Chapter Text
Prelude
The years in San Francisco had softened them, settling them into the comfortable, easy rhythm of a long-term couple. The grand apartment, once a symbol of their differences, was now simply home, a chaotic, art-filled, love-soaked sanctuary overlooking a city that had become theirs. Their life was a beautiful tapestry woven from the grand and the mundane.
It was in the clinking of champagne glasses at a gallery opening celebrating Jimin’s latest curated show, "Ephemeral Forms." Jimin, looking sharp and confident in a tailored silk shirt, moved through the crowded room with an easy grace, explaining a complex piece to a wealthy patron. Across the room, Jungkook stood by the bar, nursing a drink, his eyes never leaving Jimin. He wasn't just a supportive boyfriend; he was a silent guardian, a steady presence that allowed Jimin to shine. Later, when they were home, Jungkook would massage the ache from Jimin's feet and listen for hours as Jimin excitedly re-lived every conversation.
It was also in the quiet, domestic bliss of a Tuesday night. It was in the silly, low-stakes argument over whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher, a debate that ended with them both doing it, their hips bumping in the small kitchen space. It was in Jimin trying to teach a hopelessly uncoordinated Jungkook a simple dance step in the living room, a lesson that devolved into helpless, breathless laughter and a tangle of limbs on the oversized sofa. It was in the grocery lists left on the counter, in the shared tube of toothpaste, in the thousand tiny, unspoken compromises that made a shared life work.
The sexy times had changed, too. The frantic, desperate passion of their reunion had mellowed into a deep, knowing intimacy. It was in the lazy Sunday mornings, where they would make love with the slow, languid confidence of two people who knew every inch of each other’s bodies, their movements a familiar, perfect dance. It was in the stolen kisses in the kitchen while dinner was cooking, a quick, flour-dusted press of lips that still sent a jolt through them. It was in the way Jungkook would come up behind Jimin while he was painting in his studio, his hands sliding around his waist, his lips finding the sensitive spot on his neck, a silent, perfect distraction that Jimin never, ever complained about. It was a love that was both comfortable and constantly, thrillingly alive.
And once a month, every month, came the quiet, grounding reminder of their roots.
It was no longer a crisis. It was a ritual. It would start with a familiar, dull ache in Jimin’s side, and a quiet sigh as he worked in his studio. Jungkook, from his desk in the living room, would hear it over the sound of his own typing, and the world would pause.
"Stationary bike or heating pad?" he’d ask, his voice already full of a gentle, practiced concern.
"Heating pad," Jimin would murmur, and Jungkook would disappear, returning moments later with the electric pad, a cup of chamomile tea, and a single, perfect square of dark chocolate resting on the saucer.
He would gently guide Jimin to the sofa, tuck a blanket around his legs, and plug in the heating pad, placing it perfectly against Jimin's lower abdomen. He’d press a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Do you need anything else?" he'd ask.
"Just you," Jimin would say, his voice soft.
And Jungkook would settle on the floor beside the sofa, leaning his head back against the cushions, taking Jimin's hand in his. They would sit like that for a while, in a comfortable, healing silence. It was a small, mundane act of care, but it was everything. It was a nod to the boy with the stained sweatpants and the stranger with the black hoodie. It was a quiet acknowledgment of the sheer, random, mortifying miracle that had brought them together. It was a reminder that their extraordinary love story had started with the most ordinary of human experiences. And in the safety and comfort of the beautiful life they had built, that was a truth Jimin had finally, thankfully, learned to embrace.