Chapter Text
Seokjin arrived in Seoul believing that some promises were worth everything—worth distance, worth fear, worth emptying his savings and starting from zero. And Taehyung was one of those promises.
They moved into a cramped studio, barely enough space for a bed, a foldable table, and a secondhand stove that always sparked before it warmed. But Taehyung walked inside with wide eyes and a grin too bright for the tiny room, and Jin convinced himself it was enough.
He came to Seoul for Taehyung, after all.
And Taehyung… came for his dream.
Seokjin remembered the first months in Seoul like they were lit with warm yellow light—too soft, too golden, too deceptive for how things would eventually turn out.
They used to sit cross-legged on their creaky wooden floor at night, scripts scattered around them like fallen leaves.
“Hyung—listen to this line,” Taehyung said, voice dramatic as he perched on Jin’s lap, legs dangling. “‘I don’t need saving. I need someone who believes in me.’ How was that? Be honest.”
Jin flicked his forehead gently. “You sound like you’re proposing to the camera, not fighting the villain.”
Taehyung gasped. “That’s my charm!”
Jin laughed. “Your charm is that you sound like you’re always flirting, even when you’re asking for extra sauce in your tteokbokki.”
Tae pretended to pout but melted seconds later, arms looping around Jin’s neck.
“Then it works, right? You fell for me.”
“I fell for you before the extra sauce,” Jin murmured, kissing his cheek.
Steam from their cheap ramen clouded the windows, making the world outside disappear.
Taehyung slurped a noodle, pointed his chopsticks at Jin, and said with absolute confidence,
“When I make it, I’ll take care of us. I’ll work hard for your dreams too. Promise.”
And Jin believed him with his whole heart. Because back then, Taehyung always looked at him like Jin was the only person in the world he trusted his future with. Those were the nights that felt like home.
Jin’s days blurred into exhaustion. He washed dishes at dawn until his fingertips pruned, dashed to trainee classes with wet hair, then moved to the convenience store to work nighttime shifts.
Yet every evening, no matter how tired he was, he ran home. Ran—so Taehyung wouldn’t see the heaviness in his steps.
And every time he opened the door, Taehyung looked up from his script with that smile—the one that made everything worth it.
“Jinnie, you’re home early!”
“It’s midnight, Tae.”
“That’s early for you.”
Tae would shuffle to him, wrap his arms around his waist, and bury his face in Jin’s chest.
“You smell like dish soap,” Taehyung mumbled.
“You smell like tangerines,” Jin replied.
“It’s the character’s scent concept,” Tae said proudly. “Cute actor things.”
Jin laughed and kissed the top of his head.
In those moments, love felt easy. Natural. Simple.
Then one evening, Jin arrived home to an empty apartment. The lights were off, Taehyung’s shoes were missing.
Jin called. No answer.
He texted. No reply.
He waited on the floor, scrolling through SNS to kill his rising anxiety.
At 1:24 a.m., Taehyung burst through the door with bright energy and a city-night glow.
“Jinnie!” he exclaimed, breathless. “Sorry, shooting ran late!”
“You said you’d be home by ten,” Jin said softly.
Tae blinked, surprised. “Oh—yeah. I forgot.”
Forgot. Just like that. But then he grinned and hugged Jin, and Jin let it go.
Another night, Jin sat waiting with two bowls of kimchi fried rice cooling on the table.
10 p.m.
11 p.m.
12:30 a.m.
His phone finally buzzed with a text:
Tae: Had dinner with the casts. Don’t wait up! Love you.
Jin sighed, staring at the bowls.
The door creaked at 2 a.m. Taehyung tiptoed inside, smelling like a mix of grilling smoke and laughter.
“Hyung, you’re awake?” Tae whispered.
“I didn’t know you had dinner plans.”
Tae paused. “Oh… I didn’t either. They just invited me. I thought you’d be asleep.”
Jin looked at the cold food. “I waited.”
Taehyung stepped closer and cupped Jin’s face. “I know. I’m sorry. But you know how it is… connections matter.”
Jin tried to smile. “I get it.” He really tried.
Until a rare day off aligned for both of them. Jin prepared a small picnic, packed kimbap, cut fruit, even grabbed a cheap instant camera for memories.
Taehyung woke up late, stretched, checked his phone—and frowned.
“Ah, hyung, I forgot,” Tae muttered. “Jungkook asked if I wanted to join a workshop today. We’re practicing scenes.”
Jin blinked. “But we planned today together.”
Tae scratched the back of his head. “You didn’t remind me.”
“We made plans three days ago, Tae.”
“Yeah, but… you didn’t confirm it yesterday.”
Jin stared at him. “Tae, it was a date.”
Taehyung winced, then sighed. “Look, I’ll make it up to you. But this is important for my career.”
“But so are we,” Jin whispered.
Tae froze for a second—but only a second.
Then he grabbed his bag. “I’ll be back tonight. Don’t be sad, okay?”
And he left. The kimbap stayed in the fridge until it spoiled.
Despite the cracks, Jin held onto the warmth of the early days.
The nights on the floor with scripts.
The midnight ramen.
The promises whispered into cheap pillows.
The feeling that their small apartment was cushioned by love.
He clung to every memory like a lifeline.
Because that was the Seoul they imagined together—
A future built from cramped rooms and cheap dinners but filled with the comfort of each other.
Even as that us slowly became a fragile thing he had to hold together alone.
With every schedule, Taehyung grew busier. With every day, Jin saw him less.
They still kissed in the mornings when Tae left before sunrise. They still called each other “baby” in texts. But the messages became shorter and the calls more missed than answered.
Jin told himself it was normal, that success demanded sacrifices. He just didn’t know he would become one.
Their small home felt increasingly empty. The city felt colder. Jin’s part-time jobs dragged into nights that were too quiet. His trainee classes suffered; his song practice lost warmth. He started losing himself in the space Taehyung left behind. But he stayed. He always stayed.
Because love, for him, was endurance.
It happened on a rainy Thursday.
Jin called Tae three times—no answer. He texted twice—no reply. He only found out where Taehyung was when photos trended online: Tae and Jungkook leaving a restaurant past midnight, umbrellas shared, smiles too intimate.
The image burned, not because he thought Tae was cheating—he still trusted him—but because Jin wasn’t part of that world anymore.
When Taehyung got home, Jin finally asked:
“Can you at least tell me when you’re staying out late? I worry. I just… I just want to know you’re okay.”
Taehyung frowned, annoyed rather than guilty. “Jin, I’m busy. I can’t babysit your feelings every day.”
The words stung. Jin stayed calm.
“I’m not asking for anything big. Just some consideration. I’m your—”
And that’s when Taehyung snapped. “You can’t tell me what to do. We’re not married.”
The silence after was a wound. Jin felt his chest cave in—quietly, invisibly, like a building collapsing at night when no one was watching.
Taehyung’s face softened too late. But not enough. Jin nodded. Because fighting for love had become exhausting.
“Okay,” he whispered. “I won’t tell you what to do.”
That night, Jin lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling of their too-small apartment that suddenly felt too big.
Taehyung slept facing the wall.
Jin stayed, not because love felt good— but because love, to him, meant holding on even when it hurt. And he still loved Taehyung with a tenderness that terrified him. The cracks were there. Growing. Spreading. But Jin convinced himself he could mend them if he just tried harder.
He did not yet know that someone else—someone quiet, someone steady—was already waiting to pick up the pieces he kept dropping.