Chapter Text
It was meant to be a casual comment.
"You're too confident," Namjoon said, arms folded as he leaned against the kitchen counter. He had his debate face on—half-smirk, half-judgy, brain whirring in 4K.
Seokjin, wearing pink silk pajamas at 3 in the afternoon with not a single shred of shame, raised one perfectly groomed brow. "About what, exactly?"
“About Yoongi,” Namjoon replied. “You walk around like you’ve got him on a leash.”
Seokjin didn't even flinch. He just poured himself a glass of mango juice, swirled it like it was expensive wine, and took a sip. “I don’t have him on a leash. He’s just… a homing pigeon. That only knows my balcony.”
Jimin, lurking at the door like gossip incarnate, let out a scandalized gasp. “NOT A HOMING PIGEON.”
Taehyung slid in behind him, wide-eyed. “What are we talking about? Are we finally doing interventions? I’ve got a list.”
"NO INTERVENTIONS," Namjoon snapped. "Listen—I'm just saying—Yoongi hyung is chill. I don’t think he’s as whipped as you think. I mean, sure, he likes you. But you think he’s on Jungkook-level devotion.”
Jungkook, from the living room: “HEY.”
Jin smirked, dangerous and glowing like the boss level of a dating sim. “You’re challenging me.”
“It’s not a challenge.”
“It’s a challenge.” Jin turned like the main character in a romcom. “Fine. I accept. Let’s go out today. The café, the mall, anywhere. I guarantee you—Min Yoongi won’t look at anyone else. Not even a hot barista. Not even Lisa from Philosophy 4A.”
“Lisa from—wait, you noticed Lisa?” Namjoon accused.
“She talks like a philosophy book. It’s terrifying. She asked Yoongi if he thought love was just chemically-induced codependency.”
“That is terrifying,” Jungkook whispered.
Two hours later, at one of the cutest cafés in town.
It was the kind of place with heart-shaped chairs, walls covered in fake vines and fairy lights, and an entire pastel aesthetic that screamed “we serve overpriced iced coffee, but in pink glasses.” Hoseok had chosen it. Obviously.
The six of them had arrived early, snagging a corner table that could barely contain their collective noise. They’d ordered, settled in, and were halfway through judging the café’s playlist (a lo-fi remix of Butter was playing, oddly enough) when the door jingled.
Yoongi had arrived. Late, hoodie over his head, airpods still in like he was listening to whale sounds or the crumbling of capitalism. He moved at a pace that could only be described as “glacial, but with purpose,” and clutched a tiny white box in one hand like it was the Holy Grail.
Seokjin turned to greet him, already smiling. “Late,” he said, voice light and teasing, like he hadn’t been smugly waiting for this very moment.
Yoongi didn’t say anything. He just sat beside Seokjin—beside, not across, because of course—and wordlessly placed the box in front of him. The flap popped open with a satisfying click to reveal a single, perfect caramel pastry. Seokjin’s favorite. Still warm.
Yoongi pushed it across the table like an offering to a god he willingly worshipped.
And then, slowly, he leaned in.
Not enough to be obvious. But enough that his lips hovered just near Seokjin’s cheek, like a secret shared between lovers.
He whispered it so soft, so fragile, that only Seokjin could hear:
“I love you.”
“DID HE JUST SAY—?!” Jimin shrieked, nearly flipping his iced latte over.
Taehyung grabbed the table to steady it, his other hand flying to cover his mouth in pure drama. “DID HE JUST—DID HE—?!”
“Yes,” Seokjin answered, casually picking up the fork like nothing had happened. “He whispered ‘I love you.’ As always.”
Jungkook choked on a straw. “As always?!"
Namjoon blinked slowly, like he’d been hit with an existential truth he hadn’t prepared for.
Hoseok, grinning like a matchmaking gremlin, reached for his phone. “I’m writing this down. This is court evidence.”
Across the room, the waitress had been hovering awkwardly with a notepad, blinking rapidly at Yoongi. She had fluttery eyelashes, glittery eyeliner, and the kind of smile that said Hi, I’m free after this shift if you’re free too. But Yoongi?
Yoongi was staring at Seokjin’s wrist.
His wrist.
Specifically, at the faint red mark left by the strap of Seokjin’s watch. His gaze was intense, quiet, focused—like Seokjin’s wrist was telling him the secrets of the universe.
Jimin leaned in again. “Hyung. His soul left his body and is curled up on your forearm.”
Taehyung made a motion like he was physically throwing in the towel. “We can’t win. This isn’t a crush. This is reincarnated devotion."
The waitress tried again. “Excuse me—can I get you anything?”
Yoongi didn’t even look up.
Seokjin smiled, not missing a beat. “He’ll have a warm vanilla latte. And maybe some extra whipped cream.”
Yoongi finally blinked and nodded. “Whipped,” he mumbled under his breath.
“For the drink or for him?” Hoseok muttered.
Namjoon leaned back, arms folded, mouth tight.
“…Okay. That’s one point to you.”
Seokjin cut his pastry neatly, offered the bigger half to Yoongi, and said smugly, “Watch him during the mall stroll. You’ll see.”
Yoongi accepted the pastry like a knight receiving a sword.
He didn’t look at anyone else. Not the waitress, not the couple taking selfies at the next table, not even the guy who walked past wearing nothing but a tank top, abs, and a Bluetooth speaker.
Yoongi was busy.
Staring at Seokjin’s wrist like it was poetry.
(CAN YOU IMAGINE EHAT YOONGI IS IMAGINING LOOKING AT THAT RED MARK ON SEOKJIN'S WRIST?!!! JUST SAYIN'. JUST SAYIN'🤣🤣)
The moment they walked into the mall, the chaos began.
Jungkook grabbed a shopping cart for no reason and got in. Hoseok started filming like it was a nature documentary. Jimin swore he saw an ex near the food court and dragged Taehyung into a sprint like it was the Olympics. And Namjoon—poor, sweet Namjoon—was still clinging to the hope that maybe, maybe, Yoongi could be proven slightly less obsessed with Seokjin.
Spoiler: He would not.
They were in a men’s boutique now. The kind where you need a credit score just to walk in.
“Try this, Yoongichi,” Seokjin said, holding up a silky white button-down that somehow matched his aura perfectly.
Yoongi, ever obedient, took it and disappeared into the fitting room with minimal mumbling.
Cue the salesperson.
She appeared from behind a rack of overpriced jackets like a Final Boss of Flirtation. She was tall, modelesque, with a sleek ponytail and the kind of smile that had probably gotten her three digits and a date before lunch.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked Seokjin, eyes glinting with mischief.
Seokjin didn’t answer. He just smiled. It was the smile of a man who knew he didn’t need to answer. The battlefield would answer for him.
Sure enough, Yoongi emerged from the fitting room, tugging the cuffs of the button-down. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes sleepy. And locked—locked—on Seokjin.
“You like it?” he asked, voice rough and low like it hadn’t seen sunlight in years.
Seokjin tilted his head. “Turn around.”
Yoongi spun once, arms out like a model forced into it by love.
“Perfect,” Seokjin declared.
The salesperson stepped in. “It really brings out your shoulders. You could be a model.”
Yoongi blinked. “…Thanks.”
She leaned a little closer. “Do you need help finding pants to go with it?”
Yoongi didn’t even look at her. He was too busy adjusting the sleeves, then holding out the tag to Seokjin like a toddler who needed approval.
“You wanna buy it for me?”
The entire maknae line plus Hoseok screeched in unison from the nearby shoe section.
“YO!”
“EXCUSE ME?!”
“DID HE JUST—?!”
“He’s not even slick about it anymore!”
Seokjin took the tag. “Only if you model the pants too.”
Yoongi nodded. “Okay.”
The salesperson cleared her throat, clearly confused why this man wasn’t reacting to her siren-like aura. “I can get your measurements if you want—”
“No thanks,” Yoongi said, still staring at Seokjin. “He already knows them.”
Jimin dropped his phone. Jungkook physically crawled under the nearest coat rack. Taehyung was crying laughing, his camera shaking.
Namjoon, at the edge of the scene, was slowly losing his grip on logic. “There’s gotta be a break in the matrix. No one is this loyal.”
“Oh, he is,” Hoseok cackled. “That’s level-99 MMORPG endgame loyalty.”
Seokjin handed the pants over. “I’ll wait outside. Show me when you’re ready.”
Yoongi nodded. And as he passed, he whispered—again, always the whisper—into Seokjin’s ear:
“If you ever get reborn as someone else, I’m going to be so angry at the universe.”
Seokjin’s ears went pink. Taehyung screamed into a scarf.
Five minutes later, Yoongi came out in the new pants and Seokjin simply said, “We’re getting both.”
Jungkook whispered, “That’s not just a boyfriend. That’s a husband in denial.”
Namjoon sighed deeply. “Two points to Seokjin. I hate this.”
They had eaten, shopped, and left Namjoon’s ego in the fitting room of Uniqlo.
There was only one thing left on the agenda before they called it a day: the photo booth.
You know the one. Neon lighting. Glittery filters. The kind of booth that promised to "make memories" but mostly just gave you stickers of your friends doing suspicious finger hearts.
“Everyone in!” Jimin announced, practically dragging Taehyung by the sleeve. Jungkook followed with an iced coffee he didn’t pay for (Seokjin had, obviously). Hoseok shoved Namjoon inside like this was a hostage mission.
Seokjin and Yoongi stepped in last.
Yoongi didn’t look thrilled. He had that exact face of a man who would rather be at home wrapped in a blanket burrito, watching documentaries with subtitles at 0.75x speed. But he followed Seokjin anyway, because Yoongi’s hobbies included three things: sleeping, making music, and Seokjin.
The booth was cramped. Someone’s elbow was in someone’s face. Someone’s knee was jammed between someone else’s thigh. No one was sure whose leg Taehyung was sitting on, but it might’ve been Hoseok’s.
“READY?!” the screen chirped.
“POSE IN—3, 2—”
Seokjin turned to Yoongi with the full intent of pulling off something meme-able. But before he could even say “duck face,” Yoongi leaned in, lips ghosting past his ear.
“Love you.”
Click.
Flash.
First photo taken.
“DID HE JUST—IN THE PHOTO?!” Jimin squawked.
“Not the whisper in the booth,” Hoseok howled.
Yoongi, unfazed, adjusted Seokjin’s collar like it mattered more than his own soul.
“Pose two in 3, 2—”
A girl from the outside leaned against the booth’s curtain, probably trying to peek in. “Oh my god, I think that’s Min Yoongi,” she whispered loudly to her friend. “He’s kinda hot.”
Yoongi blinked. Barely.
And then—this is important—he pulled Seokjin a little closer. Hand on the back of Seokjin’s neck. A quiet motion that screamed mine louder than a stadium announcement.
“Yo, she was hot,” Jungkook whispered with genuine concern. “And Yoongi didn’t even flinch.”
“He flinched,” Namjoon corrected. “Toward Seokjin.”
Click.
Flash.
Second photo: Yoongi low-key burying his face in Seokjin’s shoulder. Everyone else looking mildly scandalized.
Pose three.
The booth now prompted: “Do a cute pose!”
Yoongi did not attempt anything cute.
He stared blankly at the camera like a disgruntled cat. Then turned his face to Seokjin again. Lips moved. Another whisper.
“Stop looking that good. I’m going to die young.”
Click.
Flash.
Third photo: Seokjin covering his mouth, halfway through laughing. Yoongi staring at him like oxygen is optional but Seokjin is not.
When the session ended, the screen played a slideshow preview.
Each photo was worse—for everyone else.
Jimin had been mid-blink. Taehyung looked like he was trying to astral project. Hoseok had one eyebrow in Peru. But Yoongi and Seokjin?
Perfect.
Whispering. Smiling. Locked in their own little bubble of domestic devotion.
“Okay, no. This is actually ridiculous,” Namjoon declared, arms in the air like he needed divine help. “Yoongi’s not even whipped. He’s reborn as a love-struck poet every time Seokjin breathes.”
Taehyung slid dramatically down the booth wall. “I’m gonna sue them for emotional damage.”
Jungkook sat on the floor, dazed. “Is this what love looks like?”
Hoseok patted Namjoon’s back. “Just admit it.”
Namjoon sighed, defeated. “Fine. I was wrong. He’s… he’s fully domesticated. Like a housecat that chose one human and will now murder for him.”
Outside the mall. Yoongi opened the car door for Seokjin. The sun was setting. Jimin was still sniffling in the back seat. And as Seokjin slid in, Yoongi whispered again.
“If you disappear in the next life, I’ll find you anyway. Just so you can call me late again.”
Seokjin didn’t respond. He just reached over, laced their fingers together, and smiled.
Jungkook, watching from the back, whispered like he was seeing angels descend: “He doesn’t even need to post on Instagram. That’s a committed man.”