Chapter Text
Yoongi’s eyes burned like someone had rubbed sand under the lids. The clock on his monitor read 6:47 a.m., and the track still wasn’t right. He’d looped the same eight bars for the last two hours, tweaking the hi-hat decay, layering a new piano stab that felt too bright, then too dull. His neck cracked when he rolled his shoulders. The apartment smelled like stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of his overheating laptop.
He shoved the window open wider, desperate for any movement of air. The city outside was just starting to wake—distant scooters buzzing, an ahjumma sweeping the alley with that familiar rhythmic scrape. For a second it helped. Cool morning breeze brushed his face, carrying the distant scent of rain that never came.
Then it hit.
Sweet. Overwhelmingly, cloyingly sweet. Like someone had upended a bottle of perfume directly into his sinuses. Pollen followed right behind it, invisible but vicious, drifting up from the flower shop that had opened below him three weeks ago. Yoongi’s nose twitched once, twice. He barely had time to swear before the sneeze ripped out of him so hard his chair rolled backward.
“Fuck—!”
Another one. Then three more in quick succession. His head throbbed instantly, a tight band wrapping around his temples. Eyes watering, he stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel, and blew his nose like he was trying to expel his brain. The scent clung to everything now. Lilies, he thought bitterly. Roses. Whatever the hell else that guy was drowning the sidewalk in.
He didn’t even bother changing. Hoodie half-zipped over the same black t-shirt he’d worn for two days, slippers slapping against the floor, he stormed down the narrow stairs that connected his apartment to the ground floor. Each step made his headache pulse. By the time he reached the shop door, he was ready to commit several minor crimes.
The glass door was still locked, but the lights were on inside. Yoongi banged on it with the side of his fist—once, twice, hard enough that the little bell inside jingled frantically.
A figure straightened up from behind a low counter, arms full of fresh-cut stems. Pastel pink apron tied neatly around a slim waist, sleeves of a cream sweater pushed to the elbows. Park Jimin. Yoongi had seen him from the balcony a few times—always smiling, always moving like the world was a gentle place worth smiling at. Right now that smile flicked on like a damn light switch the second their eyes met.
“Good morning!” Jimin called, hurrying to unlock the door. His voice was soft but carried, warm like honey in tea. “You’re up early. Is everything—”
Yoongi didn’t wait for the rest. He stepped inside, the full blast of floral scent nearly knocking him back. Buckets of white lilies, blush roses, bright orange gerbera daisies lined the floor in neat rows. The air was thick enough to taste.
“You need to do something about this,” Yoongi said, voice low and rough from lack of sleep.
Jimin blinked, still holding a bundle of pale pink roses. “About…?”
“The smell. The pollen. It’s coming straight up into my apartment. I’ve got windows open because it’s already too hot up there, and now I can’t even breathe without sneezing my lungs out.” He gestured sharply toward the ceiling. “This isn’t a garden. It’s a business under a residence. People live here.”
Jimin listened without interrupting, head tilted slightly, expression open and attentive. His cheeks were still flushed from whatever early-morning work he’d been doing. A smudge of green pollen dusted the side of his neck. Yoongi hated how unfairly soft he looked in the morning light.
“I’m really sorry,” Jimin said after a beat, and he sounded like he meant it. “I didn’t realize it was drifting up that badly. I can move the stronger-scented ones farther from the back wall, and I’ll start spraying the lilies down before I open. Would that help?”
Yoongi exhaled through his nose. “It better.”
Jimin nodded, setting the roses down carefully. Then, without missing a beat, he reached under the counter and pulled out a small bundle of dried lavender tied with twine. “Here. This might help with the headaches. It’s calming. You can put it by your bed or—”
“I don’t need flowers,” Yoongi cut in, sharper than he meant to. “I need air that doesn’t feel like I’m inhaling a perfume factory.”
Jimin’s smile didn’t exactly fade, but it softened at the edges. Something careful settled behind his eyes. “Of course. I understand.” He put the lavender back, then hesitated. From a different bucket he plucked a single peace lily in a small plastic pot—deep green leaves, one delicate white bloom. He set it on the counter between them. “This one doesn’t have much scent. It’s good for air quality, actually. Cleans the air a little.”
Yoongi stared at the plant like it had personally offended him. He almost left it there. Almost. But something in the way Jimin was looking at him—patient, a little hopeful despite the clear brush-off—made him snatch it up with a grunt. He didn’t say thank you. Just turned and pushed back out the door, slippers scuffing.
Back upstairs, he set the peace lily on the windowsill with more force than necessary. Dirt scattered. He wiped it away with his sleeve, then stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, glaring down at the shop.
Through the big front window he could see Jimin again. An elderly woman had come in, moving slowly with her cane. Jimin greeted her like an old friend, laughing at something she said, gently taking her arm to help her navigate around the buckets. He listened as she pointed at different arrangements, nodding seriously, then started gathering stems with careful, practiced hands.
Yoongi watched longer than he meant to. The headache was still there, but the raw edge had dulled. He told himself it was coincidence. Not the stupid plant. Definitely not the way Jimin’s shoulders relaxed every time a customer smiled back at him.
He turned away, sat back at his desk, and pulled his headphones on. The track still needed work. But for the first time in hours, his fingers didn’t feel quite so heavy on the keys.
𝓈𝒿
The client’s email came in at 2:14 p.m. Short, polite, and devastating.
“We love the direction, but it’s not quite hitting the emotional core we’re looking for. Let’s revisit next week?”
Yoongi stared at the screen until the words blurred. Another rejection. Not the first, not the last, but today it landed like a brick to the chest. He rubbed at his temples, the headache from morning returning with reinforcements. The apartment was stifling now. He’d kept every window shut after the pollen incident, even though the late spring heat pressed in from all sides. Sweat trickled down his back under the hoodie he still hadn’t changed out of.
Downstairs, the flower shop hummed with midday activity. He could hear it faintly even through the closed windows—the cheerful chime of the bell, Jimin’s voice rising and falling in gentle conversation. Yoongi told himself he didn’t care. He put on a lo-fi playlist at low volume, more for background texture than inspiration, and tried to salvage the track.
He failed for three straight hours.
By the time evening rolled around, his eyes felt gritty and his shoulders were locked tight. He paced the small living room, cracking his knuckles, then his neck. When he finally opened the door to step outside for some air on the landing, something caught his eye on the welcome mat.
A small bouquet. Wrapped neatly in brown paper, tied with a simple blue ribbon. Lavender, chamomile, a few sprigs of eucalyptus. The scent was subtle, herbal, nothing like the overwhelming floral bomb from that morning. A little card was tucked in.
For headaches. No charge :) — Jimin
Yoongi stared at it. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “This guy doesn’t know when to quit.”
He almost left it there. Almost kicked it gently aside with his slipper. Instead he picked it up, the paper crinkling under his fingers, and carried it inside. He set it on the kitchen counter like evidence in a trial, then went back to pacing.
The flowers smelled clean. Calming, even. He hated that it worked a little.
Down in the shop, Jimin was in his element. Mrs. Choi from two blocks over was at the counter, debating between two arrangements for her daughter’s birthday. Jimin listened with genuine interest, head tilted, asking soft questions about what her daughter liked. “She always loved the scent of freesia when she was little, right? Let’s add just a few stems. They’ll make her think of you.”
He moved between buckets with easy grace, selecting blooms, trimming stems under running water in the small sink at the back. His hands were gentle but sure—never crushing a petal, always mindful of thorns. A young couple came in next, nervous about anniversary flowers. Jimin’s laugh floated out the open door, light and reassuring. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it impossible for her to stay mad at you.”
Yoongi watched from the balcony for a few minutes, telling himself it was only because the night air felt good after being cooped up. Jimin’s pastel apron was smudged with dirt and pollen now, hair slightly damp from the humidity. He still looked like he belonged in the middle of all that color and life.
Later that night, long after the shop lights had dimmed and the street quieted, Yoongi was still up. The track sat abandoned. He paced again, barefoot this time, mind spinning uselessly through chord progressions and client notes and the gnawing feeling that maybe he was losing his touch.
His foot caught the edge of the low table. The bouquet—still in its paper—tipped. Water sloshed. He lunged, catching the whole thing before it hit the floor. A few petals scattered. The eucalyptus brushed his wrist, cool and fragrant.
Yoongi stood there in the dark, holding the slightly crumpled bundle, heart beating faster than the near-miss warranted. He muttered a curse under his breath, but there was no heat in it. Carefully, he righted the bouquet, wiped up the spilled water with a dish towel, and set it back in the center of the table where it wouldn’t fall again.
He didn’t throw it out. He didn’t even move it to the windowsill with the lonely peace lily.
Instead he left it there, a small green island in the middle of his otherwise stark apartment, and went to bed with the faint herbal scent following him into uneasy sleep.
𝓈𝒿
The rain came down like the sky had been holding a grudge all week and finally decided to let it out. It hammered against the roof of Yoongi’s apartment in a steady, relentless roar that made it impossible to focus on anything else. He’d given up on work hours ago, earphones in but the music barely cutting through the noise. Lightning flashed every few minutes, turning his dark living room into stark black and white snapshots. Thunder followed right behind, rattling the windows.
He was halfway through making instant ramen—more out of habit than hunger—when he heard it. A louder crash from below, not thunder this time. Metal groaning, something tearing. Then a string of muffled curses in a familiar soft voice.
Yoongi paused, chopsticks hovering. He told himself it wasn’t his problem. The guy downstairs had been nothing but a pollen nuisance since he moved in. But the sound came again—something heavy hitting the ground, followed by a frustrated groan—and Yoongi found himself walking to the window anyway.
Down below, under the weak glow of the shop’s security light, Jimin was wrestling with the shop’s old awning. The wind had torn one side clean off its hinges, and rain poured straight through the gap onto stacks of new stock still sitting outside. Cardboard boxes were already darkening with water. Jimin had a rickety ladder propped up and was trying to throw a blue tarp over the damage one-handed while holding the broken awning with the other. His pastel apron was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, and he looked smaller somehow against the storm.
Yoongi watched for maybe thirty seconds, jaw tight. “Idiot,” he muttered, but he was already pulling on his hoodie and grabbing the small toolbox he kept by the door.
The stairs were slippery. Rain blew sideways under the overhang. By the time Yoongi reached the shop front, Jimin had nearly lost his balance on the ladder. The tarp flapped wildly like it had a mind of its own.
“Need another set of hands?” Yoongi called over the rain, voice low but carrying.
Jimin startled so hard he almost dropped the tarp. His eyes widened when he saw who it was. “Yoongi-ssi? You don’t have to—really, it’s okay, I can—”
“Move over before you break your neck.” Yoongi didn’t wait for permission. He climbed the ladder, rain immediately soaking through his shoulders. Up close, the damage was worse than it looked from above. The awning frame had twisted, screws stripped out. “Hold this steady.”
They worked in the pouring rain for the next twenty minutes. Yoongi’s hands moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d fixed a hundred things in his life—speakers, furniture, old computers. He found better anchor points, used his weight to hold the frame while Jimin fed him tools from below. Their movements fell into a rhythm without much talking. Jimin would hand up a screw or a wrench, and Yoongi would grunt acknowledgment. The only other sounds were the rain and the occasional clink of metal.
At one point, reaching for the same tool, their fingers brushed. Wet skin, cold from the rain. Jimin’s hand lingered half a second longer than necessary, warm even through the chill. Yoongi pulled back like he’d been shocked.
“Sorry,” Jimin said quickly, voice raised over the storm. “I just—thank you. Seriously. I didn’t expect anyone to come down. It’s late and this weather is awful and—”
“It’s fine,” Yoongi cut in, short but not mean. “Just hold the ladder.”
Jimin kept talking anyway, the way people do when nerves and gratitude mix together. “I’ve been meaning to get this fixed for weeks. The landlord keeps saying next month, but the stock… these ranunculus just came in this afternoon. They’re ruined now, probably. I should’ve brought them inside earlier but I got busy with a big order and—”
“Jimin.” Yoongi’s voice was low, almost lost in the rain. “It’s done. Stop worrying.”
The tarp was finally secured, the worst of the leak diverted. They climbed down together, both drenched. Jimin’s teeth were chattering but he still managed a bright, shaky smile. “Come inside for a second? I have hot water in the back. Tea or coffee—whatever you want. It’s the least I can do.”
Yoongi shook his head, water dripping from his hood. “I’m good. Gonna head back up.”
But he didn’t move right away. They stood under the newly stabilized awning, shoulders almost touching, watching the rain sheet down across the empty street. The sound was different now—muffled, softer. Jimin’s breathing slowly evened out beside him. For a minute, neither of them spoke. Just the rain and the faint scent of wet flowers rising from the damaged boxes.
Eventually Yoongi turned to leave. “Lock up properly,” he muttered.
Back in his apartment, he peeled off the soaked hoodie and tossed it over a chair. The fabric smelled like rain and something else—sweet and green, like crushed stems and petals. Flowers. Jimin’s shop. He stared at the hoodie for a long moment, mild irritation flickering in his chest, but underneath it sat something warmer he didn’t have a name for yet. He left the hoodie where it was and went to change, the scent following him across the room.
𝓈𝒿
A few days after the storm, the alley behind the building had mostly dried out, but the air still carried that heavy, post-rain dampness. Yoongi was heading downstairs for a late afternoon coffee run when something small and orange darted between his legs on the bottom step.
“Shit—” He stumbled, catching himself on the railing. A scrawny orange tabby kitten—no, young cat—looked up at him with wide green eyes and let out a pitiful meow. Ribs visible under thin fur, one ear nicked, it didn’t run. Just sat there like it belonged.
Before Yoongi could decide what to do, the shop door opened and Jimin stepped out, apron dusted with fresh soil. “Oh! There you are.” His voice melted into that gentle tone people reserve for babies and small animals. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
The cat immediately trotted over to Jimin, rubbing against his ankles with surprising strength for something so skinny. Jimin crouched down, offering the back of his hand. The cat bumped its head against his fingers, purring loud enough to hear from where Yoongi stood.
“You’re feeding that thing?” Yoongi asked, arms crossed.
Jimin glanced up, smile still soft but a little guarded now. “He’s been hanging around for a few days. I couldn’t just ignore him. Poor guy’s hungry.” He pulled a small container of wet food from his apron pocket and set it down. The cat attacked it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Yoongi watched, jaw tight. “Stray animals bring mess. Fleas, more noise, stuff tracking everywhere. This is a business, right? Not an animal shelter.”
Jimin’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he kept petting the cat with careful fingers. “He’s not hurting anyone. And he stays mostly outside for now. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
Yoongi exhaled through his nose and continued on his way, muttering about allergies he wasn’t even sure he had. But later that evening, when he came back from the convenience store, both he and Jimin ended up in the alley at the same time again.
Jimin was trying to coax the cat into a cardboard box lined with an old towel. The cat kept escaping to wind between his legs instead. Yoongi stopped a few feet away, plastic bag crinkling in his hand.
“He likes you,” Yoongi observed dryly.
Jimin laughed under his breath. “Guess so. I think he’s decided this is home now.” He tried again with the box. The cat flopped dramatically onto its side instead, showing its belly.
Yoongi set his bag down and, after a long internal debate, went back inside. He returned a minute later with a shallow bowl filled with water. He set it down near the box without a word.
Jimin looked up, surprise flickering across his face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Yoongi said, already turning away. “I’m still allergic. Probably.”
He went upstairs, but not before catching the way Jimin’s expression softened as he watched the cat drink from the new bowl.
The next morning, Yoongi heard Jimin outside again, talking softly. “What should we call you, huh? You look like a Peaches with that orange fur. Yeah? Peaches it is.”
Yoongi stood at his window, out of sight, watching the cat—Peaches—leap playfully at a string Jimin dangled. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Peaches,” he repeated quietly to himself, shaking his head. “Ridiculous.”
He went back to his desk, telling himself he didn’t care what the florist named his stray cat. But when he glanced down again twenty minutes later, Peaches was sprawled in a patch of sunlight near the shop door, and Jimin was smiling at the little creature like it was the best thing to happen all week.
Yoongi pretended not to notice the way that smile made the morning feel a fraction lighter.
𝓈𝒿
The days had settled into a strange new rhythm after Peaches arrived. Yoongi would hear the jingle of the shop bell downstairs, the soft murmur of Jimin’s voice talking to customers, and occasionally that ridiculous high-pitched meow cutting through everything. The orange tabby had grown bolder, sometimes lounging on the narrow strip of sidewalk right where the morning sun hit, or darting up the stairs to investigate Yoongi’s landing before Jimin gently coaxed him back down.
That evening, though, something felt off. Yoongi had been buried in a new track all afternoon, headphones clamped on, when the usual shop sounds went quiet earlier than normal. No bell. No laughter drifting up. Just the low rumble of a car passing by and then nothing. He told himself to ignore it. He had a deadline. But when he stepped onto the landing for some air around eight o’clock, the shop’s lights were still on, the “Closed” sign flipped early, and the door was cracked open like someone had forgotten to latch it.
Curiosity—and the faint hope of complaining about something minor—pulled him downstairs. He pushed the door open slowly. The warm, humid scent of flowers wrapped around him immediately, but it was quieter than usual. Jimin sat on a low stool behind the counter, elbows on his knees, staring at Peaches who was curled in a small basket lined with a towel. The cat looked listless, eyes half-closed, breathing a little too fast. A half-eaten bowl of food sat untouched nearby.
Jimin’s head snapped up at the sound of the door. His usual bright energy was gone, replaced by tight worry lines around his eyes. “Yoongi-ssi… I’m sorry, we’re closed. I just—” His voice cracked a little. “Peaches hasn’t been eating right since yesterday. He threw up this morning and now he’s so quiet. I think something’s really wrong.”
Yoongi stood there in the doorway, hands in his hoodie pocket, the complaint he’d prepared dying on his tongue. The cat did look small and pathetic. “Vet?” he asked after a beat.
“I called three places. The closest one with emergency hours is twenty minutes away and I don’t have a car. I was going to try carrying him on the bus but—” Jimin gestured helplessly at the basket. “He hates the carrier and I’m scared he’ll get worse on the way.”
Yoongi rubbed the back of his neck. His car was parked half a block away—cleaner than most, reliable, the one thing he actually took care of. He could walk away. Tell Jimin good luck and go back upstairs. Instead he heard himself say, “I’ll drive. Grab whatever you need for him.”
Jimin’s eyes widened, relief flooding his face so openly it made Yoongi look away. “Really? You don’t have to do this. I know I’ve already been… a lot.”
“It’s fine. Car’s better than the bus at night.” Yoongi shrugged like it was nothing. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”
The drive was quiet at first. Jimin sat in the passenger seat with the basket on his lap, one hand gently stroking Peaches’ head through the towel. Streetlights slid across his face every few seconds, highlighting the tension in his jaw. Yoongi kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to a beat only he could hear.
In the waiting room at the clinic, the tension stretched tighter. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A tired-looking receptionist had taken their info, and now they sat side by side on plastic chairs that squeaked whenever either of them shifted. The only other person was an older man with a sleepy beagle at his feet.
Jimin kept glancing at the basket, leg bouncing. “He was fine a couple days ago. Chasing strings and everything. What if it’s something bad?”
“Probably just ate something stupid off the street,” Yoongi said, trying to sound casual. “Cats do that.”
Jimin managed a small smile. “You sound like you know cats.”
Yoongi hesitated, then leaned back, staring at the faded poster on the opposite wall. “Had one when I was a kid. Back in Daegu. scruffy black thing named Shadow. Used to sleep on my keyboard while I tried to practice piano. Drove my mom crazy.” The memory came easier than expected, soft around the edges after all these years. “He got sick once too. Turned out to be nothing serious. Just needed medicine and rest.”
Jimin turned to look at him fully, something warm and curious in his gaze. “I can picture that. You with a little black cat bossing you around.”
Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. Don’t make it weird.”
The vet called them in shortly after. It was a minor stomach issue—probably something Peaches had scavenged—nothing that antibiotics and a bland diet couldn’t fix. Jimin’s shoulders sagged with relief as he paid, thanking the vet three times on the way out.
Back at the building close to midnight, they set up a temporary recovery spot in the sheltered part of the alley. Yoongi disappeared upstairs and returned with an old fleece blanket he didn’t use much anymore, folding it into the cardboard box to make it softer. They worked quietly together, adjusting the box so it was out of any drafts, placing fresh water nearby. Peaches, already perking up a little from the medicine, nosed at the blanket before curling up with a contented sigh.
Jimin stood back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Thank you. For everything tonight. I don’t know what I would’ve done without the ride.”
Yoongi shoved his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at Jimin’s grateful face. “We’re both stuck with him now, I guess. Co-parenting or whatever.”
The words hung between them, half-joking, half-not. Jimin’s smile came back, small and real. “Co-parenting. I like that.”
Yoongi nodded once and headed back upstairs before the moment could stretch any longer. But as he closed his apartment door, he caught himself listening for the faint sounds from below, a quiet acknowledgment settling in his chest that something small had shifted between them.
𝓈𝒿
A couple of weeks slipped by faster than Yoongi expected. The weather warmed steadily, bringing more foot traffic to the flower shop and longer days that left everyone a little sleepier. Peaches had recovered fully, splitting his time between sunning himself outside the shop and making daring attempts to climb the stairs to Yoongi’s landing. The cat had even claimed a favorite spot on the balcony railing, watching the street like a tiny orange king.
A pattern had formed without either of them naming it. On days when Yoongi looked particularly wrecked—shoulders hunched, music turned up too loud from the open window, or when he forgot to turn on his usual afternoon lights—small gifts would appear at his door. Sometimes it was a single stem in a slim vase: a sprig of eucalyptus or a quiet white rose. Other times a note tucked under a little pot. Drink water. You forgot yesterday. Or simply Fighting today with a doodled smiley face.
At first Yoongi scoffed every time. Then he started setting the empty vases neatly outside his door in the evening, sometimes with a short text if Jimin had slipped his number into one of the notes for “emergencies only.”
Thanks. was all he usually sent. But it was something.
One busy morning, Yoongi stood on his balcony pretending to scroll through emails while really watching the shop below. Jimin had tables set up outside, arranging buckets for the upcoming local weekend market. His movements were quick and practiced—grouping deep purple asters with soft yellow chrysanthemums, tying bundles with twine, stepping back to check the colors before adjusting again. A few regulars stopped by just to chat, and Jimin’s laugh carried up clearly, light and easy, making the whole street feel a little brighter.
Yoongi’s own workspace was a mess of half-finished projects. He kept glancing down, telling himself it was only because the noise was distracting. But there was something calming about the rhythm of Jimin’s work, the way he greeted every person like they mattered.
The high-pollen day hit without warning. Winds shifted overnight, carrying thick clouds of it straight up toward Yoongi’s open windows. He woke up sneezing, head pounding, and by mid-morning his patience had worn thin. When he went downstairs to grab something from the corner store, he found Jimin outside rearranging displays.
“The pollen’s bad again,” Yoongi said, voice tighter than he intended. “It’s everywhere on my balcony. Can you keep it under control?”
Jimin straightened up, wiping his hands on his apron. The smile he’d been wearing for a customer faltered, something genuinely hurt flashing across his face for the first time. He recovered quickly, nodding. “I’ll move things around again. Sorry about that.”
The apology was polite, but the warmth was missing. Yoongi felt it immediately—like he’d kicked a puppy that had only ever tried to be nice. He opened his mouth to say something else, maybe soften it, but nothing came out. He walked away instead, shoulders tight.
Guilt gnawed at him all afternoon. He tried to work but kept messing up the same section of the track. Around four o’clock he found himself setting a cold can of coffee and a short note outside Jimin’s shop door while the other man was busy inside: Didn’t mean to snap. Pollen just sucks.
He didn’t wait around to see the reaction.
That evening, when Yoongi stepped onto his balcony for air, a fresh small arrangement waited by his door—lavender and something soothing he didn’t know the name of, with a note in Jimin’s neat handwriting. Hope your head feels better soon.
Yoongi picked it up, turning the vase slowly in his hands. The faint scent wrapped around him, not overwhelming this time, just gentle. Down below, Jimin was closing up the shop, Peaches weaving between his legs. For a long moment Yoongi just watched, the guilt easing into something quieter and more complicated.
He carried the flowers inside and placed them on the table next to the fading ones from last week. The apartment was starting to look less stark these days. He told himself it was just because of the cat. Nothing more. But as he sat back at his desk, the low hum of the city mixing with the soft scent of lavender, Yoongi caught himself smiling—just a little—before he shook it off and went back to work.
𝓈𝒿
The power outage hit just after ten at night, swallowing the whole block in sudden darkness. Yoongi had been deep in a mixing session, monitors glowing, when everything cut out with a quiet pop. The low hum of the refrigerator died. Streetlights outside flickered once and went black. He sat there for a minute in the heavy silence, the kind that pressed in after hours of constant noise. His phone still had some battery, but the signal bars were weak—probably the whole grid issue affecting the tower.
He grabbed a hoodie and headed up to the small shared rooftop terrace that barely anyone used. The metal door creaked as he pushed it open. The city stretched out below in patches of light and shadow, distant buildings still glowing while their own block sat dark. The air up here felt cooler, carrying the faint smell of rain that hadn’t arrived yet.
He wasn’t alone for long.
Soft footsteps came up behind him. Jimin appeared at the top of the stairs, arms full—a couple of thick blankets draped over one shoulder, a small bag in the other hand, and a flashlight tucked under his arm. Peaches trailed behind him like a fuzzy shadow, meowing curiously.
“Oh,” Jimin said, pausing when he saw Yoongi already leaning against the low wall. “I didn’t know you’d be up here. Signal’s terrible downstairs too, right?”
Yoongi shrugged, turning back toward the view. “Figured it’d be better up high.”
Jimin hesitated only a second before spreading one blanket on the wide concrete ledge that served as makeshift seating. He sat down, leaving plenty of space, and patted the spot beside him. “I brought extra. And some snacks. In case we’re stuck for a while.” He pulled out two cans of cold coffee from the bag, along with a pack of those chocolate-covered biscuits he must have grabbed from the convenience store earlier. Peaches immediately jumped up and started investigating the blanket.
Yoongi stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets. Part of him wanted to go back downstairs and wait it out alone. But the night was quiet in a way that made the idea feel lonelier than usual. He sat. Not too close, but not on the far end either. “You always come prepared like this?”
Jimin chuckled softly, the sound warm in the dark. “Habit. Power goes out sometimes in this old building. Better to have stuff ready.” He cracked open one of the coffees and offered the other to Yoongi. Their fingers brushed when Yoongi took it. Neither commented.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping coffee, listening to the distant city hum. Peaches curled up between them, purring like a tiny engine. The awkwardness lingered at first—two people who had shared small moments but never really talked like this.
Eventually Jimin spoke, voice low so it wouldn’t break the quiet. “What do you do up there all night, anyway? I hear music sometimes. Beats. It sounds… intense.”
Yoongi took another sip, staring at the skyline. “Music production. Tracks for artists, commercials, whatever pays. Been doing it for years. Tonight was supposed to be a deadline, but the client’s probably asleep by now.”
Jimin nodded slowly, like he was turning the words over. “That sounds hard. Always creating something new, trying to make it perfect.”
“It’s not always perfect,” Yoongi admitted with a dry huff. “Most days it’s just chasing a feeling that keeps slipping away.” He glanced sideways. “What about you? Flowers aren’t exactly a nine-to-five thing either.”
Jimin smiled at that, small and genuine. He pulled the second blanket a little closer around his shoulders. “I opened the shop because I wanted to bring something beautiful into people’s days. A lot of folks who come in look tired—like they’ve been carrying too much. An old lady getting flowers for her husband’s grave, a stressed office worker grabbing something small for their desk, a kid buying their first bouquet for their mom. I like being the person who hands them a little bit of brightness. Sounds cheesy when I say it out loud.”
Yoongi listened, really listened. The way Jimin talked about it wasn’t performative. It was quiet and sincere, the same way he handled every stem in the shop. “Not cheesy,” he said after a pause. “Just… different from what I do. My stuff ends up on speakers for three minutes and then it’s gone. Yours people take home. Live with it.”
Jimin turned toward him more fully, eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. “But music stays with people too. In here.” He tapped his chest lightly. “I’ve heard your stuff drifting down sometimes. It feels… honest. A little sad sometimes, but in a good way.”
Yoongi didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t used to people describing his music like they actually heard it. He took another sip of coffee to fill the space. “We both work too much,” he muttered eventually. “I barely sleep these days. You’re always downstairs before the sun’s properly up.”
“Yeah,” Jimin agreed with a tired laugh. “I keep telling myself I’ll close early one night and actually rest. Then someone needs flowers for a last-minute anniversary or Peaches decides it’s playtime at three in the morning.” He reached down to scratch the cat’s ears. “We’re both bad at slowing down, huh?”
The admission sat comfortably between them. No big revelations. Just a small, shared understanding that made the rooftop feel less empty. They talked a little more—surface things mostly. Yoongi mentioned growing up listening to old vinyl records his dad collected. Jimin talked about learning flower arrangements from his grandmother during long summer visits. The conversation drifted naturally, easy pauses where they just watched the city and listened to Peaches purring.
When the power finally flickered back on downstairs—lights blooming in windows across the block—neither of them moved right away. Yoongi finished his coffee. “Thanks for the blanket. And the snacks.”
“Anytime,” Jimin said, and it sounded like he meant it. “Good luck with your track.”
Yoongi nodded once and stood, stretching his back. As he headed for the stairs, he realized the heavy knot that had been in his chest since the outage had loosened. Just a little. Behind him, Jimin started gathering the blankets, humming softly to himself in the returning light.
𝓈𝒿
Peaches had officially claimed the building as his kingdom. He split his days between the flower shop—where he had a sunny windowsill bed and endless attention from customers—and Yoongi’s balcony, where he liked to sprawl across the railing or bat at loose threads on Yoongi’s hoodie when he wasn’t looking. The cat’s confidence had grown with his health, and so had the quiet routine between the two men who now shared responsibility for him.
One Saturday afternoon, Jimin knocked on Yoongi’s door holding a short list. “We’re running low on his favorite food and I need more litter. Want to come with me to the store? It’ll be faster with two people carrying stuff back.”
Yoongi blinked, surprised. They had never left the building together before. But Peaches was currently napping on his couch like he owned it, and saying no felt pointless. “Yeah, alright. Give me a minute.”
They walked side by side down the street, the late summer sun warm on their shoulders. Jimin kept the pace easy, pointing out little things along the way—a new mural on the corner shop, the ahjumma who always gave him extra discounts on fruit. Yoongi listened more than he talked, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Their shoulders brushed once when they dodged a scooter, and neither pulled away too quickly.
At the pet aisle in the grocery store, they debated between two brands of wet food like it was a serious decision. Jimin held up a bag of treats. “These have salmon in them. He went crazy for them last time.”
“Get both,” Yoongi said. “He’ll guilt-trip us otherwise.”
They were laughing quietly over the ridiculous number of toys Jimin wanted to buy when they reached the checkout. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, scanned their items—cat food, litter, a new scratching post, snacks for the humans—and smiled warmly at them.
“You two make such a cute couple,” she said casually as she packed the bags. “How long have you been together?”
The silence that followed was immediate and loud. Yoongi froze. Jimin’s cheeks flushed pink.
“Oh—we’re not—” Jimin started, waving his hands.
“Just neighbors,” Yoongi finished at the same time, voice a little too flat. “Co-parenting the cat.”
The cashier laughed good-naturedly. “Ah, sorry! You just seemed really in sync. My mistake.”
They paid quickly and left, the plastic bags rustling between them. Outside, the awkwardness hung for half a block before Jimin broke it with a soft chuckle. “That was funny. She wasn’t the first person to think that.”
Yoongi grunted, ears warm. “People assume too fast.” But he didn’t sound as annoyed as he might have weeks ago.
Back at the building, the domestic rhythm continued. In the shop’s back room, Jimin showed Yoongi the right way to hold Peaches so the cat didn’t squirm. “Support his back legs like this. See? He likes it when you scratch under his chin.” Yoongi’s hands were careful, almost hesitant at first. Peaches purred immediately, pressing into his palm. Jimin watched with a small, fond smile he tried to hide.
Later, Yoongi noticed a loose shelf in the shop where Jimin kept the cat’s bed. Without saying much, he went upstairs for his toolbox and came back down. He worked quietly while Jimin helped customers out front, tightening screws and reinforcing the brackets. When Jimin came back, the shelf was sturdy again, perfectly level.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Jimin said, leaning in the doorway.
Yoongi wiped his hands on his jeans. “It was bothering me every time I saw it.”
They stood there for a moment in the quiet back room, the scent of flowers thick in the air, Peaches dozing happily on his newly secured bed. Yoongi found himself noticing things he hadn’t before—the way Jimin’s sleeves were always pushed up to his elbows when he worked, the faint smear of pollen on his cheek, how his whole posture softened whenever he looked at the cat.
Jimin, in turn, had started noticing how Yoongi’s voice dropped even lower when he was tired, the way his eyes crinkled slightly when something genuinely amused him, how he always set the empty vases back neatly like it mattered.
Neither of them said any of it out loud. But as Yoongi headed back upstairs with a couple of the new cat treats in his pocket, he felt the slow pull of something shifting between them. Peaches followed him partway up the stairs before darting back down to Jimin, perfectly happy splitting his little heart between both of them.
Yoongi closed his apartment door and leaned against it for a second, listening to the faint sounds of the shop below. A small smile tugged at his mouth before he shook his head and went to work. The track could wait another ten minutes.
𝓈𝒿
The worst of the summer heat had finally started to break. Evenings carried a cooler edge, and the air in the mornings felt less like stepping into a sauna. Down in the shop, Jimin was swapping out the last of the bright summer blooms for richer autumn tones. Buckets of deep burgundy chrysanthemums, soft lavender asters, and warm orange marigolds lined the walls. The whole space smelled earthier now—spicy and grounded instead of sweet and light. He worked with the front door propped open, sleeves rolled high, humming under his breath as he stripped leaves from long stems.
Upstairs, Yoongi was drowning in his biggest deadline yet. The track needed to be perfect by the end of the week for a major client who had been picky about every single detail. He’d barely slept in three days. Empty coffee cups cluttered his desk. The same eight bars looped endlessly while he tweaked, undid, and tweaked again. His eyes burned. His back ached from hunching over the keyboard.
When he finally stepped onto the balcony around sunset to clear his head, a large arrangement waited by his door. It wasn’t one of the usual small gestures. This one was elaborate—carefully chosen chrysanthemums in warm golds and deep reds, a few sprigs of eucalyptus for calm, and a sturdy ceramic vase that looked handmade. A note was tucked between the stems in Jimin’s neat handwriting.
Good luck with the big deadline. You’ve got this. — Jimin
Yoongi stared at it for a long time. The flowers caught the fading light beautifully, warm and steady. He carried them inside and set them on the table where the light would hit them best. The scent was subtle but comforting, nothing like the overwhelming pollen from those early days. He ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaled slowly, and did something he’d been putting off.
He typed out a message.
Thank you. Really. It means a lot.
He sent it before he could overthink it.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed. Glad you like it :) Take a break if you can.
Yoongi almost smiled. Instead he grabbed a fresh hoodie and headed downstairs. The shop was quiet, last customers gone for the day. Jimin was wiping down the counter, but he looked up immediately when the bell jingled.
“You didn’t have to come down,” Jimin said, but his eyes crinkled warmly.
“I did,” Yoongi replied, voice low and a little rough from disuse. “The arrangement’s nice. Better than nice. Thank you. Properly this time.”
Jimin’s cheeks warmed under the praise. He set the cloth aside and leaned against the counter. “You looked like you needed it. I’ve seen you pacing up there at all hours.”
They ended up on Yoongi’s balcony a short while later, leaning against the railing as the last of the sunlight painted the sky in soft oranges and pinks. Peaches joined them, hopping up onto the wide ledge and purring between their elbows. The city hummed below, slower now as evening settled.
“Summer’s almost gone,” Jimin said quietly, gazing out. “I love the heat, but I’m ready for cooler days. Crisp air, fewer people fainting in the shop from the humidity.”
Yoongi nodded. “I like autumn too. Everything feels quieter. Easier to think.” He paused, then added, “Winter’s my favorite, though. Cold outside, warm studio, nothing but the music.”
Jimin turned to look at him. The light was soft on Yoongi’s face, catching the tiredness around his eyes but also the rare openness. “You sound softer when you’re tired,” he observed gently, almost to himself. “Your voice gets lower. It’s nice.”
Yoongi glanced over, their eyes meeting for a long moment. Neither looked away right away. The air between them felt thicker, charged with something neither was ready to name. Peaches meowed and headbutted Yoongi’s arm, breaking the spell. They both chuckled quietly.
“You should get some rest,” Jimin said eventually, straightening up. “Deadline or not.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi agreed, but he stayed on the balcony long after Jimin had gone back downstairs. The flowers sat visible through the window, warm and steady. For the first time in days, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.
𝓈𝒿
News of the neighborhood’s autumn flower festival spread quickly. It was tied to Chuseok this year—booths lining the main street, music, food stalls, families wandering with lanterns in the evening. Jimin had signed up for a booth immediately, eyes bright with excitement every time he mentioned it. He wanted something special: a sturdy display stand that could hold heavier autumn arrangements without wobbling in the wind.
One afternoon he caught Yoongi on the stairs. “I know you’re busy, but… any chance you could help me build the stand? You’re good with your hands. I have the wood and tools, but I keep messing up the measurements.”
Yoongi should have said he was swamped. Instead he found himself nodding. “When?”
They started the next morning in the narrow alley behind the building. Sawhorses set up, planks of wood, a borrowed power drill, and plenty of sandpaper. The air smelled like fresh-cut pine and distant rain. Peaches supervised from a safe perch on an overturned crate, tail flicking.
Jimin spread out the rough sketch he’d made. “I want it tall on one side, stepped shelves on the other. So people can see everything from the street.”
Yoongi studied the drawing, then the materials. “Solid plan. Let’s reinforce the base first so it doesn’t tip if kids bump into it.”
They fell into an easy rhythm. Yoongi measured and marked while Jimin held pieces steady. The sawdust flew every time the handsaw bit into wood. Yoongi’s hands moved with quiet confidence—drilling pilot holes, fitting joints, tightening screws. Jimin kept up a steady stream of light conversation, passing tools before they were even asked for.
At one point Jimin laughed at something Yoongi muttered about cheap lumber, head thrown back, eyes curved into crescents. The sound hit Yoongi somewhere in the chest. He paused mid-motion, drill still buzzing in his hand, just watching the way the late afternoon light caught in Jimin’s hair and the faint sheen of sweat on his neck.
“You’re staring,” Jimin teased lightly when he noticed.
“Concentrating,” Yoongi shot back, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He handed over the drill. Their fingers brushed—lingering longer than necessary, warm from work.
They kept going as the sun dipped lower. Banter flowed naturally now. Jimin ribbed Yoongi about his serious focus face. Yoongi teased Jimin about wanting the stand to be “instagram pretty.” Sweat and sawdust clung to both of them. Every accidental brush of shoulders or arms carried a little more weight than before.
By dusk the stand stood finished—strong, beautifully simple, ready for paint and flowers. They stepped back to admire it. The alley smelled like cut wood and the faint sweetness of nearby flowers from the shop.
“It looks good,” Yoongi said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Really good.”
Jimin’s smile was bright and tired and grateful all at once. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Come eat something? I’ve got cold noodles and some side dishes in the back room. Nothing fancy, but it’s late and you’ve been working hard.”
Yoongi hesitated only a second. “Yeah. Okay.”
They moved inside the shop. The back room was small and cozy—tiny table, a kettle, shelves lined with supplies. Jimin set out the food while Yoongi washed up at the small sink. They ate slowly, legs occasionally brushing under the table. Peaches wandered in and out, playing with a loose piece of twine, batting it between their feet.
The quiet that settled over them wasn’t empty. It was comfortable, filled with the small sounds of chopsticks and contented cat purrs. Yoongi watched Jimin sneak Peaches a tiny piece of chicken and felt something warm and unsteady bloom in his chest. Jimin caught him looking again. Their eyes held across the table—longer this time, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying yet.
Neither of them named it. Not the tension, not the pull, not the way the slow burn had started to feel inevitable. They just sat there in the soft light of the back room, Peaches playing happily between them, letting the moment stretch until the festival lights started glowing faintly down the street outside.