Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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Min Yoongi’s flower shop smelled like crushed lavender and eucalyptus bark that morning, which meant Taehyung had gone overboard again with the loose bundles by the window display. The lavender was meant to be dried, not flung about like confetti, but Yoongi didn’t have the heart to correct him. Not when the kid came in early to mop the floors without being asked. The wooden floorboards still held a bit of that damp-clean scent, tempered now by a greenish earthy haze: snapdragon stems soaking in tall ceramic vases, freshly misted ferns and the sweetness of sun-warmed roses.

The shop, Evening Primrose, opened at nine. It had been Yoongi’s for almost eight years now, long enough for the wood of the counter to take on the soft polish of years of elbows, coins, notes and stray petals. He hadn’t inherited it; he’d built it from nothing, using what little savings he’d scraped together after university. He’d studied literature back then, not botany, drawn to words that could hold more than they said. But flowers, he discovered, did the same thing. They were quiet, but carried meaning with perfect clarity: a white chrysanthemum for grief, a yellow tulip for hope, a camellia for longing. They didn’t pretend. They weren’t misinterpreted. You gave a bouquet and the message was clear, unlike the tangled knots of human conversation. Perhaps that was why he stayed here, tending to them, why he’d chosen them or maybe why they’d chosen him.

His affinity for them was personal. People often misread him at first glance, stoic, aloof, sometimes even cold. The tattoos along his forearms didn’t help: inked peonies, sprigs of rosemary, a single moth across his wrist, his first tattoo done at nineteen in defiance of a home that never felt like home. His relationship with his mother had fractured early, small fissures widening into a silence that had lasted years. Family gatherings became obligations, then excuses, then nothing at all. And yet, he poured tenderness into the shop. Evening Primrose was a place where the misunderstood could still be beautiful, where his favourite flowers (anemones) stood in quiet defiance of their fragility.

At precisely 9:04 a.m., the bell above the door rang with an almost startled jingle and Yoongi looked up from where he was re-wrapping a customer order in pale blue tissue paper.

The man who strode in was not a regular. He looked like he’d walked off the cover of a glossy lifestyle magazine. Leather jacket (real), boots (custom, probably Italian), hair styled like he’d run a casual hand through it and accidentally created art. Sunglasses still on indoors, despite the grey Seoul morning beyond the windows.

Yoongi blinked once.

The man charged straight towards him and slapped a 500 won coin on the counter. (Yoongi would later wonder if this had been in his pocket for nostalgia or dramatic effect.) “How do I passive aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?” he said.

A beat passed.

Yoongi, still holding the spooled twine in one hand, said evenly, “Well. That depends. Is it a general fuck you, or a targeted fuck you?”

The man, who had removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes currently narrowed with delightful spite, looked satisfied. “Oh, it’s targeted. Sharp as a knife. Ideally something that says ‘you are the worst mistake of my life but I’m too classy to key your car.’”

Yoongi, without missing a beat, turned and began plucking stems from the tall fridge.

Outside, it had begun to drizzle. The Seoul drizzle wasn’t the sort that stormed in with fanfare. It crept, like breath against glass, soaking through denim and dripping off flower petals in delicate, slow kisses. The sky was pewter. Low light filtered through the tall street-facing windows of the shop, diffused into a kind of perpetual early morning softness.

Inside, the shop was all green shadows and subtle warmth. A classical guitar playlist hummed low through the small Bluetooth speaker beside the till. Jimin had set it up. He was late this morning (Uni presentation, he’d said) but his influence lingered in the gentle music and the way the shelves had been dusted with a little more care than usual.

Yoongi worked in silence, the steady snip of his scissors the only sound between them. The stranger watched without impatience, hands tucked in his pockets, occasionally making vague, loose gestures of approval.

He was beautiful, though Yoongi didn’t mean it in the casual way people tossed the word around. Beauty, to him, was about balance, proportion, the way light chose to fall across a face or the way a line curved without breaking its own rhythm. And this man… he carried beauty the way some people carried confidence, as if it had been stitched into him from birth. Tall, shoulders cleanly cut beneath his jacket, his face sharp where it needed to be and softened in all the right places. Skin warm and smooth under the mellow shop light, a little too flawless for the world outside this room. The kind of beauty that felt intentional without trying, like the curve of a calla lily’s petal or the imperfect symmetry of a peony in full bloom.

Yoongi had always noticed such things. Even as a boy, when his parents thought him strange for pointing out the particular shade of dusk or the way frost spread evenly over grass. It had been the same in university, where he wrote papers on the narrative weight of silence in poetry but kept finding himself sketching bouquets in the margins. Flowers had taught him that beauty didn’t need explanation; it existed without asking permission. Maybe that’s why he’d gravitated toward them after walking away from the kind of life his family thought he should have. Here, in the shop, he could work quietly, without having to explain himself.

Still, this stranger’s presence was oddly disruptive, like a drop of ink in clear water, spreading slowly, changing the colour of the morning before Yoongi even realised it.

“So,” the man said finally, “you’ve done this before?”

Yoongi handed him a single-stemmed geranium. “Stupidity,” he said.

“On their part,” the man clarified, as he sniffed the flower. He recoiled slightly. “It smells like feet.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Honesty isn’t always fragrant.”

Next, he selected a spike of foxglove, its bell-shaped blooms a cruelly pretty lilac.

“Insincerity,” he said.

“Ouch,” the man muttered, approvingly.

Yoongi held up a frond of meadowsweet. Pale, creamy white, soft like it would melt in rain.

“Uselessness.”

“Love that. Whose side are you on, by the way?”

“I don’t pick sides. I only read the language.”

Yoongi added a few yellow carnations, harsh, vivid, almost aggressively cheerful and wrapped the bouquet in black tissue paper.

“And the yellow ones?” the stranger asked, voice softer now.

“You have disappointed me.”

“Jesus.”

“And lastly,” Yoongi murmured, selecting two orange lilies, “hatred.”

The man stared at the completed bouquet like it was a loaded weapon. Yoongi tied it with a twine ribbon, neat and precise.

“That,” the man said, “is the most beautiful middle finger I’ve ever seen.”

Yoongi rang it up without looking up. “That’ll be forty thousand won.”

The man handed over a card. “You should raise your prices.”

“I’m not in it for the money.”

“That’s exactly what a man who’s secretly a flower assassin would say.”

That got Yoongi to glance up. The stranger’s smile was… easy. Effortless in the way some people were just born with, warm at the corners, like it had been practiced not in front of a mirror, but in the company of people who adored him. It caught Yoongi off guard for half a second, the way bright light sneaks in when you’ve been working in shadow.

“I’m Jin, by the way,” he continued. “Kim Seokjin. You may have heard of me. Or maybe not. Depends on how much of a hermit you are.”

Yoongi shrugged, the kind of shrug that could mean anything. “Do you want a receipt?”

“I want a reward.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“For not punching anyone in the face this morning. That deserves a free daisy, no?”

“You can take one from the bin. If it’s still alive.”

Seokjin laughed, loud, unabashed, rich enough to fill the whole shop. It startled the small hanging fern above the cash register, shaking loose a tiny puff of soil that landed near Yoongi’s hand.

He glanced at it blankly, then back at the man, as if trying to place why the sound lingered a beat too long in his mind.

“Well then, Flower boy,” Seokjin said, tucking the bouquet under his arm like a sword, “thank you for your service. You’ve helped me weaponise my heartbreak.”

“I aim to please.”

“Do you?”

“Not really.”

Seokjin grinned again and Yoongi found himself (annoyingly) cataloguing the precise way his eyes narrowed when he did. “I’ll come back if he cries.”

“Bring a photo.”

The bell jingled and he was gone.

Yoongi stood for a moment, watching the door swing shut. Through the streaked glass, Seokjin’s figure blurred into the damp grey of the street, his black leather jacket catching at the wind just enough to make the moment look staged. A fleeting kind of picture.

Only when he was gone did Yoongi let the tension drain from his shoulders.

“Who the hell carries five hundred won in their pocket?” he muttered, dropping the coin into the tip jar. But his eyes lingered on the door for a beat longer than necessary, as though expecting the man to reappear.

At exactly 3:46 PM that day, Kim Seokjin returned.

He burst through the door, cheeks flushed from the wind, edges of the jacket flaring like black petals caught in an updraft and mouth already mid-sentence.

“Okay, listen. I know this is weird but-”

Yoongi looked up from misting the orchids, their pale throats shimmering with water beads like tiny constellations.

“-he cried. I mean, sobbed. It was beautiful. Your meadowsweet sent him into an existential spiral.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“No, it is. I’m obsessed with you now. In a strictly professional way.”

Yoongi blinked. His gaze flicked over the man’s face as if assessing a bouquet, tall lines, bright eyes that caught light like fresh glass, a grin curved just enough to suggest mischief without malice. Too vivid, too well-placed, the kind of presence that made the rest of the room look flat.

Seokjin was now half-leaning across the counter. “Do you do custom bouquets? For non-vengeance occasions?”

Yoongi wordlessly pointed at the chalkboard above the counter. It read:

Custom arrangements for:

• Weddings
• Birthdays
• Funerals
• Apologies
• Passive Aggression
• Seasonal allergies (consult Jimin)

“Brilliant. Because I’ve got a birthday thing next week. And then a show. And I thought... flowers? Who hates flowers? Also, and this is important, your place smells like a dream and no one here has tried to get me to buy perfume samples. It’s very healing.”

Yoongi just stared, noting in spite of himself that Seokjin’s voice had a warmth that curled into corners like morning light. He had learned to avoid that sort of brightness, it seeped in when you weren’t looking and made it harder to keep the walls up.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you alone now. You’re clearly a man of few words and many thorns.” He made finger guns, winked and sauntered out again.

The bell above the door chimed, leaving Yoongi with the faint echo of laughter and the unsettling sense that a petal had just fallen somewhere inside him.

That night, after closing, Yoongi was sweeping when Taehyung finally wandered in from wherever he’d disappeared to earlier.

“Hyung,” Taehyung said, head full of rain and eyes full of mischief. “Did you know the lead singer of The Hive came into our shop today?”

“The Hive?”

“Rock band. Like, big deal. That guy’s face is everywhere.”

Yoongi paused. “The dramatic one?”

Taehyung’s eyes widened. “Yes! What did he want?”

Yoongi looked down at the broom, then at the door.

“A bouquet that told someone to go fuck themselves.”

Taehyung let out a gasp like it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

“I love that.”

Yoongi shook his head. The world was strange and full of very loud, very shiny people.

He didn’t think Seokjin would actually come back.

But three days later, he did.

And he brought biscuits.

Min Yoongi wasn’t expecting him again.

Yet at 2:07 PM on a slightly warmer Tuesday, Seokjin returned, arms full, sleeves rolled up, biscuits in hand and a wind-chilled flush on his cheeks that made him look too lively for the ghost-grey streets of late autumn Seoul.

“This time,” he said, breathless but grinning, “I come bearing peace offerings.”

Yoongi, who had just finished resetting the display of ornamental cabbages (pale lavender, veined with frost-touched green), turned slowly from the arrangement. His sleeves were still damp with water from the flower buckets.

Seokjin lifted the box like a ceremonial gift. “They’re from this bakery down in Seongsu, the one with the 70-minute queue and oat milk propaganda. I made my bassist stand in line.”

“You made someone else stand in line for biscuits you’re not eating yourself?” Yoongi said, arching a brow. “That’s bribery.”

“That’s delegation,” Seokjin corrected. “But yes. Bribery with layers.”

He placed the box on the counter. It was matte cream, tied with a navy satin ribbon.

Yoongi glanced at it, then at him. “Why?”

“I told you. You helped me get revenge through foliage. It’s only fair.”

“Clients usually don’t follow up with baked goods.”

“I’m not usual.”

That much was obvious. Seokjin looked like he’d just stepped out of a television set and into a florist’s fever dream. Today, his coat was beige wool, oversized and double-breasted, with a navy scarf tossed around his neck like an afterthought. A bit of hair curled over his forehead. His boots were clearly expensive and slightly scuffed, as if to say he’d walked here himself, which was either flattering or deeply concerning, depending on where “here” was in relation to the rest of his day.

“I don’t really eat biscuits,” Yoongi said eventually.

“You don’t seem like a biscuit person,” Seokjin said, almost fondly.

Yoongi bristled slightly. “What does that mean?”

Seokjin leaned on the counter, chin in hand. “You’re more...dried persimmons. Or pickled plum. Complex. A little misunderstood. Definitely not a chocolate chip cookie.”

Yoongi stared at him.

“I’ve been told I’m good at metaphors,” Seokjin added.

“I can tell.”

A beat.

“I wasn’t expecting you back,” Yoongi said, not quite meaning to say it out loud.

Seokjin lit up at that. “Aw, you missed me.”

Yoongi made a face. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I literally said the opposite.”

“Exactly,” Seokjin grinned. “Passive aggression. I respect that.”

Yoongi pressed his fingers to his temple. “Do you actually want flowers this time?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. I thought I’d loiter for a while and see what inspiration strikes.”

“This isn’t a café.”

“But it could be,” Seokjin said, eyeing the warm, plant-scented air. “You’ve got the lighting for it. If someone offered me an espresso and a slice of cake in here, I wouldn’t question it.”

Yoongi glanced around. The shop was relatively quiet, the usual late lunch lull. Outside, the street glistened with post-rain slick and schoolkids were just starting to trickle past the window, jangling with backpacks and chatter. Inside, the walls were deep green, lined with floating shelves and terracotta pots. Bundles of baby’s breath hung upside down above the register, slowly drying in the ambient warmth. The soft hum of a heater sat under the murmur of instrumental piano from the speaker.

Taehyung was in the back, most likely trying to convince the string of pearls to grow faster with jazz music. Jimin was off today (university essays).

Yoongi sighed. “You can sit over there. Don’t touch the dried lavender. I just re-bundled it.”

Seokjin saluted and took a stool near the window, shedding his coat and draping it over the chair like he owned the place.

Yoongi resumed his work, or at least pretended to. The ornamental cabbages still needed adjusting, but his eyes kept flicking back to the man by the window.

Seokjin didn’t just sit, he arranged himself in a way that made the whole shop look more deliberate, like the window and the stool and the stray ivy tendril had all been waiting for him to fill the frame. Beige wool coat draped just so. Scarf slouched like it had been caught mid-movement. That kind of unconscious styling irritated Yoongi in principle but, annoyingly, pleased him in practice. The colour of the scarf (deep, marine) picked up the shadowy undertones in the hydrangeas on the shelf behind him. Even the wind-reddened tips of his ears seemed to brighten the space in a way that no amount of warm lighting could reproduce.

Florists notice things other people don’t, how a petal bruises under a fingertip, how pale green fades to cream along the edge of a lisianthus, how a face will change when a stem is tilted just the right way. Yoongi told himself that was all this was: noticing. It was the same skill that let him pick out the perfect eucalyptus sprig for a bouquet. Detached. Practical.

Except detached people didn’t wonder what kind of arrangement this man would suit. Something architectural, probably. Tall stems. Monochrome palette. Or maybe (no) something sharp-edged disguised under softness, like thistles paired with ranunculus. The thought lingered, unwelcome, until Seokjin caught his eye and grinned, tipping his head toward the counter.

“Oh- by the way,” he said casually, as if it had just occurred to him. “I actually do need flowers. Birthday thing.” He made a vague circular gesture in the air, as though ‘birthday’ explained everything. “Something bold, maybe a little over-the-top. It’s for someone who thinks subtlety is a disease.”

That tracked. Yoongi imagined gold-tipped leaves, calla lilies leaning at dramatic angles, maybe anthuriums for that glossy, slightly smug touch. He almost asked who the birthday was for, then decided against it. Some people walked into your shop and you just... didn’t need the backstory. The bouquet was enough.

He bent over the buckets, pulling stems, pretending the sound of water sloshing was all he heard. But the image of Seokjin by the window kept intruding, framed by the rain-mottled glass and soft green walls, like a photograph that would stay pressed between the pages of his mind far longer than it had any right to.

It wasn’t silence, not really.

Seokjin wasn’t built for silence, he filled space like sunshine through curtain slits, a little too loud for quiet corners but not unpleasantly so. He hummed along to the piano, tapped fingers lightly against his takeaway cup, inspected the leaves of a trailing pothos like he was at an art gallery.

Every so often, he’d ask a question.

“What’s that one called?”

“Helichrysum.”

“What does it mean?”

“Eternal love.”

“Whoa. Bit intense.”

A few minutes would pass.

“What about that one?”

“Statice.”

“Sounds like a medicine.”

“It’s for remembrance.”

More silence.

“If I were a flower, what would I be?”

Yoongi paused, pruning shears halfway through a carnation stem.

“What?”

“I’m just saying,” Seokjin said, gesturing grandly. “You’ve got this flower language knowledge, yeah? So if I walked into your greenhouse and you had to point at a plant and go, ‘Ah yes, that’s definitely him,’ what would it be?”

Yoongi stared at him.

“You’re not a daisy,” he said finally.

Seokjin gave a theatrical gasp. “You wound me.”

“You’re too...large.”

“I’ll pretend that wasn’t an insult.”

“And loud.”

“Still not helping.”

“And you’ve been here three times now without being invited.”

“Okay, now you’re just describing a stray cat.”

Yoongi smirked faintly. “Amaryllis.”

Seokjin tilted his head. “What does that one mean?”

“Pride. Confidence. Dramatic flair. Beauty.”

A pause.

Then, more softly, “That’s...actually quite nice.”

Yoongi kept pruning. “I didn’t say it was a compliment.”

“But it was.”

Yoongi didn’t respond.

Later, Seokjin helped himself to a small paper towel and wiped dust from a windowsill.

“You don’t talk much,” he said eventually.

Yoongi didn’t look up from the hydrangeas. “Most people talk too much.”

“So you’re a man of mystery.”

“I’m a man of not having time for nonsense.”

Seokjin laughed. “Same thing.”

He stood, stretched and wandered to the wall of pre-made bouquets. His fingers hovered over a cluster of ranunculus.

“I do actually have a concert soon,” he said.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. We’re playing at Prism Hall. You ever been?”

Yoongi shook his head.

Seokjin tilted his head. “Do you even listen to rock music?”

Yoongi considered it. “Sometimes.”

“Would you listen to my band?”

“If you stop asking me questions.”

“That’s practically a yes.”

Yoongi finally looked up. “I don’t go to concerts.”

“Why not?”

“Too many people.”

“I’ll get you a backstage pass. Fewer people there.”

“I don’t know you.”

Seokjin grinned. “Yet.”

Yoongi frowned, unsettled by the slow warmth creeping up the back of his neck. It was the kind of heat that didn’t belong in a drafty shop in late autumn and it annoyed him to realise it had nothing to do with the thermostat.

“Do you impose on all your florists?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the stems in front of him.

“Only the ones who build me weapons of poetic destruction,” Seokjin replied, as if this were an entirely normal thing to say.

Yoongi snipped the end off a calla lily and let the stem fall into the bucket. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Seokjin said brightly, “here I am again.”

The exchange ended there, though Seokjin’s presence seemed to linger in the air like the faint, citrusy scent from the waxflowers by the till. He paid for the birthday bouquet without fuss, left another 500 won coin on the counter and disappeared back into the street, coat collar catching the wind like the sail of a departing ship.

Yoongi dropped the coin into the tip jar, just as he had last time.

The biscuits…as it turned out…were excellent. That night, when no one was watching, Yoongi broke off one and bit into it. Dark chocolate, the kind that edged on bitter, with just enough sea salt to taste like someone had thought about it.

He told himself it was curiosity. He told himself a lot of things.

The box stayed on the counter in the workroom. It was a good box, sturdy, the right size for extra price tags or coils of twine, so throwing it away would be wasteful. At least, that was the reasoning. The ribbon, though… the ribbon had no use. And yet, it stayed too, curled in the shallow drawer where he kept loose change and spare clippers.

It was easy enough to ignore in the bustle of the day, when customers needed carrying boxes and the shop radio was murmuring old trot songs. But sometimes, in the quiet after closing, his eyes would land on that strip of satin and linger just a second too long.

Three days later, Seokjin came in again.

Yoongi was trying to wrestle a stubborn bucket of chrysanthemums back into place when the door chimed.
Seokjin strolled in like the scene had been staged for a music video, red-and-white bomber jacket zipped halfway over a plain white tee, denim jeans framing legs far too long for someone who was apparently human, skin that caught the cold autumn light in warm gold. It was the kind of entrance that made the air feel fractionally more saturated, like colour correcting in real time.

A phone was wedged between his cheek and shoulder.
“No, Joon, it’s a florist, not a pharmacist. Yes, I know what I said, well then, buy the cough drops yourself. I’ll be back in thirty.”

He ended the call with a sigh, shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and looked up.

“Sorry about that. Band drama.”

Yoongi gave him the barest glance, letting silence hang between them like a chain-link fence. Seokjin, unfazed, leaned into it.

“I need a bouquet for someone who’s very allergic to pollen. Suggestions?”

“You’re buying flowers for someone who can’t be near them?”

“Exactly.”

Yoongi squinted. “Are you trying to kill them?”

“Only gently.”

He set the chrysanthemums down with a small thud.

“Dried florals. No scent. Minimal shedding.”

“You’re the expert. I trust your taste.”

Yoongi’s hands moved automatically to the pre-treated lavender, paper daisies and a spray of burnt-orange statice. He didn’t look at Seokjin. It was easier to keep his gaze on petals and stems than on that smile, the kind that pressed against the edges of your composure.

“You say that now,” Yoongi muttered. “Wait till your friend sneezes blood.”

“See?” Seokjin said, clearly delighted. “You do have a dark sense of humour.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Even better.”

He tied the bouquet, a quiet composition of creams, dusky lilacs and ember tones, elegant in the way something unchanging can be.

“That’ll be sixty thousand won.”

Seokjin slid his card across the counter without missing a beat, the kind of ease that said he’d never once in his life had to count change. The terminal beeped, the receipt printed and then, like clockwork, he dropped a single 500-won coin into the tip jar. A deliberate little clink.

Yoongi didn’t comment, but he noticed. It felt like some sort of calling card, though he couldn’t decide if it was charming or irritating. Probably both.

As the receipt changed hands, Seokjin’s fingers brushed his. Just barely, but enough, like a pebble dropped into still water, ripples traveling further than they should.

“Do you ever go out?” Seokjin asked, casual on the surface but with a glint underneath, as if cataloguing answers for later use.

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“Like… for fun. Bars. Gigs. Human interaction.”

“Are you inviting me somewhere?”

“No. Not yet. I’m just gathering data.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m curious about you.”

Yoongi’s throat tightened. “Don’t be.”

Seokjin smiled like someone hearing a locked door click in place, more interested than deterred. “Too late.”

He turned and left, bouquet in hand, jacket catching the draft as the door swung shut.

The shop was suddenly quieter, the way a forest feels after a bird takes flight. Yoongi stood there, pulse heavy in his ears, watching the faint condensation fade from the glass where Seokjin had passed.

Rain had started again, fine and silver, the kind that made colours bleed softer.

Yoongi turned back to the counter, staring at the discarded length of ribbon on the worktop, wondering if all of this was actually happening… or if he was simply losing his grip on reality, one overpriced biscuit and one too-tall rockstar at a time.

Wednesday mornings were always a little too bright in the back room of Evening Primrose.

The windows caught the eastern light and bounced it off every stainless steel surface: the flower fridge door, the metal shelving, the watering cans stacked near the sink. It made Yoongi squint as he trimmed the ends of delphiniums, elbow-deep in cool water and the scent of wet green stems. Outside, Seoul bustled quietly, still wearing its early autumn skin. Inside, it smelled of lemon leaves and the faint chemical edge of bleach from where Taehyung had over-mopped again.

Jimin arrived just after ten, as usual. Slightly out of breath, glasses slipping down his nose, a tangle of pale blue headphones swinging from one ear. He wore a soft-knit cardigan over his uni shirt, one cuff stained with ink. He carried a large paper bag and the wide-eyed urgency of someone perpetually late but deeply apologetic.

“Hyung, I brought sweet potato bread,” he announced as he toed off his sneakers.

Yoongi grunted. “Put it on the counter. I’m not hungry.”

“You never are,” Jimin mumbled, but obeyed. He pulled on his apron, plain black, embroidered with a small yellow tulip and peered over Yoongi’s shoulder. “You’re doing the centrepiece for the gallery event today?”

“Mmm.”

“Don’t forget they asked for something dramatic. And tall. Like, annoyingly tall.”

“I remember.”

Jimin nodded, then hovered. Yoongi knew that hover. It meant talking. Usually about Taehyung.

He sighed. “Just say it.”

Jimin beamed. “So... Taehyung was wearing that deep green jumper again yesterday. The one that makes his shoulders look like...you know. Like that.”

Yoongi did not, in fact, know.

“I complimented it,” Jimin went on, “and he smiled. But like, really smiled. The cheek smile.”

Yoongi sliced another stem. “Maybe he just likes compliments.”

Jimin deflated slightly. “You’re so unsupportive.”

“I’m not unsupportive,” Yoongi muttered. “I’m realistic.”

Jimin leaned against the counter, watching him. “You’ve never had a crush?”

Yoongi didn’t look up. “That’s not relevant.”

“Oh my god, you haven’t,” Jimin whispered, scandalised. “You’re thirty-two!”

Yoongi raised a brow. “And?”

“And...and that’s like, at least two serious relationships’ worth of life!”

Yoongi gave a small shrug, barely visible beneath his sweatshirt. “I don’t do well with people.”

“That’s not true. You’re good with me.”

“You’re easy.”

Jimin pouted. “I’m sensitive.”

Yoongi finally looked up, expression dry. “Exactly.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. He grabbed a bunch of lisianthus from the corner bucket and began sorting them into height order, fingers quick and practised.

Yoongi watched him for a moment, then returned to his own task.

It was strange, sometimes, the quiet comfort of their mornings. Jimin never needed too much from him, just proximity and the occasional sigh of acknowledgment. Yoongi liked that. He could work in silence and Jimin could narrate the world around them like a soft radio channel. Taehyung would usually tumble in around eleven, all limbs and enthusiasm and unlikely playlists. They were the only two others who worked here now, both university students, so much younger than him it occasionally made him feel fossilised. Jimin had been around for almost a year, Taehyung for just over six months. Before them, there had been others: good people, quick learners, some even promising enough that Yoongi thought they might stay. But they’d all left eventually, drifting off toward better pay, steadier hours or simply something more. No one really stayed. For now, though, it was just the two of them and the steady rhythm of stems meeting shears.

“So, hypothetically,” Jimin said, too casually, “if someone wanted to ask a co-worker out... would it be better to do it in person, or like, with a cute note? Or maybe through flowers?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“Yoongi hyung?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“But-”

Yoongi exhaled. “You shouldn’t ask a cactus for advice on romance, Jimin.”

Jimin blinked. “Is...is that how you see yourself?”

Yoongi turned away, placing the trimmed flowers in their vase. “No. That’s how others do.”

There was a brief, prickly silence.

Jimin stepped closer. “You know they talk about you, right? The old ladies? They think you’re mysterious. Like a drama lead who runs a flower shop because he’s hiding from his tragic past.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“I know.” Jimin’s voice was soft now. “You’re just...selective.”

Yoongi paused. “That’s one word for it.”

He knew what people saw. Quiet man. Tattoos, always half-hidden. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t go out. Never smiles unless it’s polite. The type you project things onto. Dangerous or delicate. Cold or complicated.

What they rarely saw was the tiredness. The way he’d tried, once. Several times, actually. Small friendships that wore out. A date or two where the silences were mistaken for judgment or shyness mistaken for disdain. Even old classmates had lost patience with him, eventually.

He was always too much or not enough.

Too strange. Too quiet. Too careful with his affection.

So he poured it into flowers instead.

They never misunderstood him.

Just before noon, the bell rang.

Yoongi didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Seokjin had a very specific way of entering a room, like he’d been born with a spotlight and a supporting soundtrack.

“Is it too early in the week to buy myself flowers?” he announced to no one in particular.

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Is that-?”

Yoongi nodded once, tight-lipped. “Seokjin.”

Seokjin beamed at Jimin. “Hi. You must be one of the flower elves.”

“I- what?”

“I mean, you help make the magic happen, right?”

Jimin turned red. “Oh. I- I guess?”

Seokjin held out a hand. “Kim Seokjin. Sometimes a musician. Always a delight.”

“Park Jimin,” Jimin said, shaking it.

“Adorable name,” Seokjin said cheerfully. “You look like a maths major.”

Jimin blinked. “...Physics.”

“I knew it.”

Yoongi looked between them, mildly alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

Seokjin turned to him. “Missed me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Yoongi sighed. “Do you want flowers or not?”

“Actually,” Seokjin said, suddenly serious, “yes. I’ve got this interview thing. With a magazine. They’re coming to my studio. I want to make the place look... less tragic.”

“You want... happy flowers?” Yoongi said.

Seokjin winced. “Not too happy. No sunflowers. I’m not that healed.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and moved toward the front display.

Seokjin trailed after him. “What’s your deal with sunflowers anyway?”

“They’re aggressively hopeful.”

“I love that. They’re like the golden retrievers of the flower world.”

“Exactly.”

Yoongi plucked a few muted yellow ranunculus and added them to a base of pale pink astilbe and soft eucalyptus. Something delicate, but grown-up. A flower arrangement with boundaries.

Seokjin watched, hands in his coat pockets, tilting his head this way and that. “You’re very precise,” he said.

“I like when things make sense.”

“And people?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“Thought so,” Seokjin murmured.

They stood there for a moment, the silence not quite comfortable, but not unwelcome either. Jimin, from behind the counter, made himself very busy arranging petunias, his expression fixed on anything that wasn’t them.

“You have a very calming presence,” Seokjin said.

Yoongi looked up. “That’s not what most people say.”

“Well, most people don’t know everything.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. He tied the bouquet. Pale grey wrapping. Olive twine.

Seokjin stepped forward, pulling out his card, sliding it across the counter with an easy flick of his wrist. When Yoongi handed him the payment terminal, their fingers brushed, just a faint, fleeting contact, but enough to leave a ripple in the air between them. Seokjin entered his pin without breaking eye contact, the corner of his mouth curving up as if he’d won something small but meaningful. He dropped a five hundred won coin in the tipping jar again.

“Thanks, flower boy,” he said when the receipt printed.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alright,” Seokjin said, eyes bright. “What do I call you?”

Yoongi hesitated, feeling the moment stretch between them. Something in Seokjin’s tone, not teasing, not mocking, almost… deliberate, pressed at the quiet space Yoongi had built around himself.

“It’s Min Yoongi,” he said finally. “If you’re going to keep coming here, you should know.”

Seokjin’s smile deepened, like he’d just been handed a key. “Min Yoongi,” he repeated, testing the weight of it in his mouth.

He lingered for a second, then turned to leave, the bell above the door chiming in his wake.

Jimin watched him go. “Is he always like that?”

Yoongi exhaled slowly, the bouquet paper crinkling in his hands. “Worse,” he said, though something in his chest suggested he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

That evening, Jimin stayed behind after Taehyung left. He said it was for homework, but Yoongi suspected otherwise.

They sat together in the back, surrounded by half-drunk tea and flower scraps. Jimin was scribbling formulas in the corner of a notebook, tongue poking out slightly. Yoongi worked on inventory.

After a while, Jimin said, “You know...he likes you.”

Yoongi looked up. “Who?”

“Seokjin-ssi.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“He keeps coming back.”

“He’s buying flowers.”

Jimin hummed. “Still. He looks at you like...you’re an interesting puzzle.”

Yoongi closed the ledger. “I’m not here to be figured out.”

Jimin smiled gently. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be understood.”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

He picked up the empty teacup, rinsed it in the sink and listened to the city murmur through the window, traffic signs flickering to life, buses groaning, the faint buzz of nightlife waking up.

The shop smelled of rosemary and drying roses.

Somewhere across town, Seokjin was probably playing guitar, or laughing, or dazzling a room full of people who adored him.

And Yoongi watered his orchids and went home alone.

Friday started too early.

A leak in the back tap meant Yoongi had to come in at seven. The damp floor chilled his socks through his shoes and the mop bucket squeaked with every pass. By the time Jimin shuffled in, yawning and fogged with sleep, the shop already smelled like wet metal and mildew, with a faint overlay of hyacinth.

“You look like you fought the mop and lost,” Jimin said, peeling off his windbreaker.

“Don’t,” Yoongi warned, voice hoarse.

“I brought you a tangerine,” Jimin offered, holding it out like a peace offering.

Yoongi took it. “Thanks.”

He peeled it in silence while Jimin unlocked the till. The fruit was tart, sweet under the bitterness and slightly overripe. It made Yoongi’s fingers sticky.

Jimin didn’t ask why the mop was already out or why the flower fridge had condensation along the top glass. He just began setting up the card stand, humming something classical under his breath.

Yoongi liked that about him, the way Jimin never made kindness feel like an interrogation.

By eleven, the sun had slanted through the front windows, casting lines of dusty gold across the display table. Taehyung arrived late, tripping over a potted rosemary with an apologetic “Hyung, I brought egg sandwiches!” and a playlist of French jazz no one had asked for.

Yoongi was restocking tulips when the first awkward customer came in.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, barely stepping inside, “I need something for...a church ceremony. But not too cheerful. And nothing that smells.”

Yoongi gestured to the dried arrangements. “These are unscented.”

She squinted at him. “Oh. You’re the owner?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like someone who...well. Never mind.”

Yoongi kept his face neutral. “You said no scent?”

She nodded briskly, tapping a long fingernail on her phone. “And not too much yellow. Yellow is for betrayal.”

Yoongi opened his mouth, thought better of it and pulled out a bundle of thistle, ivory statice and pre-treated greenery. “This should suit the occasion.”

She examined it with tight lips. “Hmm. Fine. Just...wrap it up nicely. Do you gift wrap properly here? I’ve had issues with places that hire students.”

Yoongi wordlessly took the bouquet to the counter.

Taehyung glanced over. “Do you want me to ring her up, hyung?”

“No,” Yoongi said, sharper than intended.

The woman sniffed. “I suppose young men working in shops like these is more common these days.”

Yoongi handed over the bouquet. “That’s forty thousand won.”

She paid without making eye contact.

Yoongi didn’t watch her leave. He turned to the sink instead, rinsed his hands under too-cold water.

Taehyung approached cautiously. “She was a bit...much.”

“Its fine,” Yoongi said, a little too fast.

Taehyung hesitated, then offered him one half of the sandwich. “Still warm. I double-wrapped it.”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

But he took the sandwich.

Around lunchtime, one of their regulars appeared, Halmeoni Im, who’d been coming in for seven years and still tried to tip Yoongi with toffees instead of money.

“Yoongi-yah!” she cried, peering over her knitted scarf. “You look tired. Have you been sleeping?”

“Enough,” Yoongi said, softening.

She waddled in, umbrella still dripping and smacked Taehyung lightly on the arm. “Are you still single? My daughter has a niece. Pretty girl. Very good with cats.”

Taehyung grinned. “I’m allergic to cats.”

“Even better,” she said. “She doesn’t like men who talk too much.”

“I’m ideal, then.”

Yoongi watched from the counter, hands still damp. He wasn’t sure how they did it, how Taehyung and Jimin could talk so easily, laugh so openly. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for people. It was just...they wore him down. Left marks like water rings on wood. Tiny, unnoticeable, but cumulative.

Halmeoni Im finally reached him. She poked his sleeve. “You cut your hair.”

He nodded.

She nodded back, approvingly. “You look less like a fugitive now.”

“Thanks.”

She leaned closer. “Do you want to come to church this Sunday? There’ll be food. And a choir.”

“I don’t go to church.”

“Then come for the food.”

He gave her a rare smile. “I’ll think about it.”

She eyed him for a moment. “You should go out more.”

“I’m out right now.”

She cackled. “Smart mouth. Just like your mother.”

The name landed softly. Yoongi didn’t flinch, but it folded into his ribs all the same.

He rang her up, declined the toffees and watched as she waddled out, umbrella pointed at the sky like a sword.

“You okay, hyung?” Jimin asked quietly, appearing with a refill for the till.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jimin nudged his shoulder. “That face you make. When people say things.”

Yoongi paused. “What face?”

“The one where you shrink. Just a little.”

Yoongi didn’t respond.

He looked out at the door Halmeoni Im had just walked through, now slowly swinging shut again.

Sometimes he wished he could disappear with that same quiet.

At 3:15 p.m., the second awkward interaction came.

A man in a crisp suit…early thirties, hair a bit too neat, walked in, looked around with faint surprise, and then,

“Min Yoongi?”

Yoongi froze.

The man stepped closer. “It’s me. Seungmin. We went to high school together?”

Yoongi searched his face. Vaguely familiar. A class monitor, maybe? Always surrounded by others. The kind who never noticed Yoongi except when he needed to borrow homework.

“Oh,” Yoongi said.

Seungmin laughed awkwardly. “Wow. I heard you were running a shop. Didn’t expect...flowers.”

Yoongi offered a tight smile. “Here I am.”

“So... you’re still in the neighbourhood?”

Yoongi nodded.

“Married? Kids?”

Yoongi shook his head.

Seungmin nodded slowly. “Right. Well. You always were quiet. But hey, this place looks great.”

“Thanks.”

There was an awkward pause. Then Seungmin glanced around at the flower buckets. “Uh... could I get something for my mum? It’s her birthday. She likes pink. And those ones that look like cabbages.”

Yoongi looked over to the ornamental kale near the window, nodded once. “I can put something together.”

“Cool, yeah. She’s always liked stuff like this.”

Seungmin scratched the back of his neck. “I’m in real estate now. Own a few properties in Gangnam. Let me know if you’re ever looking to relocate.”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Yeah. Well, good seeing you, man.”

“You too.”

The door shut again.

The silence settled again after Seungmin left, the kind that was heavy and took a while to clear out. It clung to the shop, hanging over the scent of eucalyptus and potted soil like mist. Yoongi rubbed his thumb against a stray smear of pollen on the counter, watching the smear grow into a pale yellow crescent on his skin. His shoulders felt tight. His chest, tighter.

He didn’t know what it was about interactions like that, casual, nothing-much, adult conversations, that left him feeling like someone had wrung him out and hung him up to dry.

Maybe it was the way people always talked to him as if he were someone they only half-remembered. Like he hadn’t fully stuck the first time, hadn’t been interesting or loud or strange enough to take up permanent residence in someone else’s memory.

He could still hear Seungmin’s voice in his head.

“You always were quiet.”

It wasn’t untrue. But it didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

“Hyung?”

Yoongi blinked. The bell on the front door hadn’t rung. He turned and found Jimin peeking in from the back, glasses perched low on his nose and a single earpod still dangling in one ear. His university backpack was slouched by his feet, half-zipped and there was a notebook tucked under his arm covered in dense scribbles and coffee stains.

“Were you talking to someone just now?” Jimin asked, stepping behind the counter and glancing towards the front. “Sounded... weird.”

“Old classmate,” Yoongi muttered. “From school.”

“Ah. One of those.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. Jimin tilted his head sympathetically.

“Want me to put on music or something? It’s kind of dead in here today.”

Yoongi nodded once. “Low volume.”

Jimin pulled out his phone and a quiet acoustic guitar started playing from the shop speakers, something gentle, with fingerpicking and just enough reverb to fill the space without crowding it.

“I saw you standing there, at the corner of July...”

It was a song Yoongi didn’t recognise. Probably one of Jimin’s niche indie finds. He had a playlist called rainy café energy and insisted on using it as shop ambience whenever Yoongi let him.

Jimin leaned his elbows on the counter. “So. I’ve been thinking. Hypothetically... If someone, like, liked someone. Just liked. And that person was kind of a friend. Or maybe not even really a friend, but they made you laugh at work sometimes and they always complimented your outfits even when you looked like a mess. Would that be weird?”

Yoongi gave him a look. “Is this a real person or are you testing out a rom-com plot?”

Jimin grinned, a little sheepish. “Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi sighed. “You’ve had a crush on Taehyung since March.”

“It’s not a crush,” Jimin said. “It’s more...pining.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and stood up to head to the back fridge. He heard Jimin humming along to the song again. It was the kind of rainy day music you’d hear in a drama montage, except his life didn’t have montage cuts. Just long awkward silences and weird old classmates and the lingering echo of “You always were quiet.”

As they were closing, Taehyung held up a bouquet.

“Do you think Seokjin-ssi is coming back this week?” he asked, nose buried in baby’s breath.

Yoongi gave him a look. “Why?”

Taehyung shrugged. “I liked his coat.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It was very good.”

Jimin grinned. “You have a thing for coats?”

“I have a thing for confidence,” Taehyung said. “And the man walked in like the protagonist of a K-drama.”

Yoongi looked down at the register. “He’s just a customer.”

“Sure,” Jimin said, gently. “So was Halmeoni Im. And she thinks you’re secretly an undercover poet.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes.

But later, as he locked up, he glanced once at the window, at the darkening street beyond, the silhouettes of people passing by, coats fluttering in the wind.

He wondered if Seokjin was out there.

And if he was, whether he saw him…or just another man behind a counter, quiet and forgettable.

Next morning, the first sign that things were about to spiral came in the form of the bells above the door ringing aggressively.

Yoongi had just been redoing a sympathy arrangement, the customer had complained the lilies were “too joyful” when he heard the door bang shut and the unmistakable sound of high heels clacking against the tile.

He didn’t look up immediately. He already knew the voice.

“Excuse me?”

She was one of their occasional regulars. Liked to talk in a way that was more about performance than conversation. Always wore sunglasses indoors and never remembered Jimin’s name.

“Yes?” Yoongi said, turning around slowly.

“These hydrangeas,” she said, lifting a pale blue bouquet wrapped in white tissue, “are completely the wrong shade. I said I wanted the powdery kind. This looks like it’s been dipped in mouthwash.”

Yoongi blinked. “They’re... from the same shipment you approved day before.”

She scoffed. “Well, clearly I made a mistake.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Apologise? Offer to remake them? Agree that she had, in fact, made a mistake?

“I can redo them,” he said instead, reaching out for the bouquet.

She didn’t hand it over.

“I have an event at four,” she said. “I don’t have time for you to rethink your palette.”

Yoongi felt his mouth go dry. Somewhere behind him, Jimin had frozen mid-shelf restocking. He could sense the boy’s panic from across the room.

The woman sighed, dramatic. “Honestly, is there someone else I can speak to?”

Yoongi looked up from the counter, deadpan. “I’m the owner.”

She paused, then gave a tight, humourless smile. “Well. That explains it.”

Yoongi didn’t blink. “If there’s an issue with the bouquet, I can offer a partial refund or credit for a future arrangement.”

“I don’t want credit,” she snapped. “I want someone who knows what they’re doing.”

That was when the door chimed again. Someone else entered.

Yoongi didn’t turn around.

“I do know what I’m doing,” he said, tone steady. “You asked for powder blue hydrangeas. These are powder blue hydrangeas. The shade varies slightly depending on acidity levels in the soil and seasonal bloom cycles. That’s a botanical fact, not a personal failure.”

The woman opened her mouth, but Yoongi kept going, calm and measured.

“If you’d like to leave the bouquet, I can remake it before your event, though I can’t guarantee the colour will be any different. If you’d prefer a refund, I can arrange that too.”

His voice was neutral, not apologetic, not defensive. Just informative. Maybe a little too flat to come off as friendly.

There was a pause. The woman seemed... thrown off. As if she’d been expecting flustered scrambling, not quiet certainty. She adjusted her sunglasses and gave a small, dismissive scoff.

“Honestly, whatever,” she said and turned to leave.

Yoongi stood unmoving, unsure whether it was shame or resignation climbing up his neck. The door clicked shut behind her. He could still smell the perfume she left trailing in the air, sharp and chemical and expensive.

Then he heard it. A cough. Soft. Amused.

He turned.

Seokjin was standing near the window display, sunglasses perched on his head, biscuit bag still in hand. His shoulders were relaxed but his mouth was twitching like he was holding back a smile.

“Do you offer loyalty cards?” he asked.

Yoongi stared.

“For people who witness premium drama. Because this place is better than cable.”

Jimin let out a choked laugh behind a row of carnations.

Yoongi didn’t smile. Not really. But something twitched faintly at the corner of his mouth, the kind of flicker you almost miss if you weren’t looking closely, like a fragile petal trembling in the slightest breeze.

“You walk in at the worst times.”

“You say that like you don’t enjoy putting on a show.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Seokjin stepped forward with a casual ease, as if none of the lingering tension had unsettled him at all. The light caught his profile, sharp and smooth, a quiet kind of beauty Yoongi had noticed before but rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. He wore a fitted chambray shirt tucked neatly into dark indigo jeans, the fabric worn just enough to look effortlessly lived-in. The sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing a flash of pale skin that caught the light like porcelain.  Like a perfect bloom standing apart from the wild garden, too refined to need admiration and yet impossible to look away from.

“Orange lilies,” Seokjin said, setting the biscuit bag on the counter with a soft thud. “And something not quite cheerful, but not full of existential dread either. I’m visiting my sister.”

Yoongi blinked, momentarily startled by the specificity. “Is that... a category of flower?”

“In my head it is.”

He began pulling stems, sturdy gerberas for warmth, dusty mauve asters that seemed to hold quiet secrets and eucalyptus to ground the scent, sharp and clean like a deep breath after a storm.

Behind him, Seokjin leaned in just a little, watching with something like wonder, or maybe admiration. “You’re really good at that.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. His throat tightened, the echo of his own earlier words running through his mind.

Maybe that’s not me.

He handed over the arrangement, wrapped simply in muted paper and tied with a pale grey twine, a bouquet that said so much without shouting.

Seokjin whistled softly, handing him the card. “See, now I look like a good brother.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi murmured, nodding briefly.

Then, almost casually, as if the moment had no weight at all, Seokjin adjusted his sunglasses and added, “I have a show this Friday. The same venue I spoke of last time. Kind of small. We’re testing out some new songs. You should come.”

Yoongi looked up, caught off guard.

“You and the kids,” Seokjin said, nodding toward Jimin, who made a startled noise from the back room.

“I’m not a kid,” Jimin said indignantly. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Still a child,” Seokjin replied with a grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle like the petals of a weathered rose.

Yoongi blinked. “You’re inviting... us?”

“I’m inviting you. The others can tag along if they want. I can add your names to the list. It’s at 8. Don’t be late.”

Before Yoongi could find words, Seokjin dropped a five hundred won coin in the jar, turned, the bell above the door jingling softly behind him.

“I left you the biscuits,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t share them.”

The door closed, leaving the shop quiet again, the soft hum of the heater filling the space.

Jimin padded over, eyes wide. “Did... he just invite us to a rock concert?”

Yoongi’s gaze settled on the biscuits, a small white bag, carefully folded edges like a gift someone had taken the time to wrap.

He didn’t answer.

The bag of biscuits sat beside the till for the rest of the afternoon.

Untouched.

It made the whole counter feel strange. Like something personal had been left behind, but no one was brave enough to claim it.

Jimin, ever curious, tiptoed around it at first. Then, as the slow hours dragged on and only two customers trickled in, he couldn’t hold back.

“You’re going, right?”

Yoongi looked up from the till. “Where?”

“To the concert. Obviously.”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Oh my god,” Jimin flailed. “Yoongi-hyung. You cannot just not go to a rock concert you were personally invited to. That’s criminal.”

Yoongi raised a brow.

“Okay,” Jimin amended. “Not criminal. But it’s definitely... morally questionable.”

At that moment, the bell over the door chimed and Taehyung walked in with a single AirPod in one ear and a bottle of cold barley tea in his hand.

“Hey,” he greeted, eyeing the energy in the room. “What’s going on?”

Jimin turned to him like a man possessed.

“You’re not going to believe this. We’re going to a rock concert.”

Taehyung blinked. “...What?”

“A rock concert,” Jimin repeated, eyes wide. “Hyung got us in.”

“I didn’t get anyone in,” Yoongi said, picking invisible lint off the counter. “He just... invited us.”

“Who?” Taehyung turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

Jimin grabbed his shoulders dramatically. “Kim. Seok. Jin.”

Taehyung squinted. “The Hive? The lead singer? With the face?”

“Yes,” Jimin said. “Yes. The one who bought the hate bouquet and has been bringing baked goodies ever since!”

Yoongi coughed.

Taehyung grinned. “Yeah. I’m in.”

“You don’t even know the date.”

“I don’t need to.”

“It’s on Friday,” Yoongi muttered. “Apparently.”

“Even better,” Taehyung said. “What time?”

Yoongi sighed.

It didn’t take long for Friday to arrive.

He hadn’t been to a concert in nearly ten years.

Not a big one, anyway.

Not one where the sound system pounded through your ribs or the lights stung your eyes or where people pressed against you like tides. Not one where you had to think about what to wear, as though that somehow changed the experience.

It was nearly 5 p.m. when Jimin tapped on the half-open break room door with a cheeky, “Hyung, are you wearing leather or just pretending you’re above it all?”

Yoongi replied flatly, “Why would I wear leather?”

“Because it’s The Hive.”

“So?”

“They’re a rock band.”

Yoongi looked down at his oversized black button-up. “Is this too much?”

“Too... not enough, actually. Try something tighter.”

Yoongi frowned. “I don’t own anything tighter.”

Jimin sighed as though the world was heavy with burden. “Do you want to borrow one of my turtlenecks?”

Yoongi stared at him. “No.”

He ended up wearing black jeans (his only pair that didn’t sag at the knees) and a muted black shirt that clung slightly when he moved. Not leather. Not tight. But safe. He combed down the flyaways in his hair and stared at his reflection a beat longer than usual.

“You look good,” he muttered to himself. Then he added, quieter, “You look... like a man trying to convince himself he looks good.”

He picked up the cologne bottle that had dust on its cap. Sprayed it. Winced.

What was he doing?

He wasn’t lonely. He liked being alone. He liked peace and quiet and coming home to silence and having a drawer for his tea and a shelf just for old music cassettes. He liked watering plants without speaking. He liked knowing no one was waiting on him.

That wasn’t loneliness.

That was freedom.

The Prism Hall lived up to its name, all glass and light and shape, towering like a prism in a sea of concrete. They could hear the thump of the opening act from outside, a steady rhythm that vibrated in their chests the moment they stepped out of the cab.

Taehyung was nearly vibrating himself.

“This is so cool,” he whispered to Jimin. “Do you think we’ll get to talk to them?”

“We’re on a list,” Jimin reminded him. “A list. I’ve never been on a list before.”

Yoongi was already scanning the crowd.

It was a blur of fishnet and eyeliner and leather jackets, some studded, some sleeveless. Everyone looked like they’d either stepped out of a music video or into a rebellion. There were streaks of vibrant, dyed hair, safety pins through collars, people in boots taller than Yoongi’s torso.

And all of them moved like they belonged.

They entered the venue, the smell of sweat, smoke and alcohol wrapping around them immediately. Music pulsed in through the walls. It wasn’t The Hive yet, just the opening band, a group of five with aggressive eyeliner and hair that defied gravity.

The music was loud and jagged, something between industrial metal and emotional catharsis. The lead singer screamed something into the mic that was equal parts heartbreak and euphoria.

Yoongi blinked up at the strobes. It had been a long time since he’d been somewhere like this.

They made their way to the security check, where a thick-necked bouncer in all black glanced at a clipboard and nodded.

“Yeah. Your names are here. VIP and backstage access.”

Jimin blinked. “Wait. He actually did it?”

“Looks like it.”

The bouncer handed them wristbands.

Taehyung whispered, “I’m keeping this forever.”

The VIP area was mercifully quieter, a mezzanine-level lounge with a direct view of the stage, plush seating and complimentary drinks. Still loud. Still hot. But breathable.

Taehyung immediately wandered to the railing. “I can see the drummer’s nose ring from here.”

Jimin followed. Yoongi stayed back, eyes still adjusting.

“You okay, hyung?” Jimin asked eventually.

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah. Just... not used to this.”

Jimin nudged him. “You look cool.”

Yoongi glanced at him. “I look like someone pretending to look cool.”

“That’s still cool.”

Yoongi let out a breath.

Behind him, Taehyung elbowed Jimin, whispering something. Jimin flushed. Yoongi caught his reflection in the glass, the way he tucked his chin, the small, almost shy smile.

Yoongi squinted. “Why are you doing that thing with your face?”

Jimin jumped. “What thing?”

“The thing.”

“I’m smiling.”

“No, that... other thing.”

“You don’t get it, hyung?”

“Get what?”

“Crushes,” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi blinked. “That face is you having a crush?”

“No,” Jimin said quickly. Then, quieter, “Maybe.”

“On Taehyung?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

Yoongi raised his hands. “I’m not judging.”

“Just observing?” Jimin said, amused.

“I don’t... I’ve just never seen the appeal of all that.”

“All what?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Romantic stuff.”

Taehyung joined them now, tilting his head. “You’ve never been in love?”

Yoongi thought about it.

He thought about the time he’d dated someone for six months who ghosted him after a misunderstanding at a birthday party. He thought about another one who said he was too cold. About the one who said he was hard to read. He thought about how he always said the wrong thing at the wrong time and how love, if it ever showed up, always felt more like expectation than joy.

“I don’t think so.”

Jimin said, gently, “Is that how you see yourself? Like... someone incapable of it?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “Just... someone who missed the manual.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. Then the lights flickered and a fresh ripple of screams tore through the crowd.

The Hive was next.

The lights didn’t go off immediately. Prism Hall was still buzzing, hundreds of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, hips to hips, someone’s drink already spilled onto someone else’s boot and someone’s elbow accidentally digging into someone else’s ribs. It smelled like sugar and salt and old concrete, a sick-sweet mix of beer, cologne, sweat and decades of music pulsing through cracked walls.

There was a low hum from the stage. Static. Feedback. Then a figure strode across the dimly lit platform.

A drummer. Young. Tattooed forearms. Loose tank top, back muscles shifting with each movement. He didn’t speak, just did a quick check of his cymbals, drumsticks spinning in his hands as the tech crew buzzed around him.

Then came the bassist. Long legs, wide stance, messy bleached hair. He gave a small wave to the front row, adjusted the strap of his bass, plugged in. The guitarist followed a moment later. Sharply dressed. Sunglasses indoors. More rings than fingers.

Still no vocals. Still no one Yoongi recognised.

He wasn’t even sure if he was hoping to recognise anyone. That would make this personal. And none of this, none of the glitz, none of the smoke cannons or LED screens or screaming girls and boys, should’ve ever felt personal.

And then the lights dimmed.

Not all the way. Just enough to hush the crowd into a silence that buzzed with something almost sacred. One spotlight hit the edge of the stage.

He stepped into it.

Tall. Broad shoulders. All-black. Leather and mesh and lace and chains. A silver mic in his hand and those same heavy boots he’d worn into the flower shop that day, when he’d asked for a bouquet that could say “fuck you.”

Yoongi didn’t breathe.

Because it was him.

Kim Seokjin- no, Jin of The Hive.

Standing under that single light like a knife in the dark.

His hair was styled now, swept off his forehead and slightly damp at the edges, like petals freshly kissed by morning dew, delicate yet deliberate. His eyes were rimmed with charcoal-black, smudged at the corners, lending his gaze the shadowed mystery of a night-blooming jasmine, something rare and impossible to catch fully in the light. His skin gleamed gold under the spotlight, warm and luminous like sunlit marigold petals, radiant but with an edge that warned you not to touch too closely. His smile, when it broke through the static, was lazy and amused, curling like a softly unfurling ranunculus, knowing, unrepentant and utterly captivating.

Yoongi’s mind, half in the present, half arranging an invisible bouquet, layered these images, wild irises tangled with polished orchids, dark velvety leaves framing a single, bold bloom. He watched as Seokjin stepped up to the mic stand and adjusted the mic he was holding, gripping it with one hand while the other casually adjusted the silver chain at his throat, like the final flourish on a perfect floral arrangement, effortless but essential.

“Seoul,” he said, voice already hoarse and rich. “You ready to make some noise?”

The crowd exploded.

Seokjin laughed, full-bodied and unabashed and Yoongi felt something rattle in his ribs.

Behind him, the drummer gave a few test beats. The bassist adjusted his in-ear monitors. The guitarist strummed something gritty and low. Then Seokjin leaned into the mic again, smirking. “We’re The Hive. We’ve missed you.”

And the lights changed.

Blood red and electric blue. Like warning signs. Like the beginning of something catastrophic.

Yoongi should’ve taken that as the first sign.

Because the moment Seokjin sang, he was gone.

Gone.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from a rock band called The Hive. Maybe something loud. Industrial guitars and screaming vocals.

Instead… Seokjin’s voice hit him like silk wrapped around shrapnel. Smooth. Clear. And then suddenly roaring. Like something ancient had cracked open inside his chest.

The first notes bloomed into the air, bass winding slow and aching under the melody, drums like distant thunder, guitar climbing like flames licking at the edges of a storm. And then Seokjin sang:

I still live there, in the season when your whole world was me…

Yoongi swore he could see it, this place Seokjin was painting. Not just hear it. He could smell the damp of summer nights, feel the ghost of a warm breeze curling around his collar. Each lyric seemed to drag its fingers along the inside of his ribs.

The words I repeat alone… if I could go back, what would I say?

It wasn’t just the sound, it was the weight behind it. Like Seokjin was holding something fragile between his teeth, afraid it would shatter if he let go.

This pitch-black night with no stars, onto the stage with the lights off…

The bass throbbed low and Yoongi felt it in his knees, in his teeth. Seokjin’s voice slid over the notes like it was both carrying him and cutting him open. He sang about waiting. About the ache of staying behind while the world moved forward. About being the afterimage burned into someone’s vision long after they’d stopped looking.

Yoongi stood frozen. His breathing had gone shallow, as if pulling in too much air might break the spell.

He’d thought he understood music. Had grown up listening to it in headphones on long walks and quiet mornings. Had even played piano for a few years in secondary school, though he never liked telling people. But this-

This was more than a performance.
It was confession. It was war cry. It was seduction and surrender all at once.

And Seokjin-
Jin-
-was otherworldly.

He moved across the stage like it had been carved just for him, every step a claim, every gesture a declaration. The polished wood beneath his boots seemed to pulse in rhythm with the beat, a partner to his movements rather than a mere platform. The mic stand was his dance partner, twirling effortlessly between his fingers as if it were an extension of his body, its cold metal contrasting with the heat radiating from his skin.

He dipped low toward the front row, eyes locking with the crowd, lips curling into a mischievous grin that set the room ablaze. The roar of hundreds swelled around him, a living thing that fed off his energy, yet he laughed through the lyrics like a secret shared between him and the music alone. The melody poured from his mouth with the ease of breathing, each note dipped in raw emotion, bleeding into the roar of guitars and drums behind him.

Sweat slid down the curve of his neck, slick and warm, tracing a path that glistened under the stage lights. His black trousers clung tight to his thighs, muscles flexing with every step, every pivot. The sheer mesh of his shirt revealed just enough skin, faint outlines of collarbones, the subtle shift of muscle beneath the fabric, leaving little to the imagination yet keeping an intoxicating air of mystery.

Silver rings adorned his fingers, catching the spotlight with every reach and gesture. When he extended a hand toward his bandmates, the gleam of metal punctuated their playful shoves and shared smirks, a silent language spoken in glances and nudges. His connection to them was palpable, effortless, the kind of camaraderie that only years of shared sweat and sound can forge.

The bass rumbled through the floorboards, a heartbeat syncing with his own. He swayed with the rhythm, moving with a fluidity that belied the raw power behind his voice. The crowd was a sea of faces, arms raised, swaying, some holding phones aloft, their screens flickering like stars trapped in glass. They were caught in his orbit, drawn to the gravitational pull of his presence.

At one moment, he crouched, eyes fierce and wild, mouth close to the mic as the lyrics hit a razor’s edge. The spotlight haloed him like a celestial body, illuminating the sweat on his brow, the intense focus in his eyes. Then, with a sudden burst, he sprang back up, spinning into a flourish that sent his hair flying, black strands catching the light, framing his face in a storm of motion.

His voice cracked slightly on a note, the vulnerability raw and electrifying. The crowd responded with a collective breath, hanging on every syllable. It wasn’t just a performance, it was a confession, a lived experience poured out in sound and movement.

He paused briefly between songs, the stage darkening save for a single spotlight tracing his silhouette. He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of lips that reached his eyes, lighting them up with a spark that felt almost dangerous. The moment stretched, suspended between notes, before he launched into the next song, the energy surging back tenfold.

His every motion was magnetic, his laugh a low rumble, his glances a mix of teasing and challenge. The way he moved, alive and luminous under the flood of lights, was hypnotic. Sharp as a blade, limitless as the sky, he was both the storm and the calm that follows.

And Yoongi couldn’t look away.

It felt like the song had pulled him out of his own body and left him floating somewhere above the crowd, watching himself watch Seokjin, completely undone by a voice that carried whole worlds in its echoes.

At some point, he blinked and the second song was already ending. Something harder, darker. Seokjin’s voice split open in the chorus like he was pouring himself out in real time, like he couldn’t help it.

Yoongi’s heart thundered in his chest. His hands had gone cold.

And then the lights dimmed again, only for a breath and shifted into something colder. A sharp violet glow bled into deep indigo, blanketing the stage like a bruise.

“This next one,” Jin said, into the stillness, “is for anyone who’s ever wanted to disappear.”

The crowd screamed, but it was a strange kind of scream, less excitement, more recognition. Like something had just been named that no one had dared to speak aloud.

The guitarist struck a note so high it sounded like glass fracturing.

Yoongi stood stock-still as the intro built, a slow, spiralling climb of strings stitched through with a bassline that throbbed in his bones. Jin let the silence stretch before he sang again.

This time, it wasn’t raw power. It wasn’t a punch to the gut.

It was worse.

It was quiet. Intimate. Like he was whispering into a room full of strangers and still making it feel personal.

Stay
In my maze stage, where even breaths couldn’t reach
Days trapped in a hamster wheel
I’ll leap with all my strength, without limits
Burning towards the end…

The audience didn’t scream. They didn’t cheer.

They listened.

And so did Yoongi…so hard it hurt.

Seokjin’s voice wove through the verses like thread through a wound. There was a yearning in it, a bitterness too. A kind of exhausted beauty. The second verse came in slower, the melody drifting like smoke through cracked glass.

Dawn is far away, enduring long days
The sun that stayed up all night spreads endlessly

Yoongi forgot how to breathe.

He’d never heard music like this.

He’d never felt lyrics like this.

Seokjin wasn’t performing anymore. He was confessing. He was tearing himself apart, one verse at a time. And when the chorus came, louder, more violent, the full band crashing behind him like a tidal wave, he looked straight into the crowd.

Yoongi couldn’t be sure, but for one searing moment, it felt like Seokjin was looking right at him.

Don’t be scared. Even if I break down sometimes
One more step (We’ll bounce back and hit, bounce back and hit)
Now I walk towards that light
One more step (We’ll bounce back and hit another level)

Yoongi’s chest hurt.

Because this wasn’t about stardom or lights or being cool in leather. This wasn’t the same man who’d walked into the flower shop in sunglasses and charm, asking for a bouquet that bit back.

This was someone searching.

Bleeding.

Asking to be known and not known at all.

And Yoongi, quiet, solitary, so used to folding into corners of rooms and conversations, felt something ancient in him answering back.

By the time the final chorus hit and Seokjin’s voice cracked again, not from lack of control, but because some feelings were too big for melody…Yoongi knew he’d never forget this night.

Or him.

Not even if he tried.

He didn’t even realise he was staring until Taehyung turned around and shouted something at him.

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“We’re going backstage!” Taehyung repeated, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with sweat and happiness. “They’re letting us backstage- Hyung, come on!”

The bouncer who had checked their names earlier was back. Holding open the gate to the side of the stage, waving them forward with a clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

Jimin and Taehyung were already moving.

Yoongi followed, numbly. Each step felt like wading through something thick and invisible.

He didn’t even know what had hit him.

All he knew was this; Kim Seokjin wasn’t supposed to sound like that. No one was supposed to sound like that.

He didn’t know when music had become something that could make your knees weak. When someone’s voice could echo in your chest like grief or memory or desire.

But tonight…something had shifted.

He just didn’t know what.

“Hyung.”

Jimin’s voice dragged him back. The lights of the stage had blurred into streaks and shadows; now they were being herded down a narrow corridor lined with peeling black paint and gig posters from tours years past. The floor was sticky in places, smelling faintly of beer and disinfectant.

“You’re walking like an ahjussi with gout,” Taehyung added from the other side, grinning. He had that post-concert high in his step, shoulders bouncing, eyes wide, practically vibrating.

Yoongi grunted in response. It was safer than opening his mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure his voice would come out steady.

Because under the hum of conversation, under the pounding in his ears, he could still hear it…Seokjin’s voice. Every note like it had been poured molten into his ribcage and left to harden there.

He tightened his jaw and smoothed his face into the blank, unreadable mask he’d perfected years ago. The one that had carried him through weddings where he’d rather be home, family gatherings where silence was safer, even the occasional argument with a customer. Expressionless was survival.

The corridor ended at a heavy door with laminated paper taped to it:
THE HIVE - ARTIST ROOM.

Jimin gave a small squeal. “Oh my god, we’re actually going in.”

They didn’t even have to knock, someone on the other side opened it before they reached for the handle.

Inside, the room was a mess of half-drunk water bottles, open chip bags and instrument cases stacked haphazardly against the walls. A faint haze hung in the air, stage fog residue, sweat and the smell of something fried.

And there they were.

The Hive.

Yoongi recognised them instantly from the stage: the drummer, hair damp and curling, a towel around his neck, drumsticks still tucked behind one ear. The bassist, loose-limbed and laughing, his black bass guitar leaning against the couch. The guitarist, all sharp lines and quiet watchfulness, tuning a guitar out of habit.

And Seokjin.

Still in the black mesh shirt. Still with the charcoal-smudged eyes. His hair was pushed back now, damp at the temples, a sheen of sweat still catching the light. Up close, Yoongi could see the silver polish on his nails, the glint of rings.

If the performance had been dangerous from a distance, this was lethal range.

Introductions started immediately. Jimin bowed so low he nearly dropped the bouquet he’d brought. Taehyung was already spilling compliments like marbles, asking about songwriting and the setlist, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The room buzzed with overlapping conversations, Hoseok, the bassist teasing Taehyung about his pink shirt, Jungkook, the drummer shyly asking Jimin about his earrings, Namjoon, the guitarist explaining their rehearsal schedule.

Yoongi hung back. Not out of disinterest exactly…more like self-preservation. His chest still felt tight, like there wasn’t quite enough air in here.

Then Seokjin turned and their eyes met.

It was ridiculous how quickly the rest of the room dimmed.

In an instant, Yoongi was back there, under the lights, in the swell of strings, in that voice. He could feel the phantom echo of the chorus in his sternum, the way it had pulled something out of him he hadn’t agreed to give.

And now that voice was attached to a face less than two meters away. A face looking directly at him.

Seokjin’s mouth curved into a smile. “How did you like the show?”

The question was harmless. Friendly, even.

Yoongi opened his mouth and heard himself say, flatly, “It was fine.”

He knew instantly it was the wrong tone. Not what he’d meant.

And Yoongi’s stomach sank.

Here it was again. That thing he did. The thing where he spoke and it landed wrong, too blunt, too cold, like he hadn’t been listening or didn’t care. Which was exactly the opposite of the truth.

He hated how familiar the panic felt.

“I mean-” Yoongi started and stopped. His throat felt tight. “I mean it was… you’re-”

Seokjin tilted his head, waiting. Not pushing, not rescuing him either.

Yoongi fumbled. “It was… more than fine. You were-uh-good.”

Good. God. What was wrong with him?

Something must have shown on his face, because Seokjin’s mouth softened, the tension easing just a little.

“Good, huh?” Seokjin’s tone warmed again, teasing. “I’ll take it.”

Namjoon wandered over, sensing none of the undercurrent and introduced himself properly. Hoseok followed, shaking Yoongi’s hand with a grip that could crush bone. Jungkook ducked his head politely, still looking like he might bolt if anyone made too much eye contact.

The awkward moment was nearly past when Seokjin leaned an elbow on the back of the couch. “So, flower boy, where’s my bouquet?”

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“You own a flower shop, right?” Seokjin grinned. “I thought guests were supposed to bring gifts.”

Jimin gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, hyung, how could you not bring the lead singer flowers? Scandal.”

It was absurd, but it gave Yoongi something to grab onto.

“They’d just wilt backstage,” he said dryly. “But if you want, I can bring you something especially poisonous next time.”

That got a proper laugh, full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter from Seokjin and the rest of the room followed.

Yoongi let himself watch the way Seokjin’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way his shoulders shook. The relief was immediate, fizzing through him like the first sip of something cold on a hot day. He’d salvaged it. Somehow.

And he liked that he’d made Seokjin laugh.
…Why did he like that?

The conversation flowed more easily after that. Jimin quizzed Jungkook on double-kick drumming. Taehyung and Hoseok exchanged ridiculous stories about on-stage mishaps. Namjoon politely asked about the shop’s busiest season and Yoongi found himself answering without too much thought.

Seokjin didn’t hover, but Yoongi was aware of him in the way you’re aware of a storm cloud, present even when it’s not overhead. Sometimes Seokjin would glance over mid-conversation and Yoongi would have to look away first.

It was too much, seeing him in the same stage clothes, the same smudged eyeliner, close enough to touch.

Eventually, someone knocked on the door to say they had to start clearing out for load-out. People began gathering jackets, hugging, promising to see each other again.

As Yoongi and the boys gathered to move, Seokjin stepped close enough that Yoongi could smell his cologne, something crisp layered over clean sweat and stage heat.

“I’ll come by the shop,” Seokjin said casually. “Might need something for my coffee table.”

Yoongi huffed a soft laugh. “We don’t do coffee table arrangements.”

“You will when I come in,” Seokjin replied, smiling. “And I’ll bring biscuits. Can’t visit empty-handed.”

Yoongi didn’t trust himself to answer, so he just nodded.

Outside, the night air was cool, cutting through the residual heat in his face as they walked towards the car park.

Jimin and Taehyung were already dissecting every moment of the evening, their words tumbling over each other, hands waving for emphasis.

Yoongi walked a step behind, his practiced blank expression in place.

Inside, though…inside was a different story.

He could still hear the music. Still feel the way it had reached into him and rewired something. He didn’t have a name for it yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted one.

All he knew was that Kim Seokjin wasn’t supposed to sound like that. And now that he had, Yoongi wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next.

That night, he told himself not to think about it.
By morning, he was already wondering when the bell above the door would chime again.

It didn’t.

The shop smelled faintly of eucalyptus and wet earth, the kind of scent that clung to your hair if you stood in the cooler too long.
Yoongi stood behind the counter, clipping the ends off a bucket of roses with mechanical precision, pretending the world was the same as before.

It wasn’t.

Every time he blinked, the stage lights flared behind his eyes.
That voice…God, that voice…still hummed in the hollow of his chest like it hadn’t finished speaking to him yet.

Jimin floated past with a tray of succulents, humming something suspiciously similar to the hook from The Hive’s first song the night before.
Yoongi scowled at the stems in his hand.

The day was… fine.
He buried himself in work, pruning roses that didn’t need pruning, rearranging the tulip display twice and pretending Jimin’s playlist of syrupy pop songs wasn’t deliberately aimed at annoying him. When Taehyung asked if he wanted to go for drinks after closing, Yoongi said he was busy. Busy with what, he didn’t specify.

The second day was harder.
There was a lull in the afternoon when the shop was empty except for him and the sound of rain tapping the glass. He found himself looking up at every passing shadow outside, convinced it might be him. The absurdity of that made him grit his teeth and hack a perfectly healthy stem in half.

The third day was the worst.
By then, Yoongi was restless enough that he’d started mentally cataloguing the exact shade of charcoal in Seokjin’s eyeliner and wondering, entirely against his will, what his voice would sound like in a quiet room instead of over screaming guitars.
He told himself to knock it off.
He told himself he wasn’t going to do it.

Three days.
That’s how long he lasted.
Three days of ignoring the way his chest tightened every time the front door bell chimed…expecting…hoping…it might be him.
Three days of watching Taehyung and Jimin replay shaky fan videos on their phones, both leaning over the counter like conspirators and refusing to ask them to send him the link.
And then, at two-thirty in the morning, hunched over his kitchen table with an open beer and the soft hum of his refrigerator in the background, he did it.

He typed The Hive band Korea into Naver.

It started innocently enough, their Wikipedia page (depressingly short for how long they’d been active), a quick skim of the member profiles. Drummer Jeon Jungkook: terrifyingly young and apparently allergic to shirts. Bassist Jung Hoseok: smiling in every photo like he’d just pulled off a prank. Guitarist Kim Namjoon: wearing a wide-brimmed hat in one photo and holding a bonsai in another, which was unexpected enough to make Yoongi stare.

And then there was Kim Seokjin.

Lead vocals. Founding member. Songwriter on more than half their discography.

There were photos from live shows, Seokjin mid-note, head tipped back, the line of his throat taut. Studio shots, where his gaze was softer, direct. A stupid behind-the-scenes clip of him laughing at something Jungkook said, his shoulders shaking.

Yoongi clicked one video. Just one.

It was a live performance from last year. The same song they’d played at the end of their set, the one that had cracked something open in his chest. The camera caught Seokjin at the mic, backlit so his hair glowed faintly gold. His voice slid out over the crowd, low, raw, like it had weight.

It took less than five minutes to fall into the trap, YouTube performances, fancams, a lyric analysis thread that made his ears burn, then their entire discography queued up on streaming.

The voice was exactly as he remembered.

Worse, actually…because now it was in his earphones, in the quiet of his apartment, every inflection magnified.

It was intimate. Disarming. A live wire straight into his ribcage.

He went to bed past 5 a.m. and pretended it was just curiosity.

By the time the shop opened the next morning, he’d memorised three songs, watched five live stages and learned that Seokjin had once tripped over a stage monitor and recovered so smoothly it had gone viral.

He told himself he wasn’t obsessed. Just… curious. A normal amount.

The bell over the door rang.

Yoongi glanced up, expecting the usual: a neighbourhood regular, maybe the old woman who bought peonies every Tuesday. Instead-

Seokjin.

Still tall enough to block the doorway for a second.

No stage lights this time, no charcoal-smudged eyes, but the same clean angles of his face, the same disarming warmth in his smile.

He was holding a paper bag.

“Good morning,” Seokjin said, stepping inside like he’d been here a hundred times. “I brought biscuits.”

The bag landed on the counter with a soft thud.

Through the top, Yoongi could see the bright green packaging, different from last time.

“I thought I’d switch it up. Variety is important for morale,” Seokjin added, deadpan.

Jimin, who had been arranging freesias nearby, let out a gasp so loud it could have been staged. “Oh my god. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Seokjin said cheerfully, offering a small bow.

Taehyung appeared from the back like he’d been summoned by telepathy, wiping his hands on his apron. “Hyung. The Hive hyung. I knew you’d come!”

Yoongi tried to will his pulse back to something resembling normal.

He settled for crossing his arms. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“That’s true,” Seokjin agreed easily, leaning against the counter like it was his natural habitat. “But I wanted to.”

Jimin had already opened the bag, making delighted noises over the individually wrapped biscuits. “These are the expensive kind,” he announced.

“Only the best for my new florist friends,” Seokjin replied. His gaze flicked to Yoongi then, sharp enough to make Yoongi look down at the roses he’d been pretending to trim.

The push and pull in his chest was almost dizzying. Part of him wanted to ask; Why are you here? Why me? Another part wanted to keep this whole thing sealed up tight, like if he didn’t poke at it, it couldn’t do any damage.

Instead, he said flatly, “Busy schedule for a rock star.”

“Not today.” Seokjin’s smile tugged wider. “I had some errands nearby. Thought I’d drop in before you forgot my face.”

That earned a snort from Taehyung. “No danger of that.”

Yoongi’s grip on the shears tightened.

They lingered at the counter for a while, Jimin and Taehyung happily chattering about that night’s setlist, asking how long the band had been together, when the next album was coming.

Seokjin answered every question like he had all the time in the world, occasionally throwing in a joke that made the younger two dissolve into laughter.

Yoongi kept his head down, trimming stems, but every now and then he caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, Seokjin’s ring flashing when he gestured, the curve of his smile when he listened, the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw.

It was ridiculous how easy it was to imagine that voice, that voice, cutting through the quiet shop, wrapping itself around his name.

At some point, Seokjin said, “And what about you, Yoongi-ssi? Did you survive the concert?”

Yoongi looked up without thinking. Mistake. Seokjin’s eyes caught him, steady and curious.
For one dizzying second, it was like standing in front of the stage all over again.

“I mean-,” he said finally, the words jammed in his throat. “It was…good.”

A corner of Seokjin’s mouth lifted.

“I’m bad at…stuff,” Yoongi added, vaguely gesturing to encompass everything, compliments, social interaction, existing in the presence of someone who’d made his knees weak with a single note. “Interacting with people, complementing people. Sorry.”

Seokjin blinked, then smiled again, softer this time. “Noted.”

The awkwardness could have drowned them both if Seokjin hadn’t tilted his head, mock-serious.
“You know,” he said, “I am still expecting a bouquet. Being friends with florists, I thought there’d be perks.”

That startled a laugh out of Yoongi before he could stop it. “You want flowers?”

“Why not?” Seokjin said, eyes bright. “You can make me something to match my next stage outfit.”

Taehyung clapped his hands. “Oh my god, yes. A rock star bouquet.”

Jimin was already rummaging through the cooler. “Black dahlias, some eucalyptus, maybe-”

“I’m not making you a bouquet,” Yoongi interrupted.

Seokjin leaned in just a fraction, enough for Yoongi to notice the faint scent of whatever cologne he wore- clean, with something darker underneath. “Not even if I bring better biscuits next time?”

It was absurd how much effort it took to keep his face neutral. “We’ll see.”

That earned him a laugh, loud, bright, genuine. It did something to Yoongi’s ribcage he didn’t want to examine.

They talked a little longer, about nothing important, mostly the shop and the weather and the fact that Seokjin had, apparently, tried to propagate succulents once and failed spectacularly. Somewhere in there, he mentioned Namjoon’s bonsai collection, which Yoongi pretended not to find interesting, even though the idea of a rock band’s guitarist patiently trimming miniature trees was… strangely endearing.
When Seokjin finally left, promising to “upgrade the biscuits” next time, the shop felt too quiet.
Yoongi went back to trimming stems, pretending not to notice that his hands were shaking.

It was five days later (not that Yoongi was counting) when the bell rang and Seokjin strutted in.

“Morning,” Seokjin said, stepping in with a paper bag in one hand and that same easy, all-consuming presence like he’d brought part of the stage with him. “I upgraded the biscuits.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to the bag. “Upgraded?”

“Shortcakes,” Seokjin said, as if this was a logical progression. He handed the bag to Jimin, who lit up like it was his birthday and immediately began passing them around to Taehyung.

Yoongi mumbled something like thanks and focused on untying a stubborn ribbon on a bouquet. It was safer than looking too long.

They talked in a loose cluster near the counter. Jimin, mouth full of shortcake, asked something about when the band’s next tour was. Taehyung wanted to know if Namjoon really kept “tiny trees” in his apartment.

“Bonsai,” Seokjin corrected with a laugh. “Yeah. He talks to them like they’re his kids.”

Yoongi didn’t look up, but the image came uninvited, Namjoon bent over a miniature pine with the same concentration he probably used to tune his guitar. It was disarming, in the same way finding out Seokjin had once killed a succulent was disarming.

Somewhere in the conversation, birthdays came up. Jimin, naturally, demanded everyone’s.

“’92,” Seokjin said easily. “December. And you?”

Yoongi hesitated. “March. ’93.”

Seokjin grinned like that meant something. “Oh, so you’re younger. You should just call me hyung then.”

“I don’t-” Yoongi started, but Seokjin cut him off with a hand wave.

“No, no, we’ve reached that level,” he said. “We’re practically friends now, right? I’ll call you Yoongi-yah, you call me hyung. Done deal.”

It wasn’t a done deal, Yoongi didn’t agree out loud, but somehow, twenty minutes later, Seokjin was leaning on the counter telling him a story about a broken guitar string mid-show and the word “hyung” slipped out without him noticing.

The others noticed.
Jimin shot him a knowing look. Taehyung smirked behind a mouthful of shortcake.

When Seokjin left, another promise to “bring something even better next time,” the shop felt too still again, the air heavier for having held that laugh.

Yoongi retreated to the back room, supposedly to restock floral tape. Really, it was to press his palms over his eyes until the buzzing in his chest slowed.

The next few days were stranger than he wanted to admit.

He told himself nothing had changed, but suddenly, little things stuck. The curve of Seokjin’s smile when he’d said Yoongi-yah. The way his nails had been perfectly polished, even though he’d been holding shortcake like it was a bouquet.

He was still guarded.
Still wary of how easy it would be to want more of that voice, that presence.

Jimin didn’t help.

“Hyung,” he said one slow afternoon, leaning over the workbench with the air of someone about to start trouble, “if you were into someone, would you wait for them to make a move, or…?”

“I’m not into anyone,” Yoongi said without looking up.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Yoongi snipped a stem with unnecessary force. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“If they’re worth it.”

Jimin hummed like that meant something profound. “And how do you decide that?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

Seokjin came again the following week.

This time, the paper bag held two kinds of shortcake, strawberry and chestnut and he walked in like the shop belonged to him. He ended up perched on a stool by the counter, swapping stories with Jimin and Taehyung about high school bands and bad haircuts.

Yoongi stayed busy with a bouquet order for a corporate client, but every so often, he caught Seokjin’s gaze on him. Not heavy, not intrusive, just there. Steady enough that it made his hands clumsy.

When the shortcake was mostly gone, Seokjin wandered over.

“You work too much,” he said lightly.

“It’s my job,” Yoongi replied.

“Still. Take a break sometimes, Yoongi-yah.”

There it was again. Yoongi-yah.
Casual, easy, like it had always been that way.

Yoongi didn’t know what to do with the knot that formed in his chest at the sound.

That night, at home, he sat on the edge of his bed with his laptop open. He told himself he wasn’t going to look up more videos. He failed.

It wasn’t even about the band anymore. It was the way Seokjin’s voice filled a space, whether it was roaring over an arena crowd or stripped down in an acoustic clip from years ago. It was the way his laughter translated even through shaky fan cam footage.

Yoongi shut the laptop when it got too much, but the sound lingered.

Somewhere, under all the caution and practiced distance, something was starting to shift again.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Yoongi wasn’t supposed to notice things. Not about people and definitely not about Seokjin.

But he did.

It started with little things, the way Seokjin always took off his sunglasses the moment he stepped into the shop, even on the brightest days. The way his laugh always came with a hand to his chest, like he needed to keep it from spilling too far.

Yoongi didn’t know why any of that stuck in his head. He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

On Tuesday, Seokjin came again. This time, not with biscuits or shotcakes, but with two neat paper boxes tied with twine.
“Pastries,” he announced like they were a peace offering. “The good kind. Not the dry, disappointing kind.”

The two others crowded him immediately, Jimin clapping like a seal, Taehyung taking the box and opening it on the counter without even asking.

Yoongi stood back, pretending to be deeply occupied with arranging lisianthus. He could feel the fizz of their excitement across the room.

“You’re spoiling us, hyung!” Taehyung said through a mouthful of whipped cream.

“That’s the point,” Seokjin replied with a grin.

It was Jimin who dragged Yoongi into the conversation, leaning over the workbench. “Hyung, come get one before they’re gone.”

“I’m busy,” Yoongi muttered, but Seokjin’s voice followed, warm and casual.

“Yoongi-yah, you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t at least try it.”

He froze. The sound of his name in that familiar, lilting tone was… disarming.
Jimin made an exaggerated ‘ooh’ sound in the background, but they both ignored it.

Yoongi just took the pastry Taehyung offered and muttered a gruff thanks.

The conversation drifted. But the whole time, Yoongi’s chest felt strange, like there was something lodged under his ribs that didn’t want to move.

When Seokjin finally left, promising to “do better than biscuits, shortcakes and the pastries next time,” Yoongi went back to his workbench. He kept his head down so no one would notice his hands shaking.

Seokjin came again two weeks later.

“Hyung,” Taehyung greeted with a grin, already halfway across the shop to meet him.

“Don’t start with the honorifics unless you mean it,” Seokjin teased, handing over a paper bag. “Here. For all of you.”

Inside was another box, heavier this time little matcha cheesecakes, perfectly portioned.

“You’re single-handedly going to ruin our diets,” Jimin complained, but took one anyway.

Yoongi kept to the counter again, but Seokjin didn’t let him off so easily. He walked over, leaning one elbow on the workbench.

“You didn’t tell me if you liked the shortcakes….or the pastries.”

“They were fine,” Yoongi said, too quickly.

“Fine?” Seokjin made a mock-wounded face. “Do you talk to all your friends like this?”

“You’re not-” Yoongi stopped himself. “We’re not-”

“Friends?” Seokjin supplied, tilting his head. “Not yet. We’re getting there.”

The worst part was, Yoongi didn’t have a good argument against that.

It was after Seokjin left, after the shop was quiet again, that Jimin found him staring into a bucket of peonies.

“You okay, hyung?”

“Fine.”

“You’ve been… weird. Like, extra weird. Is it about him?”

“No,” Yoongi said flatly, which of course meant yes.

Jimin didn’t push. But he gave Yoongi a look that said he knew better.

That night, Yoongi didn’t sleep. Not well, anyway. He dreamed of sound, not of lyrics, but of the shape of them, the way they filled a space. He woke before dawn and sat on the edge of his bed, pressing his palms into his knees like he could ground himself there.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been through this before.

People thought he kept to himself because he was shy. That was only partly true. Mostly, it was because letting people close had a way of… unravelling things.

His mother had been the first to teach him that.

He could still remember the last real conversation they’d had…him in his early twenties, her standing in the kitchen with the window open, telling him that sometimes love wasn’t enough to keep people from leaving. That it wasn’t about blame, it was about… incompatibility.

She’d moved to Daegu a month later. They’d spoken on the phone three times since.

He’d had other relationships…brief ones, all of them ending the same way. Someone asking for more than he could give, him shutting down before they could take it.

It was easier to be alone. Cleaner.

And yet…

Seokjin came again on Friday. No desserts this time. instead, a small potted fern.

“I thought your shop needed more green,” he said with a smile.

“We have plenty,” Yoongi replied automatically.

“This one’s special,” Seokjin insisted. “It doesn’t die easily. Even if you forget to water it. My kind of plant.”

Jimin cooed over it, Taehyung took a photo and Yoongi… looked away.

Later, though, when Seokjin lingered at the counter as the others busied themselves, Yoongi found himself speaking without planning to.

“You said it doesn’t die easily,” he said.

Seokjin glanced at the fern. “Yeah. Pretty resilient. Why?”

“No reason.” Yoongi’s fingers tapped the counter. “Just… most things do.”

There was a pause. A soft one.

Seokjin didn’t push, didn’t ask. He just nodded like he understood more than he was saying.

It was almost closing time when Seokjin came back from wherever he’d disappeared to, the record store down the street, apparently. He carried a small paper bag and set it on the counter.

“For you,” he said simply.

Yoongi opened it. Inside was a cassette tape. The label read, in neat handwriting: Live at Busan, 2019.

“You probably don’t have a tape deck,” Seokjin said, grinning. “But I figured, analog suits you.”

Yoongi didn’t know what to say.

“Consider it a bribe,” Seokjin added. “For letting me hang around here so much.”

“You don’t need to bribe me,” Yoongi said, before realising what he’d admitted.

Seokjin’s smile softened, just slightly. “Noted.”

When the shop finally closed and the boys headed out into the warm, green dusk, Yoongi stayed behind for a moment. He sat at the counter with the cassette in his hand, staring at it like it might give him answers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother’s voice telling him to be careful. To keep the edges of himself intact.

But when he thought of Seokjin’s laugh or worse, his voice, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was already too late.

Yoongi had always been good at ignoring questions.
Most people stopped asking them eventually…especially the personal ones…because he was a master at that particular skill: answering without saying anything at all. It was an art form, really.

But Seokjin wasn’t most people.

It had been over three months since that first show night and like clockwork, Seokjin would show up at the shop every week or two. Sometimes mid-morning, sometimes just before closing, always with something in his hands, shortcakes, scones, honey madeleines, the kind of treats Yoongi would never admit to craving. He never stayed very long, just enough to talk, browse the displays, sometimes buy a bouquet, sometimes not. The boys in the shop adored him.

And Yoongi… didn’t know what to do with him.

So on a Wednesday afternoon, with early winter sunlight spilling in through the glass and the air smelling faintly of eucalyptus, he finally asked.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

It slipped out before he could decide whether or not he actually wanted the answer.

Seokjin, standing by the counter with two neat white boxes from some bakery downtown, blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t… need flowers every week.” Yoongi snipped the end of a rose stem, keeping his tone flat. “And you bring food every time. You’re not even here long enough to finish a coffee.”

There was a pause and then a quiet chuckle. “Is it bothering you?”

Yoongi looked up. “No. Just curious.”

Seokjin’s eyes softened in that way Yoongi had learned to recognise, not pity, not mockery, but something like a gentle patience. “Maybe I like it here.”

Yoongi raised a brow.

“Not just the flowers,” Seokjin went on, opening the bakery box to reveal four miniature strawberry shortcakes, their whipped cream swirled like clouds. “The shop feels… calm. You feel calm.”

“I’m not calm,” Yoongi said before he could stop himself.

“You look calm.”

“That’s different.”

Seokjin smiled as if that proved his point. “You know, you’ve never told me much about yourself. I only know you own a flower shop and you drink too much coffee.”

“And I know you’re in a band and your fans scream a lot,” Yoongi said, deliberately nonchalant.

That earned a quiet laugh. “Touché.”

For a moment, they didn’t speak. Yoongi went back to trimming stems and Seokjin leaned against the counter, watching him like he was waiting for something. The boys were in the back room arranging a bulk delivery, their chatter muffled by the door, so the shop felt oddly intimate, just the two of them and the slow hum of the refrigerator.

“You ever feel like you don’t… fit?” Seokjin asked suddenly.

Yoongi’s hands stilled. “…Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know.” Seokjin shrugged. “You remind me of someone. He always said the world felt like it was built for someone else, not him.”

Yoongi glanced at him, wary. “And?”

“And I told him the world’s big enough to find a corner that feels like yours. It just takes time.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t say that his own corner had always been small, self-built, self-guarded, a fortress made of routines and solitude. He didn’t say that letting people in had always ended in something breaking.

But Seokjin’s words stayed there, like they were hovering in the air between them.

They ate the shortcakes together, seated on the counter stools, the sunlight catching in the sugar dusted over the strawberries. Yoongi pretended not to notice how Seokjin’s knee kept brushing his when he shifted.

“You know, Yoongi-yah,” he began between bites, like they were just picking up an old conversation.

Yoongi didn’t even look up. “Every time you start a sentence like that, I regret letting you talk me into this hyung business.”

“You love it,” Seokjin said, too quickly, too cheerfully.

“I tolerate it,” Yoongi corrected.

“That’s practically affection coming from you.” Seokjin took another slow forkful of cake, watching him with that infuriatingly satisfied expression. “And since I am your beloved hyung-”

“Debatable.”

“-I can invite you to things without you making that face,” Seokjin finished, undeterred.

Yoongi finally glanced at him. “What face?”

“That one. The ‘I’d rather crawl into the fridge than go outside’ face.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Exactly,” Seokjin said, grinning. “Our show. We're performing. Next week. You, me, the kids from the shop if they want. No fridge escapes allowed.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest twitch.
They’d been having versions of this conversation for weeks now, woven between deliveries and coffee breaks and Seokjin’s ridiculous weekly dessert offerings. And somehow, without meaning to, Yoongi had stopped bracing himself quite so much when the bell above the shop door chimed.

Now that the show was mentioned however, the memory of that first night hit him, the stage lights, the heat, the way Seokjin’s voice had carved something open in him without permission. The thought of feeling that again made his pulse pick up.

“I don’t know,” he said, too quickly.

“You’ll like it. Smaller venue this time.” Seokjin’s gaze softened. “But if you don’t want to, I won’t push.”

Yoongi didn’t respond, pretending to busy himself with wiping down the counter.

They talked a little longer after that, about the weather, about Jimin’s latest obsession with novelty plant pots, about Taehyung’s acting classes where they do too much Shakespear. When Seokjin finally left, promising he’d “find an even better dessert next time,” the shop felt too quiet again.

Yoongi didn’t spend hours staring at his closet.
He didn’t pace, didn’t second-guess his shirt choice until the clock bullied him into leaving.
It was almost alarming how easily his hands had moved, pulling on a dark button-down and a pair of black slacks that still had a faint crease from the last time he’d worn them.
Ten minutes and he was ready.
Almost like he’d been looking forward to this.
Almost.

Before stepping outside, he paused at the shop counter to pick up the bouquet he’d arranged earlier that afternoon, a quiet, carefully selected arrangement that Seokjin had mentioned wanting last time. The muted greens and soft pastels wrapped gently in brown paper felt heavier in his hands than he expected, like carrying a small secret.

When he stepped out into the cool evening air, Jimin and Taehyung were already waiting by the curb. Jimin had a spark in his eyes that could probably power a small city, while Taehyung was halfway bent into the car window, enthusiastically describing something to the driver.

“You’re early,” Jimin said, straightening up with a teasing smile. “Who are you and what have you done with our hyung?”

“Keep it up,” Yoongi muttered, tugging at his cuffs, “and I’ll walk there instead.”

Taehyung leaned back, grinning in that wide, impossible way. “He’s dressed according to the theme!”

“The theme?” Yoongi echoed, sliding into the car.

“Retro noir meets midnight romance,” Jimin announced, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Yoongi blinked at him. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“It matches the setlist,” Jimin said. “Seokjin-hyung hinted at it last week.”

Yoongi pretended not to feel the tiny twist in his stomach at the casual use of “hyung” paired with Seokjin’s name. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly, more like an uninvited reminder that other people knew him, too. That Seokjin’s orbit wasn’t just his.

The ride to the venue was filled with Jimin’s animated chatter about rumoured stage effects, Taehyung’s predictions about the encore and Yoongi’s quiet attempts to piece together what the night might hold. He didn’t bother trying to keep up; the younger two were in their own universe, passing bursts of excitement back and forth like a ball. It was strangely comforting, just listening.

When they arrived, the first thing Yoongi noticed was the size of the crowd.

The second thing was the sound of it, the kind of buzzing, anticipatory hum that settles in your bones before you even set foot inside.

“This is a single-show performance?” Yoongi asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. The line wrapped around the block, spilling into side streets, a human tide drawn toward one point.

“Mm-hmm,” Jimin confirmed, linking arms with Taehyung as they approached the entrance. “One night only.”

“And this many people showed up?”

Taehyung gave him a sideways look. “Hyung, you’ve seen them play.”

He had. And yet, the sheer volume of bodies made his chest tighten in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

A staff member met them at the door, greeting them by name (Seokjin’s doing, no doubt) and led them past the main crush of the crowd. They wove through side corridors and up a narrow flight of stairs before stepping into the VIP balcony.

It was quiet here. Not silent, the low murmur of other guests still threaded through the air, but a stark contrast to the humid, shifting mass below. From this vantage point, Yoongi could see the pit clearly: the sway of the crowd, the restless motion of people leaning forward, eager for the first note. The stage lights glowed dimly, an unlit promise.

“This is nice,” Jimin said, already leaning on the railing. “We can see everything without getting elbowed in the ribs.”

“And no sweaty strangers breathing down your neck,” Taehyung added.

Yoongi gave them both a dry look, but he couldn’t deny the truth in it. He settled into one of the high-back chairs near the front, letting his gaze drift across the venue. The balcony smelled faintly of polished wood and something floral, maybe from the arrangements tucked into the corners. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful, like the calm before a storm.

When the lights finally dimmed, the quiet shattered.

The crowd roared, a sound so vast it seemed to push against the walls, shaking loose something in Yoongi’s chest.

One by one, the band members emerged, first Jungkook, already twirling a drumstick between his fingers; then Namjoon, guitar slung low; Hoseok, grinning as if the whole room belonged to him. The energy shifted with each arrival, building in a way that felt deliberate, electric.

Seokjin.

Even from this distance, he was impossible to miss. The venue was alive with a hum of anticipation, the air thick with the scent of sweat, spilled beer and the faint floral notes of the bouquets Yoongi had brought in earlier. Fans pressed close to the stage, a mass of eager faces illuminated by the flickering glow of phone screens and the pulsing, ever-changing floodlights.

The stage lights caught on the black silk of his shirt, turning it into liquid shadow that clung to him like a second skin. His smile curved easily, an effortless invitation and a challenge all at once. He held himself with a natural command, as if the entire space had been waiting, breath held, for his arrival. There was nothing polite or measured about his presence tonight; it was molten, immediate and Yoongi felt it like a heatwave, a slow burn creeping beneath his skin, igniting every nerve before he could even think to move.

The crowd surged forward with the opening chord, a tidal wave of energy and sound crashing over the room. Lights flashed in kaleidoscopes of colour, spotlight beams slicing through the haze of smoke and fervour. The bass throbbed deep in Yoongi’s chest, syncing with his heartbeat as he watched this stranger who wore a familiar face but carried a wildness he’d only ever seen once before.

The first few songs blurred, a cascade of raw emotion and fierce intensity, a sensory storm that wrapped the space in sound and light. It was surreal, watching someone he thought he knew transform into someone else entirely, a stranger who could command a crowd with a single note, a glance, a breath. The beauty of it struck him like a revelation and for a moment, Yoongi felt the world tilt, suspended in that impossible, incandescent moment.

And then came the final song.

The opening chords were slow, deliberate, like the careful breath before a confession. Seokjin’s voice slid in, unhurried, carrying the weight of something that felt older than the words themselves.

In the faint clouds
On the traces left behind
Is it what I left?
Or your raindrops?

The balcony around him dissolved. The crowd below became a muted shadow, a distant murmur swallowed by the weight of the music and the light. The stage was a haloed island in the dark, glowing softly like a fragile gem poised in the night. The warmth from the spotlight fell like a gentle caress, pooling over Seokjin’s silhouette, highlighting the graceful angles of his face and the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Yoongi’s hands curled tightly against his knees, fingers digging into denim as if holding himself together. The lyrics weren’t just words, they were little knives, delicate and precise, slipping through the cracks in his carefully sealed heart. Each phrase found its way into places he’d hidden away, rooms in his mind shuttered for years, dust motes swirling in the stale air of forgotten memories.

We two, drifting
In the tranquil sky
Let’s promise to dream of bright days
Together, forever

He thought of those years spent in quiet rooms, the low hum of loneliness wrapping around him like a second skin. The evenings spent convincing himself that distance was safety, that solitude was the only shape his life could take without fracturing. Every carefully constructed wall of detachment felt fragile now, cracking under the weight of the song, under the pull of that voice that reached straight through the noise he’d built around himself.

Will you disappear if I touch you clumsily?
I’m a frightened child

The tremor in Seokjin’s voice carried a vulnerable honesty that twisted something deep in Yoongi’s chest. It was as if the singer was speaking directly to the fractured parts of him, the clumsy, frightened fragments he’d kept locked away from everyone. The raw, trembling edges of humanity that he hid beneath calm and reserve.

Let’s create words of a promise
That will never fade

The stage lights shifted again, softening into a pale, golden glow that seemed to hover just above the crowd. For a moment, Yoongi felt unmoored, the balcony vanishing entirely and suddenly he was standing right there under the light, close enough to see the pulse beating at Seokjin’s throat. Close enough to catch the subtle catch in his breath, the way the singer’s hands curled around the microphone like it was a lifeline.

If the tears holding your sadness are rain
I’ll gladly soak it all up, take it all

His breath caught painfully in his throat. It wasn’t just a performance anymore; it was a dismantling. A careful, tender unmaking of every wall he’d built piece by piece, every barrier chipped away by notes and lyrics until he was left exposed, trembling in the fragile quiet between the verses. The vulnerability was palpable, almost a physical presence in the air, as if Seokjin’s voice was reaching out to cradle the shattered pieces of him with unwavering kindness.

The room held its breath with him, the audience caught in the same suspended moment, fragile, aching, electrified. The notes hung in the air like fragile glass, shimmering with unsaid promises and quiet truths.

When the final note faded, it didn’t feel right that applause should come. The silence was too sacred, too intimate to be broken by clapping hands. But then it did, slow at first, like a gentle wave brushing the shore, swelling into a tidal roar that crashed up from the pit below. The sound rattled the balcony rail beneath Yoongi’s fingers, pulling him back to the present, back from that raw edge of feeling.

The crowd was wild, but Yoongi was still caught in that fragile moment, caught in the echo of a song that had reached deeper than he ever thought possible. He leaned back, eyes still fixed on the glowing figure on stage, heart pounding with a strange, fierce hope…hope that maybe, just maybe, the quiet parts of him weren’t so untouchable after all.

Yoongi sat very still, afraid that if he moved, the spell would break. His thoughts felt scattered, like someone had pulled them apart and rearranged them into something raw and unfamiliar.

He didn’t look at Jimin or Taehyung. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Down on stage, Seokjin was smiling, that wide, open smile that felt both entirely real and impossibly far away. And Yoongi, for all his careful distance, knew he’d carry the sound of that song with him long after the lights came back on.

The moment the last note hung in the air, Yoongi felt a sudden, sharp constriction in his chest, a tightness like icy fingers curling around his ribs, squeezing until it was hard to breathe.

The applause still thundered around him, a rising tide of noise and excitement, but for Yoongi, everything blurred and slowed. His breath came quick, shallow, catching in his throat like he’d been plunged underwater.

He barely heard Jimin’s voice behind him, soft and concerned. “Hyung? Are you okay?”

But Yoongi didn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He needed to move, to get out, anywhere but here, this heated cage of bodies and noise that was suddenly suffocating.

He pushed forward through the throng, elbows digging in as people brushed past, their sweat and perfume a dizzying flood of sensation. The air was thick, hot, almost electric and every pulse of bass in the music seemed to hammer in his ears.

The panic, if that’s what it was, didn’t make sense. Panic wasn’t supposed to come from something beautiful. From something that had touched him in a way he never expected.

But it was there, crawling up his spine and settling heavy in his limbs.

His heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat racing ahead of his thoughts.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get outside.

He wove through narrow corridors, past startled staff and backstage crews, feeling his footsteps pound louder in his ears than the music still playing somewhere behind him.

Sweat slicked his palms, his shirt clinging damply to his skin. His throat felt tight, dry.

The crowd’s roar faded as he moved away from the stage, replaced by the shuffle of feet, the scrape of chairs, distant voices.

He slipped through a side exit, pushing a door open into the night and the cold air hit him like a wave.

Outside.

The word was a lifeline, a distant shore in a storm-tossed sea.

Cold air slammed into his face, crisp and biting, washing away the heat and noise in a rush.

Yoongi sagged against the rough brick wall outside, sliding down until he was crouched low, knees drawn to his chest.

His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, loud in the quiet night and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to steady the storm inside.

In the sudden stillness, all he could hear was the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

Flashbacks spun in his mind…faces and moments tangled like the wild stems of flowers.

The sharp smile of the old lady who always came in on Tuesdays, clutching a worn purse as she selected roses.

The careless laughter of Jimin, bright and urgent, explaining some physics problem with wild hand gestures.

Taehyung’s easy grin as he flipped through a flower catalogue, humming softly to himself.

The familiar hum of the shop’s air, the scent of damp earth and fresh petals curling in his nostrils.

And then, a memory cut through the quiet like a slash of light.

Seokjin.

Storming in four months ago, slapping a 500 won coin on the counter and demanding a bouquet dripping with loathing.

The absurdity of that moment, the audacity of the man who didn’t know him at all, but had somehow started to rearrange the pieces of his life, like a slow-burning fuse lit beneath his carefully guarded walls.

He let out a breathless, shaky laugh that nearly turned to a cough.

His chest still ached, the ache a strange mix of pain and something else, a fluttering, like fragile wings trying to break free.

A soft scrape beside him made him start.

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Slowly, almost reverently, someone settled beside him, their knee brushing against his.

Just enough to be close, but not to crowd.

Yoongi stayed still, eyes shut, breathing heavy and uneven.

“Hey,” a quiet voice said, low, warm, unmistakable.

The familiar scent of sandalwood and mint drifted over him, comforting and disarming.

Kim Seokjin.

The man who had rewritten the script of his days and nights without even trying.

“You okay?” Seokjin’s voice was gentle, careful, like he was handling something fragile.

Yoongi swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

“I… I didn’t mean to disappear like that,” he said finally, voice raw. “It’s just-”

He trailed off, unsure how to explain that his own heart felt like it was fighting a war inside his chest.

“That song, that last song,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper. “It… it hit me. Harder than anything I’ve ever heard.”

Seokjin nodded, silent for a moment, then reached out hesitantly.

His hand found Yoongi’s, warm and steady.

“Music has a way of doing that,” Seokjin said softly. “Breaking you open, sometimes. But also, maybe, putting the pieces back together.”

Yoongi let the warmth seep in, filling some of the cracks he didn’t know were there.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice steadier now. “I wasn’t trying to run.”

“You don’t have to apologise.”

There was a quiet pause, the night stretching between them like a secret shared.

Somewhere behind them, the muffled sounds of the crowd shuffling about and dispersing continued, but here, outside the noise and the lights, it was just the two of them.

Yoongi opened his eyes slowly, head turned, meeting Seokjin’s gaze.

There was something in those eyes, something unspoken, patient, a gentle understanding that made Yoongi’s chest ache with a strange kind of hope.

For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he felt seen.

Not as the quiet, misunderstood florist.

Not as the man who stumbled through social spaces like a ghost.

But as someone worth the effort.

Someone who could breathe.

The air was cold against his flushed skin, but inside, a quiet fire was beginning to burn.

And he didn’t want it to go out.

Outside the chaos of the concert, the frenzy of sweat and screams and roaring guitars, here was something different, something quieter, deeper.

The silence between them stretched and softened, neither rushing to fill it.

Their hands remained clasped, the simple pressure an unspoken conversation louder than any words could be.

Yoongi’s fingers twitched, a slow, tentative brush of Seokjin’s thumb tracing lazy circles on his palm.

It was an intimate gesture, the kind that spoke of trust built over shared moments, stolen glances and quiet confessions.

The warmth seeping from Seokjin’s hand was a steady anchor, a balm to the storm swirling inside Yoongi’s chest.

It was almost terrifying how much it calmed him.

For months now, since that first abrupt visit to the flower shop, since the absurd bouquet request, since the conversation exchanged over biscuits and shortcakes, Yoongi had been unravelling in ways he hadn’t allowed himself before.

Falling, unbidden and unplanned.

And now, sitting here, the stars above threading silver through the dark sky, he could no longer deny the truth pulsing in his veins.

“I’m scared,” he admitted softly, the words trembling out like fragile glass breaking.

Seokjin’s gaze shifted to meet his, the charcoal smudge beneath his eyes catching the faint light, eyes deep and endless as a midnight forest.

“Scared of what?”

Yoongi swallowed, the vulnerability raw and aching.

“Of falling,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Of... losing control. Of letting someone see me, really see me and what if they don’t like what they find?”

He felt exposed, unguarded in a way that terrified him.

Seokjin’s hand tightened gently around his, the brush of his thumb growing steadier, more deliberate.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Seokjin said quietly. “But falling... isn’t something to fear.”

Yoongi’s eyes searched his face, looking for the sincerity in that soft smile.

“It’s terrifying,” he said. “Because it changes everything. You’re not the same person once you do.”

Seokjin nodded, as if that transformation was something he knew well, something he had lived through and come through stronger.

“But maybe that’s the point,” Seokjin said, voice low and sure. “Change isn’t always bad. Falling doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means finding parts you never knew existed.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, the truth of those words settling deep in his bones.

He thought of the lonely hours in the flower shop, the half-closed eyes of old customers, the silent kindness of his coworkers, the weight of solitude pressing down like a winter sky.

And now here, with Seokjin, the man whose voice had shattered something inside him and then held the pieces gently, with reverence.

Seokjin, who didn’t demand explanations or apologies, who didn’t flinch at his guarded silences or blunt words.

He was here. Present.

And that was extraordinary.

“I never thought I’d want this,” Yoongi confessed, voice low and uneven. “Connection. Trust. Someone who looks at me and doesn’t turn away.”

Seokjin’s smile was tender, patient.

“You deserve that,” he said simply. “We all do.”

For a long moment, they just breathed together, the night folding around them like a secret embrace.

There was no rush, no pressure, only the steady, grounding pulse of a hand in hand, the whisper of shared vulnerabilities.

Yoongi’s mind wandered back to the day Seokjin had walked into the shop, the challenge in his eyes, the unexpected warmth beneath the bravado.

How something so ordinary, a bouquet, a joke, a simple invitation, had become a thread weaving their lives together.

The quiet revolution of kindness.

He looked at Seokjin again, really looked, seeing the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes softened in the dark.

The man who had changed his brain chemistry, undone him with a single song and yet held him safe in the aftermath.

“I’m falling,” Yoongi repeated, this time with a fragile sort of pride.

“And it’s terrifying.”

Seokjin’s laugh was soft, a low rumble that felt like home.

“Well,” he said, voice teasing, “that sounds like a pretty extraordinary problem to have.”

Yoongi smiled despite himself, the tension easing in his shoulders.

“Extraordinary,” he echoed.

Their hands remained clasped, fingers intertwined, a lifeline in the dark.

Around them, the city breathed, lights flickering like distant stars, the occasional murmur of late-night wanderers.

But here, in this still moment between two people who had stumbled into something rare and beautiful, the world felt suspended.

Time slowed, the weight of loneliness lifting ever so slightly.

And beneath the vast, indifferent sky, Yoongi allowed himself to hope.

That maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something worth holding onto.

🎸