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The meeting room smells like burnt coffee and printer ink and the kind of stress that seeps into walls and never leaves.
Jungkook hates this room.
The glass table is too clean, too reflective—he can see himself in it if he looks down too long, distorted and stretched, a version of him that belongs to schedules and signatures and other people’s expectations. The chairs are stiff. The air-conditioning hums like it’s waiting for someone to make a mistake.
Jimin sits beside him, close enough that their knees touch if Jungkook shifts just a little to the left.
He doesn’t.
Not yet.
Across from them, Evil Management—because Jungkook has never called them anything else in his head—arranges papers with slow, deliberate movements. Fingertips straighten edges. A pen clicks once. Twice. The kind of theatrics meant to make you feel small.
“This won’t take long,” someone says.
It always takes long.
The contract lands on the table with a soft thump, pages fanning out like something alive, like a creature baring its ribs.
The title is bold. Clinical. Dead-eyed.
Mandatory Fanservice Between Jungkook and Jimin to Appease the Masses.
For half a second, Jungkook forgets how to breathe.
The words don’t make sense at first. They hover in the air like static, like a foreign language he almost understands. Mandatory. Fanservice. Their names printed side by side in legal font, black ink, no room for ambiguity.
He hears a sound and realizes it’s coming from Jimin.
A tiny inhale. Sharp. Like he’s just been punched somewhere delicate.
Jungkook turns before he can stop himself.
Jimin’s face is perfect—too perfect, the way it always is when he’s trying to hold something together. His lips part slightly, eyes wide, lashes casting shadows that make him look soft and breakable and dangerously close to crying.
Jungkook’s chest caves in.
Oh.
Oh no.
If anyone were watching closely, they’d see exactly what they’re supposed to see: Jungkook stiffening, jaw tightening, hands curling into fists on his thighs. Jimin blinking fast, shoulders tensing, the picture of discomfort.
Forced. Unhappy. Trapped.
What they wouldn’t see is the riot underneath.
Because Jungkook has loved Jimin for years.
Loved him in quiet hotel rooms with the curtains drawn and the city bleeding neon through the cracks. Loved him in the dark, in whispered conversations and shared earbuds and fingers laced together under blankets. Loved him in ways that had never been loud, never public, but had rooted deep, like something growing despite concrete poured over it.
They have built a life in stolen moments.
And now—
Mandatory fanservice.
The irony hits Jungkook so hard he almost laughs.
Inside his head, everything is chaos.
They can’t be serious. This is insane. This is—
He glances back at the contract. Reads the words again. They don’t change.
Jimin’s hand twitches on the table. Jungkook knows that twitch. It’s the one that comes when Jimin wants to reach out but can’t. When instinct crashes into reality and reality always wins.
Jungkook wants to take that hand. Wants to squeeze it, ground them both. Wants to say it’s okay, I’m here, we’re fine, we’re us.
Instead, he plays his role.
He leans back, face carefully schooled into something like devastation. Lets his shoulders slump. Lets his eyes darken.
“This—” Jungkook starts, voice rough, perfectly imperfect. “You’re saying we have to… pretend?”
Evil Management nods, like this is normal. Like they’re discussing wardrobe changes or rehearsal times.
“Yes. The public response data suggests—”
Jungkook stops listening.
Because Jimin’s eyes flick to his for just a second.
Just long enough.
In that look is everything they can’t say.
If they knew. If they ever knew. We’ve been hiding so well and now—
Jimin swallows. His throat bobs. His fingers curl into the edge of the paper like he might tear it apart.
From the outside, it looks like heartbreak.
From the inside, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing the fall might turn into flight.
Worst.
Best.
The words tangle together in Jungkook’s chest.
Worst, because they’ve spent years being careful. Because their love has survived on secrecy and trust and a thousand tiny promises whispered into pillows. Because pretending has always hurt, even when it kept them safe.
Best, because this means he can touch Jimin.
In public.
Because he can look at him too long and no one will tell him to stop. Because he can stand too close, brush fingers, lean in, smile like he means it—because he does.
Jungkook presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
Jimin, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to shatter.
His thoughts are louder, messier.
They’re making us lie. They’re turning us into a performance. They’re—
And underneath all that, traitorous and bright and terrifying:
I get to hold him.
Jimin hates himself a little for that thought.
He hates that relief flickers in his chest, warm and unwelcome. Hates that his heart is doing this stupid hopeful thing when it should be furious. Hates that after years of pulling away when cameras come too close, he’s being handed permission wrapped in poison.
He presses his lips together, feels them tremble.
“I don’t understand,” Jimin says softly, and his voice is the sound of glass about to crack. “You want us to fake something… we don’t feel.”
Jungkook almost breaks.
He almost turns, almost reaches, almost ruins everything by saying that’s not true.
Evil Management doesn’t catch the emphasis. The pause. The way Jungkook’s knee finally shifts and brushes Jimin’s under the table—accidental, deniable, electric.
They explain terms. Conditions. Appearances. Smiles and touches measured and monitored.
Jimin hears none of it.
All he can think is: We have survived on scraps. And now they want to feed us lies that look like truth.
Jungkook thinks: They’re giving us a stage and calling it fake. They have no idea.
The contract sits between them, heavy as fate.
Jungkook exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for impact.
Jimin curls his fingers tighter, knuckles white.
Outside the room, the world goes on. Music plays somewhere. Someone laughs down the hall.
Inside, two people who have loved each other in secret for years sit side by side, pretending to be devastated by the idea of pretending.
And somewhere, deep beneath the fear and frustration and bitterness, something reckless begins to bloom.
Because if they’re going to be forced into a lie—
They might as well tell it beautifully.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The contract keeps growing.
That’s what it feels like, anyway—like it’s breathing, expanding, sprouting new limbs every time someone from management clears their throat. Another page slides forward. Another clause is read aloud in that careful, soulless tone, like they’re announcing weather conditions instead of rearranging two people’s lives.
Jungkook leans back in his chair again, arms crossing over his chest. He tilts his head, frowns just enough to sell it.
“Isn’t this…” he trails off, searching the ceiling like the word might be written there. “Unethical?”
The room goes still for half a second.
Jimin blinks at him, startled—and then, catching on, he turns that blink into a look. Soft, wounded, righteous.
“Yes,” Jimin says quickly, nodding. “That’s what I was thinking. This feels… invasive. What about our artistic integrity?”
The phrase lands wrong in Jungkook’s ears—too big, too serious—but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Artistic integrity. He can’t even say it in his head without hearing Jin’s voice mocking it.
Across the table, management exchanges looks.
“This is standard industry practice,” someone says. “Fans expect chemistry.”
Jungkook hums, unconvinced. He taps his fingers against his bicep, a nervous habit he usually hides. He doesn’t hide it now. He lets the discomfort show. Lets the reluctance drip off him.
Inside, his thoughts are an entirely different universe.
I get to touch him in public.
The sentence is bright and dangerous. It flares in his chest like a spark catching dry grass. He imagines it too easily: his hand on Jimin’s back without pretending it’s accidental. Fingers brushing, lingering. Standing too close on stage and not stepping away.
No more flinching when cameras swing their way. No more coded distance.
Jimin shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. His foot bumps Jungkook’s ankle, light as a secret. He doesn’t pull away.
Jimin’s panic is quieter, softer around the edges, but it’s there—curling in his stomach, tight and fluttery.
We’re going to mess this up, his brain whispers. We’re going to slip. Someone’s going to notice.
And then, right behind it, treacherous and sweet:
I get to hold his hand without dodging cameras.
The thought feels like a sin.
Jimin presses his thumb into his palm, grounding himself. He keeps his gaze on the contract, on the neat bullet points and subheadings like they might keep him steady.
Management continues, flipping pages.
“Mandatory eye contact during public appearances.”
Jungkook chokes. He turns it into a cough.
Eye contact. Mandatory.
He risks a glance at Jimin. Jimin is already looking at him, eyes wide, something startled and almost fond flashing between them before he looks away again, cheeks warming.
“That’s… a lot,” Jungkook says, carefully neutral.
“It helps sell authenticity,” management replies.
Jungkook nods slowly, like he’s absorbing a great burden, while inside his brain he’s thinking we’re doomed.
“Coordinated outfits,” another voice adds. “Visual cohesion matters.”
Jimin makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a protest. “You want to… dress us together?”
“Yes.”
Jungkook’s knee bounces once. He stops it with effort.
Matching outfits. Standing side by side. Being framed as a unit instead of two separate stars orbiting carefully around each other.
He’s going to lose his mind.
“And,” management continues, tone casual, “occasional ‘accidental’ skinship.”
Jimin’s head snaps up. “Accidental?”
Jungkook drops his gaze to the table before his grin betrays him.
“Yes,” they say. “Nothing excessive. Just natural touches. Shoulder brushes. Hand bumps.”
Natural. Accidentally on purpose.
Jimin swallows hard. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, drowning out the hum of the air-conditioning. He imagines Jungkook’s hand brushing his. Imagines not pulling away. Imagines cameras catching it and the world thinking it’s pretend.
Something twists in his chest—not pain, not joy, but a complicated knot of both.
He raises his hand slightly, hesitant, like a student asking a question he already regrets.
“Is there…” Jimin starts, voice softer now, eyes fixed on a coffee ring on the table. “Is there a minimum requirement?”
The room pauses.
Jungkook’s head lifts slowly.
Minimum requirement.
He bites down on his lip, hard, because the laugh is right there, clawing its way up his throat.
Management nods. “Yes. To maintain consistency.”
“How much?” Jimin asks.
It’s a stupid question. It’s also the most important one.
They list numbers. Counts. Times per appearance. Per day. Per event.
Jungkook listens, eyes unfocused, because all he hears is allowed, allowed, allowed.
He leans back in his chair again, exhales through his nose, and mutters under his breath, just quiet enough that only Jimin can hear—
“We can work with this.”
Jimin freezes.
Then he turns, slow and deliberate, staring at Jungkook like he’s lost his mind.
Jungkook meets his gaze, face still carefully schooled into reluctant seriousness, but his eyes—his eyes are smiling.
Jimin has to look away before he breaks.
Before he laughs. Before he cries. Before he does something catastrophically honest like reach out and lace their fingers together right there under fluorescent lights and legal documents.
The contract lies open between them, full of rules and restrictions and carefully measured affection.
Outside, it looks like a cage.
Inside, it feels dangerously like permission.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
Negotiations start the way all bad ideas start—with Jungkook tilting his head and saying, a little too casually, “If you want this to look real, we should probably talk about realism.”
Management blinks.
Jimin looks at Jungkook like he’s watching someone walk straight into traffic.
“What he means,” Jimin jumps in, voice quick, hands folding neatly in his lap like this is still a Very Serious Meeting™ and not already sliding downhill, “is that fans can tell when something feels forced. Overdoing it ruins the illusion.”
He hopes no one notices the way his foot has turned toward Jungkook under the table, drawn there like a compass needle finding north.
“Yes,” Jungkook says, nodding earnestly. “We don’t want it to look… stiff.”
The word stiff almost kills him.
Management exchanges another look. There have been a lot of looks today—silent, regret-filled conversations that say we should have canceled this meeting.
“All right,” one of them says. “What did you have in mind?”
The air shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel like the room has leaned in.
Jimin inhales slowly. He doesn’t plan to say it. It just… happens.
“I want ten kisses a day.”
Silence crashes down like a dropped plate.
Jungkook’s brain blue-screens.
Ten kisses.
A day.
He stares at Jimin, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing once like a fish. Jimin stares straight ahead, spine rigid, cheeks already pink, heart attempting to claw its way out of his chest.
From the outside, it looks bold. Professional. A demand made in service of authenticity.
From the inside, Jimin is screaming.
Why did I say that. Why did I say that. I said that out loud.
Management clears their throat. “Ten seems… excessive.”
Jungkook finds his voice, thank god.
“Only if I get to hold his hand twenty times.”
The words fall out smooth and easy, like he’s been waiting years for an excuse.
Jimin whips around. “Twenty?”
Jungkook shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere closer to obvious. “Hand-holding is less intense than kissing.”
Jimin squints. “According to who?”
“Science,” Jungkook says immediately.
A sound escapes from somewhere to their left.
A very familiar sound.
Yoongi’s snort.
Jungkook freezes mid-breath.
Slowly—so slowly—it dawns on him that they are not, in fact, alone.
The rest of BTS is scattered along the far wall like a jury that has already decided guilt. Yoongi is sprawled in a chair, arms crossed, expression carved from stone except for the traitorous twitch at his mouth. Namjoon stands by the window, hands shoved in his pockets, eyebrows steadily climbing toward the ceiling. Hoseok looks delighted. Taehyung looks like he’s watching premium entertainment. Jin is openly eating a snack.
No one said they could be here.
No one said they couldn’t.
Jimin’s soul exits his body, checks the situation, and considers not coming back.
“We’re—” Jimin gestures helplessly at the table. “We’re discussing logistics.”
“Oh, we can tell,” Yoongi says. “Very logistical.”
Management rubs their temples like they’re reconsidering every life choice that led here.
“Let’s stay focused,” they say weakly. “Any other… requirements?”
Jimin opens his mouth. Closes it. Glances at Jungkook.
Jungkook raises his eyebrows. A silent go on.
“Waist holds?” Jimin says, voice smaller now, like he’s asking permission from the universe.
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “Lap sitting during variety shows.”
Everything happens at once.
“Absolutely not,” management snaps.
“This feels illegal,” Namjoon blurts.
“Define lap,” Jin adds, crumbs flying.
Hoseok collapses in laughter. Taehyung claps like he’s at a concert.
Jimin presses his palms flat to the table, mortified and buzzing, heart racing so fast he’s not sure it’s keeping up with his body.
“This is for realism,” he insists, voice high. “Couples are affectionate.”
“Not like that,” management groans.
Jungkook leans forward, elbows on the table, suddenly serious. Focused. Dangerous.
“Fans already think we’re like that.”
That lands.
The room goes quiet again—but this time it’s heavy. Thoughtful. Tired.
Management looks done. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just deeply, profoundly exhausted.
“Fine,” someone mutters. “Whatever. Just—just sign the contract.”
The papers are shoved forward.
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.
Neither does Jimin.
They sign immediately, pens scratching in unison like this was always going to happen. Jungkook’s signature loops and slants, messy and confident. Jimin’s is neat, careful, just a little shaky at the end.
It’s done.
The room exhales.
Yoongi stares at the contract, then at them. “They didn’t even pretend to hesitate.”
Namjoon rubs his face. “I feel like we just witnessed a crime.”
Jungkook leans back, finally letting his grin escape.
Jimin catches it—and for a split second forgets the room, the contract, the eyes on them.
He smiles back.
Messy. Bright. Terrifyingly happy.
Later—because apparently this day still has more to give—they end up in the practice room, the place that smells like sweat and memory and home. Someone’s hoodie is abandoned on the speaker. A half-full water bottle rolls across the floor when Jungkook nudges it without noticing.
“So,” Jin says, arms crossed, already smug. “Fanservice contract.”
Jimin groans. “Please don’t.”
“Oh no,” Jin continues dramatically. “How tragic. You’ll have to flirt publicly with your soulmate.”
Hoseok laughs. “Should we throw you a party or…?”
Taehyung is already bouncing. “Piggyback rides. Mandatory.”
Yoongi shrugs. “Lean on him more. Fans love that.”
Jungkook, traitor, actually considers it. “That could work.”
Jimin glares. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jungkook smiles, soft and unapologetic. “A little.”
Namjoon sighs. “If management wants fake—”
“We’ll give them fake,” Jin finishes. “Unbearably.”
Hoseok grins. “Let’s make it everyone’s problem.”
Jimin looks around at them—his family, his safe place, the people who’ve known his heart longer than the world ever will—and something warm settles in his chest.
There’s still angst. Still the lie. Still the weight of rules and contracts and careful lines.
But there’s also laughter.
There’s safety.
There’s love, multiplied and loud and on his side.
Jungkook reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing Jimin’s sleeve.
Not holding.
Not yet.
Just enough.
They’re smiling when they don’t realize it.
And somewhere out there, Evil Management has absolutely no idea what they’ve just unleashed.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The first time it happens, it’s supposed to be harmless.
That’s the lie everyone tells themselves.
They’re lined up onstage for a press photo, lights flashing like tiny explosions, the crowd a living, roaring thing that presses up against the barricades like a tide. Jungkook stands half a step behind Jimin out of habit, muscle memory etched into him from years of choosing that spot unconsciously, even when he shouldn’t have.
The contract sits heavy in his pocket. Or maybe that’s just his heart.
When Jimin’s hand drifts back—hesitant, almost shy—Jungkook freezes for half a second. That old instinct flares: don’t. Cameras. Eyes. Risk.
Then he remembers.
Page two. Section A. “Natural hand-holding encouraged.”
Encouraged. God.
Jungkook laces their fingers together.
Not a casual grip. Not the kind you can laugh off later. Full interlock. Thumbs brushing. Palms warm and familiar and very, very real.
The crowd screams.
Jimin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
They don’t let go.
They keep not letting go long enough that a staff member offstage starts making frantic slicing motions across their throat, like cut, cut, stop this right now. Jungkook sees it out of the corner of his eye and, instead of panicking, feels something reckless bloom in his chest.
Jimin leans closer, voice barely there. “Are we…?”
Jungkook squeezes his hand. “Contractually obligated.”
Jimin laughs. It comes out soft and broken and a little disbelieving, like joy startled out of hiding.
After that, it’s like something breaks loose.
During the interview, Jungkook reaches to fix Jimin’s mic. He doesn’t rush. He steps in close, fingers careful at Jimin’s collarbone, knuckles brushing skin that only he usually gets to touch. He can feel Jimin’s heartbeat under his thumb, quick and traitorous.
“Sorry,” Jungkook murmurs, loud enough for the mic to catch.
Jimin tilts his head, exposing his neck without thinking. “It’s okay.”
It’s intimate in a way that feels illegal even with the contract. Or maybe especially with the contract.
A coordinator clears their throat. Loudly.
Jungkook takes his time pulling away.
Jimin starts leaning into him after that. Not dramatically. Just—whenever there’s space, he fills it. Shoulder to chest. Hip brushing thigh. A quiet gravity that pulls them together over and over again, like the universe itself is sick of pretending they’re not in love.
Fans are losing their minds. You can feel it in the air, in the way the screams pitch higher, the way phones shake.
Management is very clearly not having a good time.
Backstage, someone hisses, “Tone it down.”
Jimin blinks at them, wide-eyed, angelic. “We are?”
Jungkook, deadpan: “We’re just following the contract.”
And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—they start using it.
On a variety show, the couches are too far apart. This is, apparently, unacceptable.
Jungkook flips through a printed copy of the contract like he’s studying for finals. “Page four,” he says, tapping the paper. “Subsection C. ‘Lingering eye contact and proximity to maintain believability.’”
The PD rubs their temples.
Jimin pats the space beside him. “Come sit.”
Jungkook sits. On his lap.
It’s chaos.
Jimin’s arms come around him easily, like they’ve done this a thousand times in some other life. Jungkook rests his weight there, solid and warm, pretending not to notice how the studio has gone completely feral.
“Comfortable?” Jimin asks, lips ghosting his ear.
Jungkook smiles. “Very.”
Later, during a snack segment, Jimin feeds him a strawberry on camera. Jungkook bites down slowly, eyes never leaving Jimin’s. Juice runs down his thumb. Jimin wipes it away without thinking, and then freezes, realization dawning too late.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
“Clause?” Jungkook prompts.
Jimin recovers instantly. “Clause.”
They whisper and giggle during interviews, foreheads nearly touching, private jokes spilling out where they shouldn’t. Jungkook rests his chin on Jimin’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn’t spent years training himself not to do that.
Every touch feels louder than it should. Every smile feels like a secret finally allowed to breathe.
The members do not help.
Namjoon asks questions that require demonstrations. Jin trips “accidentally” and sends them stumbling into each other. Taehyung suggests poses that are absolutely not approved by anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation.
Yoongi watches it all with the calm of a man observing nature. “Here,” he says into the mic, voice dry, “we see contractual affection in its natural habitat. Notice the complete lack of restraint.”
Management looks like they’re considering early retirement.
Jungkook catches Jimin’s eye across the room at one point. There’s a flicker of something there—relief, fear, joy, all tangled together. Loving you openly like this feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. Exhilarating. Terrifying. One wrong step and—
But Jimin smiles. Soft. Steady. Like a promise.
Jungkook reaches for his hand again.
This time, nobody even pretends it’s accidental.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The quiet sneaks up on them.
It always does—right after the noise, when the adrenaline drains out and leaves behind something softer and more dangerous.
Backstage smells like hairspray and sweat and cooling stage lights. Someone’s laughing down the hall, staff voices overlapping, footsteps coming and going. But the dressing room door is closed, and for once there’s no camera pointed at them, no cue cards, no contract being waved in their faces like a permission slip to exist.
Jungkook sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, still buzzing. His heartbeat hasn’t quite figured out that the show is over. Jimin paces once, twice, then stops in front of him like he’s forgotten what he was doing.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
Jimin breaks first.
“It’s funny,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a joke. He’s smiling, technically. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “All these years, we had to dodge cameras like we were committing a crime. And now—” He gestures vaguely at the door, the world beyond it. “Now they’re asking us to do it.”
Jungkook looks up at him. Really looks.
There’s still glitter on Jimin’s cheekbone. A faint red mark at his wrist where Jungkook had held on a little too long earlier. Proof of something real hiding inside the performance.
Jimin sinks down beside him, shoulder to shoulder but not touching this time. “I hate that it’s only allowed because it’s fake,” he says quietly. “I hate that they clap for it because they think it’s pretend.”
The words land heavier than any joke they’ve thrown around all day.
Jungkook’s chest tightens. He reaches out without thinking, then hesitates—habit again, even here—before remembering there’s no one to stop him. His hand finds Jimin’s knee, grounding, warm.
“It’s not fake,” he says. Simple. Certain. “Not to us.”
Jimin laughs softly, a breath more than a sound. “I know. I do. It just—sometimes it feels like we’re borrowing a version of the future and giving it back at the end of the day.”
That one hurts. Because it’s true.
Jungkook leans back, staring at the ceiling like the answers might be written up there between the water stains and fluorescent lights. “Yeah,” he admits. “But even borrowed… it’s still ours.”
Jimin finally turns to look at him. Really look. His eyes are a little shiny, but he’s not crying. Jimin never cries when he’s angry at the world—only when he’s tired of it.
“We’re ridiculous,” Jimin says suddenly.
Jungkook snorts. “Extremely.”
“Signing a contract to pretend to be in love,” Jimin continues, warming to it. “While actually being stupidly, embarrassingly in love.”
“Criminal behavior,” Jungkook agrees. “Yoongi said so.”
That gets a real laugh out of Jimin, shoulders shaking as he leans into Jungkook at last. Jungkook wraps an arm around him instinctively, pulling him close, like the day never ended, like the contract never existed.
Jimin rests his forehead against Jungkook’s neck. “Promise me something,” he murmurs.
“Anything.”
“One day,” Jimin says, voice steady now, resolved. “No contracts. No pretending. No clauses about eye contact.”
Jungkook presses a kiss into Jimin’s hair, right where the stage lights didn’t quite reach. “One day,” he promises. “Just us. Just honesty.”
Jimin hums, satisfied, and squeezes his hand. “Until then,” he adds lightly, “I’m invoking subsection C.”
Jungkook laughs, loud and helpless, the sound echoing off the dressing room walls. “Of course you are.”
They sit there like that a little longer—two people in love, stealing quiet between chaos—knowing the world outside will keep pretending, and knowing, too, that someday it won’t have to.
And for now?
That’s enough.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The final event feels less like an appearance and more like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind daring you to jump.
Everything is too perfect. The suits are tailored within an inch of their lives. Hair styled, makeup flawless, smiles calibrated to the millimeter. The venue buzzes with electricity—camera shutters clicking like insects, lights blazing hot enough to make skin prickle. There’s that particular industry tension in the air, the kind that smells like money and anxiety and control.
Jungkook and Jimin are supposed to stand side by side.
They don’t.
They stand together.
Jungkook’s arm is wrapped fully around Jimin’s waist, not the polite hover, not the fanservice pinky touch. It’s solid. Protective. His thumb presses into the familiar dip of Jimin’s hip like muscle memory finally got permission to exist. Jimin leans into him without hesitation, shoulder tucked under Jungkook’s chin, his hand resting flat over Jungkook’s chest like that’s where he belongs.
Which, unfortunately for management, it is.
Someone offstage whispers urgently into a headset. Another staff member is mouthing separate, separate like a prayer. No one listens. No one can physically pry them apart without causing an incident, and everyone knows it.
The questions start easy.
Album concepts. Creative growth. Tour hints.
Jungkook answers one while fixing Jimin’s sleeve, slow and careful, like the world isn’t watching. Jimin answers another while Jungkook nods along, eyes soft, gaze locked like he’s afraid Jimin might evaporate if he looks away. Every time Jimin laughs, Jungkook’s grip tightens just a little, grounding himself.
Behind them, BTS is a mess.
Taehyung is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, vibrating with barely-contained delight. Hoseok keeps making silent “oh my god” faces to anyone who’ll look at him. Jin has fully given up pretending to be neutral—he’s grinning like this is the best show he’s seen all year. Namjoon is staring at the floor, hands clasped, like he’s counting down the seconds until something explodes. Yoongi looks calm, which somehow makes it worse.
Then it happens.
The reporter tilts her head, eyes sharp, voice sweet with curiosity sharpened into a blade.
“Some fans are wondering,” she says, “is this all just fan service?”
Time fractures.
The room freezes. Cameras stop moving. Someone gasps. Management goes pale—actual, visible color draining from their faces. One person straight-up closes their eyes like they’re bracing for impact.
Jimin’s breath catches.
Not because he’s scared—but because there it is. The thing that’s been hovering over them since the ink dried on the contract. The ugly truth wrapped in a neat word. Fanservice. As if this—this warmth, this gravity, this love—could be reduced to a marketing tactic.
He feels Jungkook still beside him.
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looks down at Jimin.
Really looks.
At the faint crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. At the way his lips curve into that soft, knowing smile—fond, brave, a little sad around the edges. At the man who laughed with him backstage and whispered promises about someday. At the man who trusted him enough to stand here, under all these lights, and not pull away.
Jimin meets his eyes.
Doesn’t say a word.
Just gives the smallest nod.
I’m here. Whatever you choose.
Jungkook exhales.
Something settles in his chest. The panic burns out, leaving clarity behind. His hand tightens at Jimin’s waist—not claiming, not hiding. Just steady.
He turns back to the reporter.
Smiles.
Not the idol smile. Not the practiced one meant to soothe and deflect.
This one is crooked. Real. A little dangerous.
“We’re just…” He pauses, glancing back at Jimin like he’s checking the sky before stepping off. “Very committed to our work.”
For half a second, the universe forgets how to function.
Then BTS completely breaks.
Jin lets out a laugh so loud it echoes. Hoseok bends forward, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking. Taehyung claps both hands over his mouth, eyes shining like he’s witnessing art. Namjoon drags a hand down his face, muttering something about lawsuits and destiny. Yoongi, ever the menace, nods slowly and murmurs into the mic, “Truly dedicated professionals.”
The crowd erupts.
Laughter. Screams. Cheers that ripple like a wave crashing into the stage. Social media combusts in real time. Management looks like they might actually pass out—one of them grips the edge of a table for balance.
Jimin can’t help it.
He laughs—bright and unfiltered—and ducks his face into Jungkook’s shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. Jungkook laughs too, breathless and a little hysterical, heart pounding like it’s finally doing what it was made for.
They don’t clarify.
They don’t backtrack.
They don’t separate.
They stand there, glued together by something far older than contracts and far stronger than fear, letting the world see just enough to never forget it.
Behind them, BTS crowds closer, a wall of familiar chaos and protection. In front of them, cameras flash like fireworks.
And somewhere, buried under rules and clauses and plausible deniability, the truth hums quietly between them—
Jin inserts himself.
It starts the moment the reporter steps back, and the crowd noise swells again, the tension breaking but not disappearing—like a cracked dam pretending it’s fine.
Jin takes one look at Jungkook and Jimin, still very much attached at the hip and clicks his tongue.
“Unbelievable,” he says loudly, stepping forward until he’s right beside them. “No shame at all.”
Jimin jumps a little. “Hyung—”
Jin slings an arm around both of them, hauling them closer so now it’s a full, ridiculous cluster of limbs and designer fabric and terrible decisions. Jungkook’s arm stays locked around Jimin’s waist out of sheer reflex. Jimin’s hand ends up fisting Jin’s sleeve.
“For years,” Jin continues, projecting like he’s addressing a courtroom, “I raised these children. Fed them. Protected them. And this is how they repay me.”
The cameras lose their minds.
Jin smiles sweetly into the nearest lens. “Don’t misunderstand. I support love.”
He glances down pointedly at Jungkook’s hand on Jimin’s waist.
“I just didn’t realize it came with a group discount.”
Hoseok actually screams this time.
Namjoon makes a noise like he’s being exorcised.
Yoongi mutters, “We are never recovering from this,” and yet somehow looks deeply satisfied.
Jungkook laughs so hard he has to tuck his face briefly into Jimin’s shoulder, his grip tightening like laughter might shake Jimin loose from him. Jimin’s laugh is quieter, breathy, pressed into Jungkook’s collarbone, warmth blooming across his chest despite the lights, the noise, the everything.
“Hyung,” Jimin manages, muffled. “You’re making it worse.”
Jin pats his cheek affectionately. “That’s my job.”
He leans toward the mic one last time, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “For the record, if this is fanservice, I want hazard pay.”
The reporter is openly laughing now. Staff members look like they’re reassessing every life choice that led them here.
Management is fully, visibly sweating.
And through it all—through Jin’s antics, through BTS dissolving into chaos, through the crowd roaring like the ocean—Jungkook and Jimin stay exactly where they are.
Too close.
Too real.
Too obvious.
Jin finally releases them with a dramatic sigh, straightening his jacket. Before stepping back, he pauses, softer now, just for them.
“You good?” he asks, eyes sharp but kind.
Jimin nods. Jungkook nods too.
Jin smiles—small, proud, fond in a way that makes Jimin’s throat tighten. He gives Jungkook’s shoulder a firm squeeze, then flicks Jimin’s forehead gently.
“Carry on,” he says. “Menaces.”
As Jin retreats, Jungkook exhales slowly, grounding himself in the familiar weight of Jimin beside him.
“They’re enjoying this too much,” Jungkook murmurs.
Jimin hums. “They always do.”
The lights flare again. Another question comes. Another camera clicks.
But Jungkook doesn’t hear it right away.
All he feels is Jimin’s fingers lacing into his again, steady and sure.
Fake.
Real.
Contractual.
Honest.
All the lines are blurring now—and somehow, standing there with Jin’s laughter still echoing behind them, it feels like the beginning of something breaking open instead of falling apart.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The thing about the extension is that it doesn’t end anything.
It just… gives them more room to be ridiculous.
The official announcement goes out with polished language and carefully chosen photos—Jungkook and Jimin smiling just close enough, hands almost touching, eyes warm but “professional.” Evil Management pats itself on the back. Numbers spike. Articles bloom overnight like mushrooms after rain.
Inside the dorm, Jungkook is pacing.
“They added an addendum,” he says, waving his phone around like it personally offended him. “An addendum, Jimin.”
Jimin is sprawled on the couch, head upside down, hair falling into his eyes. “Is it bad?”
“It says ‘increased comfort level expected due to established chemistry.’”
Jimin grins slowly. Dangerously. “Oh.”
Jungkook stops pacing. “Oh?”
“Oh,” Jimin repeats, sitting up. “That means escalation.”
From the kitchen, Yoongi calls out, “I knew it.”
Hoseok appears instantly. “Escalation how?”
Jimin hops up and loops his arms around Jungkook’s neck without warning. Jungkook yelps, instinctively grabbing his waist to keep him from tipping over.
“Like this,” Jimin says sweetly.
Hoseok screams. Taehyung applauds. Namjoon drops his water bottle. Jin sighs like a man who has lost control of his household.
“Please,” Jin says. “I’m begging you. Think of my blood pressure.”
They do not.
The next few weeks blur into a montage of chaos.
Jungkook starts carrying snacks specifically to feed Jimin on camera, citing “sustained couple realism.” Jimin starts fixing Jungkook’s hair mid-interview, fingers gentle, familiar, devastating. They walk into schedules hand-in-hand so often that staff stops reacting entirely—just stepping aside like this is weather now. Unavoidable. Permanent.
Fans zoom in on everything.
Management sends emails with subject lines like PLEASE REMEMBER BOUNDARIES.
Jungkook replies with screenshots of highlighted clauses.
Backstage, Jin corners them one day, arms crossed. “I hope you know,” he says seriously, “that if you get married because of this contract, I’m suing.”
Jimin gasps. “Hyung!”
Jungkook blinks. “…You can do that?”
Yoongi walks by. “I’ll testify.”
The final final image—the one that lives in everyone’s head later—is small.
Not a stage. Not cameras flashing like lightning.
It’s a hallway after a schedule, lights dimmed low, staff bustling past without really seeing them anymore. Jungkook reaches for Jimin’s hand out of habit.
No hesitation.
No checking.
Just fingers sliding together, easy as breathing.
Jimin leans in, murmurs, “Still feels illegal.”
Jungkook smiles, soft and stupid and in love. “We’ve got paperwork.”
From behind them, in perfect, exhausted harmony, BTS groans.
“Disgusting,” Jin says.
“Truly,” Namjoon agrees.
Hoseok laughs. Taehyung films it. Yoongi shakes his head but doesn’t look away.
Jungkook and Jimin walk on anyway—hands linked, hearts loud, love loudest of all.
Contractually obligated.
And somehow, finally, free.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
“Some loves have to hide, some have to pretend, but theirs learned how to survive even inside a lie, until one day the world called it fanservice and they finally got to call it freedom.”
{ T H E E N D }