

It shone with a terrifying clarity against the pale wet skin.

Jimin’s microphone dropped from his hand. It hit the concrete with a loud crack that he didn't hear.

He made a sound a choked strangled noise that wasn't quite a word.

“Stop.” the words tore out of him.

Then he ran.

“Sir! You can’t be here!” a police officer shouted grabbing his arm.

Jimin shoved him. He shoved him with a strength he didn't know he possessed.

“Let go of me!” Jimin screamed his voice shredding his throat. 

“That’s him! Let go!”

He broke free stumbling knees scraping against the pavement but he scrambled up.

The medics had stopped startled by the commotion.

Jimin reached the stretcher.

He stopped.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

Yoongi was a neurologist. He saved lives. He analyzed trauma, repaired damaged pathways, explained the brain’s fragile wiring with quiet precision.

He was supposed to land. He was supposed to text. He was supposed to complain about airplane coffee.

He was supposed to come home

Jimin’s hands were hovering over the white sheet. They were shaking so violently he couldn't control them.

Don’t look a part of him begged. If you don’t look it’s not him. If you don’t look he’s still on the plane. He’s still in Tokyo. He’s still in bed asking for five more minutes.

But the hand. The ring. The watch.

Jimin reached out. His fingers brushed the cold wet fabric.

“Sir, please, you don’t want to see..” the medic started his voice gentle and pitying.

“Don’t touch me!” Jimin snarled.

He gripped the edge of the sheet.

And he pulled.

The fabric fell away.

The world ended.

It wasn't a nightmare. 

It was Yoongi.

He was wet. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead matted with sand and something darker. There was a cut above his eyebrow deep and angry. The blood had dried in a streak down his pale temple. His lips usually so pink and warm were tinged with a terrible lifeless blue. Ash smudged against skin that should have been warm.

But his eyes were closed like he had simply decided to rest.

He looked peaceful. He looked like he was just sleeping. He looked like he was about to wake up and complain about the cold.

As if the sky had not betrayed him.

As if the ground had not torn him away.

“Yoongi?” Jimin whispered.

It was a question. As if Yoongi might answer.

Nothing. No breath. No hum in the chest. No sarcasm.

Just the terrible heavy silence of a body that was no longer a person.

The realization hit Jimin like a physical impact. It started in his chest a crushing weight that collapsed his lungs and spread outward shattering every bone, every nerve, every hope.

He fell. His knees gave out

He collapsed right there on the wet concrete his knees hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

He reached out and grabbed Yoongi’s cold wet hand. He pressed it to his cheek. He needed the warmth. He needed the pulse.

There was none.

“No...” Jimin sobbed. The sound was small and broken. 

“No! You promised. You promised to text me.”

He dragged himself closer burying his face in Yoongi’s wet coat. It smelled of the sea and copper blood but underneath that barely there was the scent of their laundry detergent.

“Wake up.” Jimin begged shaking Yoongi’s shoulder. 

“Hyung, please. Wake up. It’s not funny. I’m scared. Wake up.”

The body rocked with the force of Jimin’s shaking but the head lolled to the side. Lifeless.

And that was when Jimin broke.

A scream tore out of him a sound of pure unadulterated agony that silenced the pier. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul being ripped in half.

He curled over his husband’s body clutching the wet shirt screaming into the dead chest, screaming at the sky, screaming at the unfairness of a morning that had started with a kiss and ended with a corpse.

“FIVE MORE MINUTES!” Jimin screamed his voice cracking hysterically. 

“YOU SAID FIVE MORE MINUTES! YOU SAID IT!”

Jimin stayed there on his knees in the debris of his life holding the cold hand of the man who was his entire world while the cameras flashed in the distance capturing the exact moment Min Jimin died even though his heart kept beating.

The world didn’t stop because Jimin was screaming. It didn't stop because his heart had been ripped out.

Around him the chaos continued.

Sirens.

Voices.

Orders.

But inside Jimin everything had already collapsed.

“Sir, we need you to step back.”

It wasn’t a request.

Hands grabbed at his shoulders heavy authoritative hands. They weren’t comforting, they were tearing him away.

“No!” 

Jimin thrashed his fingers clawing at Yoongi’s soaked coat digging into the fabric as if he could anchor his husband’s soul back into his body by sheer force of will. 

“Don’t touch him! He’s cold! Can’t you see he’s cold? He hates the cold!”

“Restrain him!” a voice barked somewhere above.

“Let me go! Yoongi!”

The struggle was brief and pathetic. Jimin was weak hollowed out by the morning’s sickness and the afternoon’s horror. Two officers hauled him backward his heels dragging against the rough concrete scraping through the sea spray and the grime.

His fingernails broke as his grip was forced loose.

Jimin collapsed back against the chest of the officer holding him his legs giving out reduced to a trembling and gasping mess.

He watched helpless and paralyzed as the medic leaned down.

He watched the medic reach for the white sheet.

He watched them pull the zipper of a black body bag.

Zzzzzip.

The sound was louder than the helicopter blades. Louder than the ocean. It was the sound of a universe closing. It was the sound of a door locking that would never, ever open again.

They covered Yoongi’s face. They covered the lips Jimin had kissed that morning. They covered the eyes that had looked at him with such soft sleepy love.

“Don’t close it!” Jimin choked out a wet broken sound. 

“He can’t breathe in there! Don't close it!”

But the zipper sealed shut.

Yoongi was gone. Reduced to a shape in a bag. 

A statistic. 

Debris.

The officers released him sensing the fight had left his body. Jimin didn't run back. He couldn't. He fell to his knees on the wet pier the damp cold soaking instantly into his suit trousers.

The nausea that cruel persistent passenger that had haunted him since dawn surged violently like a sharp twisting knot in his lower abdomen. It felt like his body was trying to purge the very air he was breathing.

Jimin retched, his body convulsing dry heaving until his throat burned and tears blinded him. He clutched his stomach wrapping his arms around his midsection trying to hold his own shattered pieces together.

He felt a strange heavy pulse deep inside him. He thought it was his heart sinking so low it was beating in his gut. He thought it was the trauma physically manifesting as a weight he wasn't strong enough to carry.

He felt full of a terrible aching pressure yet he had never felt more empty.

Around him the cameras were still flashing. 

Click. Click. Click. 

Documenting his ruin. Broadcasting his widowhood to the nation before he had even spoken the word.

Jimin curled inward his forehead pressing against the cold grit covered pavement. His hand trembled as it slid over his belly clutching at his shirt as if trying to steady the world.

He didn't know why his body was clinging to this strange internal tension. He didn't know why amidst the smell of death and jet fuel he felt a flicker of something stubborn and quiet deep beneath his palm. He only knew that the silence was too loud.

He closed his eyes the tears mixing with the salt of the sea on the ground.

“You promised.” he wept his voice barely a breath against the stone. 

“You promised five more minutes.”

But the wind tore his words away carrying them out to the grey empty sea where the love of his life had learned to fly and then learned to fall and took his entire world with it.

Chapter Text

The crash site blurred into the hospital. The hospital blurred into hallways and forms, into voices speaking too softly like volume alone could soften the truth.

Death had paperwork.

Jimin didn't know that. He thought death was just the screaming, the tears, the body on the pier. But no. Death was a clipboard. Death was a fluorescent lit hallway that smelled of bleach and floor wax. Death was a pen running out of ink.

“Sign here, please. And here.”

Jimin held the pen. His hand was a foreign object, numb and trembling. He looked at the line.

Relationship to the deceased.

He wrote: Husband.

The word looked wrong. It looked too small to contain the universe that had just been destroyed.

Yoongi was gone.

The sentence refused to settle.

Gone was a word for keys misplaced, for flights delayed, for messages unread. Gone meant temporary. Gone meant return.

Yoongi didn’t fit the word.

Jimin sat in a chair with his spine too straight hands folded too neatly in his lap eyes fixed on nothing. The room around him breathed,  people cried, people whispered, people held each other but he felt sealed off encased behind glass. 

The sliding doors at the end of the corridor burst open.

“JIMIN!”

The scream shattered the sterile silence.

It was Taehyung. Yoongi’s younger brother.

He wasn't walking, he was running and stumbling his face a mask of red wet ruin. Behind him Jungkook was trying to hold him up his own face pale and streaked with tears but Taehyung broke free.

He crashed into Jimin. It wasn't a hug. It was a collision.

“Tell me it’s a mistake!” Taehyung howled gripping  Jimin’s shoulders shaking him. 

“Tell me it’s not hyung! Tell me you saw it wrong!”

Jimin stood there limp in Taehyung’s grip. He felt like a doll made of ash. If he moved he would disintegrate.

“It’s him.” Jimin whispered. His voice was dead.

Taehyung let out a sound that wasn't human a keening wail that echoed off the linoleum floors and collapsed. Jungkook caught him just before he hit the ground wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s heaving chest burying his face in his neck weeping silently.

They held each other. Jungkook was Taehyung’s anchor. 

Jimin watched them. He saw the way Jungkook’s hand cradled Taehyung’s head. He saw the shared grief. He saw the way Jungkook's arms never loosened around him.

Then the doors opened again.

This time it was Namjoon. His big brother.

Namjoon looked like he had aged ten years in ten hours. He was usually so composed, so steady. But now his eyes were swollen his jaw locked tight to keep his chin from trembling. Beside him was Jin his husband clutching Namjoon’s hand so hard his knuckles were white.

“Jimin-ah...” Namjoon choked out.

He crossed the distance in two strides and pulled Jimin into a crushing embrace. Jin wrapped his arms around both of them from the side.

Jimin felt their warmth. He felt Namjoon’s chest shaking with suppressed sobs. He felt Jin’s tears soaking his shoulder.

But he felt… cold.

He looked over Namjoon’s shoulder.

He saw Taehyung and Jungkook a tangle of limbs on the floor.

He felt Namjoon and Jin a fortress of support.

And a dark ugly thought curled in Jimin’s stomach. It was poisonous and sharp.

They have each other.

They all have someone.

Taehyung lost a brother but he has Jungkook to hold him.

Namjoon is sad but he has Jin to wipe his tears.

But he.... he has no one but a ring that felt too heavy on his finger

The person who was supposed to hold Jimin through this was the one in the drawer downstairs. 

The person who was supposed to wipe his tears was the reason he was crying.

Something ugly twisted in his chest.

Not jealousy 

But something worse.

The isolation hit him harder than the grief. It was a physical severing.

“Mr. Min?”

A doctor in a white coat approached looking weary. He held a clear plastic bag.

“We… we finished the examination. These are his personal belongings.”

Namjoon tried to take it to spare Jimin but he reached out. His hand was shaking so bad the plastic rattled.

Inside was:

The silver watch which was still ticking.

The wedding platinum ring scratched from wear.

A wallet. His favorite one. The one his younger brother bought him with his own earned money.

And a phone. The screen was cracked spiderwebbed with fractures.

Jimin stared at the phone. Somewhere in that broken device were the unread messages. Drink water.

The nausea which had been a dull roar all day spiked into a high pitched scream. The fluorescent lights elongated stretching into blinding white streaks. The ringing in his ears grew louder until it drowned everything else out.

“Jimin?” Namjoon’s voice sounded far away.

The floor rushed up to meet him.

When Jimin woke up the ceiling was white.

There was a rhythmic beeping.

 Beep… beep… beep.

For a second just a cruel fleeting second he forgot. He thought he was at home. He thought the beeping was the alarm clock. He thought if he turned his head he would see black hair and cat like eyes.

“Hyung?” he croaked.

“Jimin.”

It wasn’t Yoongi.

It was Namjoon. He was sitting in a plastic chair next to the bed looking terrified.

Jimin blinked slowly.

The memory crashed back down. The pier. The body bag. The zipper.

Jimin let out a sob turning his head away curling into a ball on the narrow hospital bed. 

“Why did I wake up? I didn't want to wake up.”

“Don’t say that.” Namjoon whispered taking his hand. 

“Please don’t say that.”

The door opened. A doctor entered not the one from the morgue. This one was older with kind eyes and a clipboard.

“Mr. Min.” she said gently. 

“You’re awake. Your blood pressure dropped significantly. You collapsed from acute shock and dehydration.”

Jimin stared at the wall. He didn't care.

“We ran some standard blood panels while you were unconscious,” the doctor continued her voice hesitating slightly. She looked at Namjoon then back at Jimin. 

“To check your vitals.”

Jimin didn't respond.

“Mr. Min… did you know?”

“Know what?” Jimin rasped still not looking at her.

“Your HCG levels are very high.”

Jimin frowned. He turned his head slowly. 

“What?”

The doctor clasped her hands in front of her. 

“You’re pregnant, Jimin-ssi. You’re about six weeks along.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the silence in the morgue.

Namjoon gasped. 

“Pregnant?”

Jimin lay frozen.

Six weeks.

He did the math instantly. It was the trip to Jeju. The hotel by the beach. The morning light on the sheets.

His hand moved automatically to his stomach which was still flat, empty and unassuming.

The nausea.

The dizziness.

The exhaustion.

It wasn't stress. It wasn't food poisoning.

It was a life inside him.

It was Yoongi’s.

A piece of him that would never know his voice.

A wave of pure white hot agony washed over him. It wasn't joy. It was horror.

“No..” Jimin whispered.

“Jimin…” Namjoon squeezed his hand eyes wide.

“He doesn't know.” Jimin said. His voice rose cracking. 

“He doesn't know.”

Tears spilled over his cheeks hot and fast.

“I have to tell him.” Jimin tried to sit up ripping at the IV tape on his hand. 

“I have to tell him! He wanted… he always joked about… I have to tell him!”

“Jimin, stop!” Namjoon grabbed his shoulders pushing him back down gently.

“HE DIED NOT KNOWING!” Jimin screamed.

It was the ugliest sound Namjoon had ever heard. It was a scream that tore the throat.

“He left me!” Jimin sobbed thrashing against his brother’s grip. 

“He left me alone with this! How could he? How could he leave me alone?”

He looked at Namjoon, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

“I can’t do this alone, Hyung. I can’t be a father without him. I can’t. I can’t.”

‘I'm pregnant.’ he gasped.

“I'm pregnant and he's gone. It's not fair. He should be here. He should be here hyung…”

Namjoon pulled him into a hug rocking him as Jimin wailed into his chest.

“You’re not alone!” Namjoon cried.

“We’re here.”

Namjoon had Jin.

The baby had… no one. Just a ghost.

The injustice burned hotter than pain.

Life and death colliding inside him.

Jimin didn't remember leaving the hospital.

He didn't remember the car ride. He didn't look at the moving city outside the window. He didn’t look at the sky.

He barely spoke. He walked. He nodded. He followed.

But he was empty.

He didn't remember Namjoon unlocking the front door of the apartment.

But he remembered the smell.

He stepped inside and the scent of the apartment hit him.

It smelled like them.

It smelled like Yoongi’s cologne like the citrus cleaner Jimin used like the stale coffee from this morning.

This morning.

It had been this morning.

Jimin walked into the kitchen like a zombie.

There on the counter was the mug. Yoongi’s favorite black mug. It still had a rim of coffee at the bottom.

Yoongi’s lips had touched that rim.

Jimin touched the ceramic. It was cold.

He looked at the entryway. Yoongi’s house slippers were there slightly askew waiting for feet that would never return.

He looked at the sofa where they watched movies and shared kisses between laughter and giggles. Fell asleep countless times.

He looked at the jacket on the chair that Yoongi wore.

He looked at the calendar on the fridge. “Yoongi - Tokyo” was written in Jimin’s neat handwriting on today’s date.

He walked to the bedroom.

The bed was unmade. The duvet was thrown back on Yoongi’s side exactly how he had left it when he dragged himself up begging for five more minutes.

Jimin stood in the doorway.

This wasn't a home anymore. It was a museum of a dead man.

Namjoon and Jin were standing in the living room unsure if they should follow.

Jimin walked to the bed and crawled onto it. He curled up on Yoongi’s side and pressed his face into Yoongi’s pillow.

He inhaled.

And then he broke.

This was the real breakdown. The hospital was shock. This… this was reality.

He collapsed.

He screamed into the pillow. He kicked his legs. He clawed at the sheets sobbing uncontrollably.

“Come back!” he shrieked. 

“You can’t just leave! You can’t leave me here! It’s too big! The bed is too big!”

He curled his hand over his stomach digging his fingers in.

“We’re alone..” he sobbed to the empty room. 

“Baby, we’re so alone. Appa is gone. He’s gone.”

“I knew. I knew. I held him like something was wrong.”

He cried until he gagged. He cried until his vision blurred. He cried until his body was shaking badly. Namjoon came in and laid down behind him holding him while he shook but even Namjoon’s arms felt like nothing compared to the absence of the arms that belonged there. The silence of the apartment was so loud. 

And in that silence Jimin realized the cruelest truth of all..Yoongi had left him life. But took everything else.

The funeral lasted three days.

It was a blur of black suits and white chrysanthemums.

Jimin stood at the entrance of the memorial hall. He wore a black suit. He wore the armband of the Chief Mourner-two stripes signifying a spouse.

He looked perfect. He looked composed.

But he was gone.

His body was there bowing to guests pouring alcohol and lighting incense. But Jimin was hovering somewhere near the ceiling watching himself perform the rituals of a widower.

In the center of the altar surrounded by mountains of white flowers was Yoongi’s picture.

It was a photo Jimin had taken. Yoongi was smiling that rare gummy smile where his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked so alive. It felt like a mockery.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good man.”

“Be strong.”

“He was a life saver.”

“He was a healer.”

Jimin bowed 90 degrees.

“Thank you.”

“Jimin-ah.” Hoseok was there. He wasn't the bright sun of the newsroom. He was sobbing. His face swollen. He hugged Jimin. And Jimin let him. He felt Hoseok’s tears on his neck but he couldn't cry anymore. He was dried out.

Colleagues came. News anchors. Producers. Yoongi’s colleagues. Doctors, nurses, his patients. Everyone came. They looked at Jimin with pity. The pregnant widow, they didn't know but they looked at him like he was glass.

Namjoon and Jin handled the foods and the guests.

Taehyung and Jungkook sat in the corner staring at the floor while holding hands.

Jimin stood alone at the altar.

He looked at the incense smoke curling up toward the photo.

“I’m pregnant,” he told the photo in his mind. 

“You’re a dad. Yet you’re never going to hold them..”

The unfairness was a stone in his throat.

On the final day, it was the cremation.

The final viewing was a small room behind the main altar. It was suffocatingly quiet. The air thick with the scent of white chrysanthemums and the heavy sweet smell of incense that couldn't quite mask the antiseptic odor of preservation.

The casket was open.

It was high quality. Mahogany. Silk lining. Expensive.

Yoongi would hate it  Jimin thought numbly. He’d say it was a waste of money.

Namjoon stepped forward first. He was the eldest here, the pillar. He had to be strong. But as he looked down at Yoongi his brother-in-law, his friend. the man he had trusted to love Jimin forever Namjoon’s shoulders shook.

He placed a hand on the edge of the wood his knuckles white.

“You bastard.” Namjoon whispered his voice cracking. 

“You promised to take care of him. You looked me in the eye at the wedding and you promised. Now.... now you're gone.”

Tears dripped from Namjoon’s chin landing on his own dark suit.

“But don't worry. I’ll do it.” Namjoon choked out a vow made to a dead man. 

“I’ll watch over them. I won’t let them break. But you… you were supposed to be here Yoongi ya. It was supposed to be you.”

He leaned down pressing his forehead briefly against the cold wood near Yoongi’s shoulder. 

“Rest now. You worked hard. I’ve got them.”

Namjoon stepped back his face a ruin of grief and turned into Jin’s embrace hiding his eyes.

Then it was Taehyung.

Yoongi’s little brother. The one who had followed him around like a shadow since they were kids.

Taehyung didn't walk he stumbled. Jungkook had to guide him to the edge holding him up by the waist.

Taehyung looked into the casket and let out a sound that sounded like a wounded animal.

“Hyung?”

It was so small. So young.

“Hyung get up.” Taehyung pleaded his hands hovering over Yoongi’s chest terrified to touch him. 

“Stop playing. It’s not funny. You’re scaring me. You’re scaring Jimin.”

He waited. He waited for the scoff. He waited for Yoongi to open one eye and call him a brat.

Nothing.

“Who’s gonna scold me?” Taehyung sobbed collapsing against the side of the casket clutching the silk lining. 

“Who’s gonna fix my songs? Who’s gonna tell me I’m being loud? Hyung please! Don’t go! I’ll be quiet! I promise I’ll be quiet  just don’t go!”

Jungkook was crying too. Silent tears were streaming down his face as he pulled Taehyung back, whispering broken apologies into his hair as Taehyung’s legs gave out his screams of “Hyung!” echoing off the cold walls.

Then the room cleared.

They left Jimin alone.

The door clicked shut.

Jimin stood at the foot of the casket.

He walked forward. One step. Two steps.

He looked down.

They had done a good job. The morticians. They had covered the bruises with makeup. They had combed his hair back. He wore his favorite black suit the one he wore to award shows.

But he was wrong.

He was too pale. Too still. His lips were pressed together in a line that wasn't quite his smile.

Jimin reached out. His hand trembled violently.

He touched Yoongi’s cheek.

It was cold. Not cool like a winter day. Cold like stone. Like something that had never been alive.

Jimin flinched pulling his hand back as if burned. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him.  It was violent and sharp.

“You’re really not there are you?” Jimin whispered to the shell.

He gripped the edge of the coffin to keep from falling.

“I went to the hospital,” Jimin said, his voice trembling.

“Did you know? I fainted.”

He waited for an answer.

“They told me why I’ve been sick hyung.”

Jimin took a ragged breath. He reached out again and this time he didn't pull away. He cupped Yoongi’s cold face with his warm hand trying desperately to transfer his heat, his life into him.

“I’m pregnant.”

The confession hung in the air.

“You’re a dad,” Jimin sobbed a single ugly sound escaping his throat. 

“It’s six weeks. You… you did this. You left a piece of you.”

He leaned over the casket his tears falling onto Yoongi’s suit.

“I’m so scared Yoongi. I’m so scared. How do I do this? You were the strong one. You were the one who knew how to fix things. How do I raise your child without you? You were supposed to be here for this”

“This wasn't supposed to happen. We were supposed to grow old.”

He moved his hand from Yoongi’s cheek to his chest right over the heart that wasn't beating.

“You said five more minutes,” Jimin whispered, his voice breaking into pieces. 

“But you took forever.”

He dug into his pocket. He pulled out the ultrasound photo a tiny grainy black and white smear. The proof of life amidst all this death.

He slipped it into the breast pocket of Yoongi’s suit right over his heart.

“Take it with you.” Jimin whispered.

 “So you’re not alone. So you know.”

He leaned down. He pressed his lips to Yoongi’s cold waxy forehead.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a goodbye.

“I love you.” Jimin breathed against the skin. Tears were streaming down his face.

“I love you. I love you. I’ll take care of them. I promise.”

The door opened. The funeral director stepped in, looking apologetic.

“Sir… it’s time to close the lid.”

Jimin froze.

Close the lid.

Darkness.

Fire.

“No!” Jimin whimpered. He grabbed Yoongi’s lapels. 

“No, not yet. Please not yet.”

“Jimin.” Namjoon was there. Gentle hands prying his fingers loose. 

“Jimin we have to let him go.”

“I can’t!” Jimin screamed. The panic seizing him.

 “He’s all alone in there! Don’t lock him in!”

But he was weak. He was so weak. Namjoon pulled him back holding him tight against his chest as Jimin kicked and wailed watching through blurry eyes as the heavy mahogany lid was lowered.

The shadow fell over Yoongi’s face.

Then the click.

The latch sealing shut.

Jimin went limp in his brother’s arms the sound of that latch echoing in his head like a gunshot signaling the end of his life as he knew it.

Jimin held the urn. It was heavy. Heavier than it looked. It was warm.

This is him, his mind supplied unhelpfully. This is his hands. His voice. His talent. It’s all in this box.

He pressed the box to his chest right over his heart right over the terrifying secret growing in his womb.

Namjoon put a hand on his back. 

“Jimin-ah. It’s time to go.”

Jimin looked at the hearse.

He looked at the gray sky.

He realized then that he would never be warm again.

He stepped forward carrying his husband in his arms and his child in his body walking into a future that looked like a black hole.

He was a father. He was a widower. And he had never been more alone

Chapter Text

Three years.

One thousand and ninety-five days since the sky had fallen.

It was enough time for a sapling to take root. Enough time for a wound to turn into a scar. Enough time for the sharp jagged edges of grief to smooth down into something rounder and heavier like a stone carried in a pocket that you never take out.

The autumn sun in Seoul was deceptive. It looked golden and warm painting the leaves of Seoul forest in shades of burnt orange and russet. But the wind had teeth.

The park was loud with laughter. Children running around. Leaves shifting in soft wind. Parents calling out gentle warnings that no one really listened to. 

Jimin tightened his scarf. It was the charcoal cashmere one that used to belong to Yoongi. He sat back on a wooden bench hands resting loosely in his lap.

“Papa! Watch me! Watch!”

Jimin looked up instantly and smiled. The skin around his eyes crinkling.

“I'm watching Ji-yoon ah.”

Jimin called softly while smiling. 

There twenty feet away stood his little miracle.

Min Ji-yoon stood proudly near the slide tiny hands raised in triumph after climbing something barely a foot high. Three years old Min Ji-yoon  was small for his age. He has a button nose and pale porcelain skin that flushed pink in the cold. But it was the eyes that made Jimin’s chest ache every single morning. They were sharp cat like eyes. And when Ji-yoon grinned gums and all shaking a plastic shovel in triumph it was like looking at a ghost.

He was the perfect carbon copy of Min Yoongi.

The same gummy grin. The same crescent eyes.

The same way Jimin’s heart ached and swelled at the same time.

Ji-yoon giggled and ran off again chasing a ball too big for his small frame this time towards a sandbox. His laughter rang out bright and fearless.

Jimin watched him play. A fond sad smile resting on his lips. 

“You have his energy today..” he whispered to the wind. 

“He would have loved watching you destroy that sandcastle.”

Jimin’s fingers drifted unconsciously to the thin chain around his neck.

Two wedding rings hung there.

He pressed them gently between his fingers.

“You would have loved this.” he whispered under his breath.

The way Ji-yoon ran. The way he laughed. The way he pouted when he didn’t get his way. The way he furrowed his brows in serious concentration exactly like his appa used to.

Yoongi should have been here.

That thought still had teeth.

Jimin’s gaze drifted from his son to the path nearby.

A family was walking past. A tall man was holding the hand of a little girl. Beside him walked another man. He was smaller than his husband wrapped in a thick coat. He waddled slightly one hand resting protectively over the distinct heavy curve of a pregnancy bump.

The taller man laughed stopping to fix his husband’s scarf. Then leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. The pregnant man smiled leaning into the touch while he adjusted the toddlers hat. It felt safe and cherished.

Jimin’s smile vanished.

The sight hit him softly at first.

Then sharply.

His chest tightened.

The sounds of the park, the rustling leaves, the distant traffic, Ji-yoon’s giggles abruptly cut out. A high pitched ringing filled his ears. The image of the happy couple blurred dissolving into a grey suffocating mist.

He wasn't on the bench anymore. He was back there. In the silence.

It had not been beautiful.

People romanticized being pregnant. Called it glowing.  Said it was miraculous.

But for Jimin it was different. It was hard.

He had been tired. His body ached constantly. His back throbbed. His feet swelled until his shoes felt cruel.

Yet the physical pain was the easy part.

The first few months after the funeral were not lived, they were survived minute by excruciating minute.

The flowers from the funeral had long since rotted and thrown out by Jin because Jimin refused to touch them.

Jimin was existing not living.

The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

Jimin’s body was falling apart. The morning sickness was violent. It was a physical purging that left him trembling on the bathroom floor clutching the porcelain bowl until his knuckles turned white. He would heave until there was nothing left but tears streaming down his face and sweat matting his hair.

“Hyung...” he would whimper into the cold tiles. 

“Hyung, I’m sick. Bring me water. Please.”

But when water came it was not the person he wanted. No large veiny hand rubbed his back. Just the hum of the refrigerator filled his ears when he wanted to hear the deep raspy voice saying it's okay.

It wasn't okay.

The depression was a heavy wet blanket. It convinced him that if he just ignored the truth it wouldn't be real.

Denial had evolved into delusion

The apartment was a mausoleum. Jimin refused to move anything. Yoongi’s toothbrush stayed in the cup. His shoes stayed by the door toes pointed out waiting.

Every evening Jimin stood in the kitchen under the fluorescent light while his body ached from standing all day at the news desk where he read tragedies off a teleprompter with dead eyes. He chopped vegetables. Prepared the ingredients needed.

He cooked for two.

Set the table for two.

Two placemats. Two sets of chopsticks. Two water glasses.

He dished out the stew. It was Kimchi-jjigae. He made it spicy just how Yoongi liked it.

Sometimes he even spoke into the empty space across from him.

“Dinner’s ready!” Jimin called out his voice cracking in the empty hallway.

Silence... No answer came.

He sat down. He waited. He watched the steam rise from the bowl across from him curling into the air and vanishing.

“It’s going to get cold Yoongi-yah.” Jimin whispered staring at the empty chair. 

“Stop working. Come eat.”

He didn't eat. He couldn't. He just sat there as the food went cold starving himself and the baby because eating meant admitting he was the only one there.

The door code beeped.

Namjoon walked in followed by Jin. They stopped in the doorway.

They saw the table set for two. They saw Jimin talking to the empty chair.

“Jimin-ah...” Jin whispered his voice trembling.

“Shh..!!” Jimin hissed not looking up.

“He’s tired. He just got back from Tokyo. Let him eat.”

Namjoon let out a choked sound. He walked over and gripped Jimin’s shoulders.

“Jimin. Stop. Please. There’s no one there.”

“Don’t say that!” Jimin slammed his chopsticks down.

“He’s right here! He promised five more minutes!”

“Jimin look at yourself!” Namjoon shouted tears streaming down his face.

“You’re wasting away! You’re pregnant! You have to eat for the baby!”

“I DON’T CARE!” Jimin screamed overturning the bowl. The red stew splashed across the table staining the white tablecloth like blood.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want to do this alone! Take it out! Take it out of me!”

He collapsed to the floor sobbing while curling into a ball. Jin rushed to him holding him as he wailed but Jimin couldn't feel the warmth. He only felt the cold draft from the empty chair.

He refused to pack away Yoongi’s clothes.

Refused to wash the last mug he’d used.

Refused to let the bed cool on one side.

He stopped taking his prenatal vitamins. He stopped sleeping in the bed choosing instead to curl up on the rug in the living room clutching Yoongi’s hoodie and inhaling the fading scent of cedar and cigarettes until he passed out.

He worked too much at first. He overworked himself for twelve hours a day. Ignored his body. Ignored the dark circles and the dizziness. Skipped meals. Forgot to drink water. 

Forgot that he was carrying something fragile. Because acknowledging the baby meant acknowledging why he was raising it alone

Some mornings he would wake up and stare at the ceiling wondering why he was still here.

Some nights he cried until his chest physically hurt.

Other nights he lay numb staring at the dark wall in front of him convinced that if he didn’t blink Yoongi might reappear.

It got worse when exhaustion blurred reality.

He hallucinated. He saw shadows move in the corner of his eye. He heard the keypad of the door beep.

“I’m home...” a voice would say.

Jimin would scramble up. His heart hammering. 

“Yoongi?”

But it was just the wind.

There were moments when he thought he saw Yoongi in the hallway

He would turn quickly.

No one was there.

The nights were the hardest.

When he physically couldn't sleep in the floor anymore he started to sleep on his side of the bed. He left the lamp on. He would wake up screaming from nightmares where the ocean was filling the room choking him. He would reach out for the hands that wasn't there anymore. His hand would slap the cold empty sheet beside him.

“Hyung?” he would whisper brokenly into the dark. 

“Five more minutes. Just come back for five more minutes.”

Everybody tried to help him. Jungkook brought food Jimin barely touched. Seokjin stayed longer than he needed to.They came over. They cleaned. They pleaded.

But Jimin was a shell. He looked through them his eyes hollow vibrating with a grief so loud it drowned out their voices.

They tried.

But grief was a room no one could enter with him.

He was alive.

He was breathing.

But he was empty.

By the fourth month, he was a skeleton with a belly.

At six months, everything almost ended again.

It was on a Tuesday when Jimin collapsed at home.

It was heavy stress. Extreme malnutrition. Severe exhaustion.

He woke in a hospital bed with doctors speaking in urgent tones.

“Mr. Min.” the doctor said her voice stern.

“You are severely malnourished. Your blood pressure is critical. You are killing yourself and you are taking this child with you.”

He almost lost the baby.

That was the first time fear cut through his grief.

Not fear of death.

Fear of losing the last piece of Yoongi he had left.

Jimin broke. He curled around his bump sobbing. They were ugly and raw that tore at his throat. He realized then that he wasn't carrying a burden. He was carrying a piece of Yoongi. The last piece.

“I’m sorry...” he wept into the sheets.

“I’m sorry, baby. Papa is so sorry.”

From that moment something shifted.

Not healed.

But redirected.

He was carrying Yoongi’s final gift.

He could not lose that too.

Namjoon and Jin moved into the apartment next door to take care of him.

Taehyung stayed every weekend on Jimin’s couch massaging Jimin’s swollen feet distracting him with bad jokes.

But the loneliness… the loneliness didn't leave. It just changed shape.

Jimin left his job at the news station. He couldn’t stand live broadcasts, the noise, the tragedies anymore. Couldn’t stand breaking news alerts, the memories of the day the ticker tape destroyed his life.

Yoongi had left enough money for stability.

But Jimin needed something gentle to keep his mind busy.

So he worked at Jin's café.

It was quiet there. It smelled of baking bread and coffee. He would sit on a stool behind the counter rubbing his belly while Jin fed him pastries and watched him like a hawk. Made sure he ate. Slid water glasses toward him without comment.

It was warm. It has a routine.

Jimin started therapy. He sat in a chair and cried for an hour every week talking about the anger, the abandonment and the fear.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he needed to be present for his child.

Some nights were still unbearable.

But when Ji-yoon kicked small insistent nudges from inside Jimin would freeze and place his hands over the movement.

And for a moment he felt less alone.

He missed Yoongi at every milestone.

The first heartbeat.

Jimin was looking at the monitor when he heard it. 

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The heartbeat was fast and strong. But it was also stubborn.

He cried alone in the car afterward.

The gender reveal was hard.

It wasn't a party. There were no balloons. No cakes. Just Jimin lying on a paper covered table with Namjoon sitting beside him holding his empty hand.

“It’s a boy.” the technician smiled.

Jimin closed his eyes. 

A boy.

He stared at the screen and whispered, “He looks like you already.”

He reached for his phone instinctively. He opened his text thread with Yoongi.

[Jimin]

It’s a boy, Hyung. You got your wish. You always wanted a mini you.

He hit send. The message failed. User not found.

Jimin dropped the phone on his chest and wept silently while Namjoon stroked his hair.

When the baby kicked for the first time. It was the first real kick.

He was lying on the sofa a book resting on his tummy when he felt it. First it was the usual flutter. Then it was a solid startling thump against his ribs. Jimin froze his hands flying to the spot. He reached instinctively for a hand that wasn’t there.

A smile touched his lips but tears immediately followed.

“Did you feel that Hyung?” he asked the empty room. His eyes darted to the armchair where Yoongi used to sit.

“Hyung he kicked. He’s strong. He’s so strong. He kicks like you used to kick me in your sleep.”

The silence of the apartment was the only answer of his questions.

Nursery shopping hurt the most.

He stood in the aisle surrounded by couples laughing softly together.He saw a man holding up a tiny pair of socks asking his wife if they were too small. Another man checking out the cribs. Others were trailing with their hands full of tiny clothes, toys and bottles behind their pregnant partners smiling and talking. Unlike him who was there alone.

Jimin stood in front of the cribs and saw a white crib railing with stars. Yoongi loved stars

“Can I help you, sir?” A sales clerk smiled. 

“Is your partner joining us?”

The question was innocent but it felt like a physical blow.

Jimin opened his mouth but no sound came out. He looked at the empty space beside him where Yoongi should have been standing complaining about the price while holding Jimin’s lower back to support the weight.

“No.” Jimin choked out his hand flying to the rings dangling on the chain around his neck. 

“He’s… he’s busy.”

He bought the crib and dragged the box home. He sat on the nursery floor for three hours crying while holding the screwdriver because he couldn't figure out the instructions and Yoongi wasn't there to curse at the manual and fix it.

“You jerk.” Jimin cried throwing a screw at the wall. 

“You were supposed to build this! You were supposed to be here!”

Namjoon or Taehyung was always beside him.

But the space next to him remained unfillable.

As his belly grew the bed felt bigger.

Jimin would lie on his side with the baby kicking furiously against his ribs.

“Kick for appa.” Jimin would whisper into the darkness.

He would grab a pillow and shove it against his back pretending it was Yoongi’s chest. He would hallucinate the smell of citrus and cedar.

“Are you seeing this Hyung?” Jimin would ask the shadows. 

“My ankles are swollen. I look like a penguin. You’d make fun of me, wouldn't you?”

The baby would kick a sharp jab.

“Yeah..” Jimin wiped a tear onto the pillow. 

“He agrees.”

Labor broke him in ways grief had not.

Namjoon drove. Jin sat in the back with him timing the contractions.

But inside the delivery room the void opened up.

It was twenty hours of agony.

The pain was consuming.

Taehyung held his left hand. Jin held his right. But in Jimin’s mind he was alone.

Utterly alone.

He was screaming for Yoongi. He called Yoongi’s name between contractions voice raw and desperate.

“I can’t do it!” Jimin wailed sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. 

“I can’t do it alone! I want him! Bring him back!”

“You’re doing it Jimin-ah. We're here” Jin cried wiping sweat from Jimin’s face. 

“You’re doing it.”

“It’s not the same!” Jimin wailed his voice raw. 

“He’s supposed to be holding my hand! He promised!”

The pain was blinding but the emotional agony was worse. Every push was a reminder that he was bringing a life into a world that had taken his love away.

“One more push Jimin! He’s almost here!”

A primal animalistic sound tore out of his body while he pushed with everything he had left.

When the baby finally came slippery, red and wailing the room went silent.

The nurse placed him on Jimin’s naked chest.

He was small, warm and perfect.

Jimin looked down through his tears.

He saw Yoongi’s nose. He saw Yoongi’s pout.

It was Yoongi. It was Yoongi in miniature.

Jimin didn't smile. He broke. He wailed a sound of pure unadulterated grief mixing with the joy of new life. 

He cried because his son was beautiful. He cried because his son would never know the warmth of his appa’s chest.

“He’s not here.” he sobbed. 

“He’s not here to see him.”

“Min Ji-yoon,” Jimin whispered kissing the damp head. 

“Your name is Min Ji-yoon.”

Ji-yoon’s tiny fingers curled around his.

Yoongi’s fingers had done that too.

“I missed you,” Jimin wept the words confused directed at both the son and the father. 

“You’re here. But he’s not. He’s never going to hold you. He’s never going to know how soft you are.”

And in that moment Jimin felt both the deepest loss and the most terrifying love of his life.

The first year was a blur of sleepless nights and phantom pains.

The nights were the cruelest.

Jimin would wake up at 2 AM to feed Ji-yoon. He would sit in the rocking chair while the apartment remained dark and quiet.

Namjoon and Seokjin stayed with him for months to help.

But sometimes Jimin would look at the empty side of the bed where the sheets were still cold, flat and undisturbed. 

“Look Ji-yoon-ah,” Jimin would whisper pointing to the empty space. 

“That’s where Appa slept. He snored. Really loud.”

Ji-yoon would blink up at him with those cat like eyes. Jimin cried silently holding him. His tears falling onto the baby’s onesie.

But slowly very slowly the light began to creep back in.

Ji-yoon’s first smile a gummy eye crinkling grin was the first time Jimin felt true joy in a year.

His first crawl.

His first steps.

His first word — “Papa.”

Jimin cried for hours after that.

Every milestone was a celebration wrapped in mourning.

He told Ji-yoon about his appa constantly.

“Your appa was the smartest person I knew.”

“Your appa made the best coffee.”

“Your appa loved you before you were even here.”

The rings never left Jimin’s neck.

He touched them every night before sleep.

Jimin built his life around his baby boy. He lived for him. He breathed for him.

“Papa!”

Ji-yoon was running back towards him now cheeks flushed and laughter bright.

Jimin wiped his eyes quickly and opened his arms.

Ji-yoon crashed into him tiny arms wrapping around his neck.

“You saw me?”

“I always see you.” Jimin whispered.

Then he saw how the tiny hands were clutching a handful of dry leaves.

“What do you have in your hands Ji-yooniee?”

He asked while combing the wild hairs of his baby.

Ji-yoon gasped and showed his hands to Jimin.

“Papa, look!”

“I see them baby.” Jimin called out his voice soft. 

“Are those for me?”

“For Appa!” Ji-yoon chirped his voice high and sweet.

Jimin’s smile faltered just for a second. 

For Appa.

Ji-yoon knew his father through photos. Through stories. Through the shrine in the living room where fresh flowers were always kept. To Ji-yoon appa was a star. To Jimin appa was a missing limb.

Jimin let out a watery laugh pulling his son into his lap burying his nose in Ji-yoon’s hair. He smelled like baby shampoo and sunshine.

“That's nice baby. I am sure appa is gonna be happy!!”

Ji-yoon beamed.

Jimin watched his son play with the rings of his necklace his heart swelling with a love so fierce it hurts.

Life was harder than he ever imagined.

It still hurt.

It always would.

But Ji-yoon was sunlight breaking through ruins.

Some people suggested dating again. People told him he was young and beautiful. That three years was enough mourning.

He never rejected the idea outright.

But he didn’t chase it either.

Right now his world is small and precious. His heart wasn't empty. It was full of a love that had nowhere to go but to his son.

His son.

Their love.

He still loved Yoongi exactly the same.

Love did not expire with death.

It changed shape.

That was all.

Jimin stood up his knees popping slightly. He adjusted his scarf his fingers brushing against the two rings hanging on the silver chain against his chest. He rubbed the platinum bands with his thumb as a grounding ritual.

“Time to go Ji-yoon.” he said softly. 

“We have dinner plans.”

“Uncle Jinnie baby! Papa! We eat cake!” Ji-yoon babbled excitedly.

Jimin smiled.

Yes.

They were celebrating Seokjin’s second pregnancy tonight.

Life is continuing.

It is expanding.

Ji-yoon grabbed Jimin’s pinky finger his whole tiny hand barely wrapping around it.

They started to walk. Ji-yoon was walking in little uneven steps beside his papa.

The sun was setting, casting long purple shadows across the pavement. The streetlights flickered on.

Ji-yoon babbled as they walked taking three tiny steps for every one of Jimin’s. He talked about a beetle he saw. He talked about the sandbox.

Jimin listened while smiling and answering with hums and nods. He felt a sense of peace settling over him. It wasn't happiness exactly. It was quieter than that. It was endurance. It was love.

Step. Step. Step.

Jimin looked down at his feet. He looked at Ji-yoon’s light up sneakers.

And then....he felt it.

A shift in the air. A warmth on his left side shielding him from the street. The faint unmistakable scent of cedarwood and winter air.

Jimin didn't stop walking. He didn't gasp. He didn't feel afraid.

He just slowly turned his head to the left.

There walking on the out side of the path beside Ji-yoon was Yoongi.

He wasn't the broken body in the casket. He wasn't the sick man on the plane.

He was whole.

He was wearing his long beige coat the one he wore on their first date. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His black hair was swept back by the wind.

He looked exactly as Jimin remembered him in his best dreams.

Yoongi was looking down at Ji-yoon. His expression was one of overwhelming tenderness. A soft gummy smile played on his lips. He looked proud. So incredibly proud.

Then Yoongi looked up.

His eyes met Jimin’s.

Time seemed to suspend. The noise of the city faded.

Yoongi didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes said everything Jimin needed to hear.

You did well Jimin-ah...

He’s beautiful.

I never left you.

I love you.

Jimin’s lips trembled. A tear slid down his cheek but this time he smiled. A real genuine smile that reached his eyes.

Yoongi smiled back that beautiful sleepy smile that used to be the first thing Jimin saw in the morning.

They walked like that for a block. Three sets of footsteps. Two on the pavement one in the stardust. A family broken by fate but stitched together by a love that refused to die.

"Papa look. Moon came to say hi. It's shoo veautifful”

Jimin looked up at the pale crescent moon rising above the buildings.

When he looked back down to his left the spot was empty.

Just the swirling leaves and the empty sidewalk.

But the warmth remained. The scent of cedar lingered for just a second longer before the wind took it.

“Yeah baby.” Jimin whispered clutching his son’s hand a little tighter. 

“It’s beautiful.”

He touched the rings at his chest one last time. The pain was still there it would always be there as a quiet roommate in his heart. But the void was no longer empty. It was filled with memories, with a little boy who had his father’s eyes and with the certainty that he was being watched over.

Jimin took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air.

“Let’s go home, Ji-yoon-ah.”

“ Go home Papa.”

They walked into the evening lights moving forward but never moving on.

“The past hurts,” he whispered softly. 

“But we’re still here.”

The pain would never disappear.

It lived in quiet corners.

In empty chairs.

In anniversaries.

But happiness lived here too.

In gummy smiles.

In tiny hands wrapped around his finger.

In laughter echoing through a park on an ordinary afternoon.

They walked toward home.

Not the same home as before.

But still a home.

And somewhere in memory, in love, in the shape of their son’s smile —

Yoongi walked with them.

Always.

Not all goodbyes mean an ending.

Some are simply love learning a different way to stay.