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The late August rain painted Jeongguk’s penthouse windows in a haze of shimmering grey, a gentle murmur against the glass. Inside, the air was soft with the quiet of the city. He sat curled at one end of his massive sofa, phone warm from being cradled in his palm for too long. He’d seen the news, the articles and speculation, the carefully worded statement from the company— all about respecting privacy and moving forward. It was a formal statement of a private hurt, a public brushstroke over a wound he knew ran deep in Jimin.
Jimin. The name was a physical ache beneath Jeongguk’s ribs, a constant thrum he’d carried for years, carefully buried beneath layers of brotherhood, duty, and stubborn denial. Now, it roared to the surface, raw and exposed. Jimin had vanished. Phone calls rang into oblivion. Texts dissolved into the void. Not just for Jeongguk, but for everyone.
Yoongi had texted the group chat: He’s taking some space. You know how he gets. And Jeongguk did know. But knowing didn’t stop the restless ache under his own ribs, the one he’d carried for years, polished smooth by a lifetime of synchronized choreography, years of shared dorms, and eighteen months of seeing that face every single day across the army barracks.
Hyung, he typed finally, the letters glowing in the dark room. I hope you’re okay. Just reach out if you want. Or don’t. It’s okay.
He sent it before he could overthink the vulnerability, then tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him. He didn’t expect a reply. He’d learned, over the past few days, not to.
So when the phone lit up and vibrated with an incoming call seconds later, his heart did a somersault against his chest. Jiminie Hyung glowed on the screen. He fumbled it to his ear, his voice coming out a soft rasp. “Jimin?”
“Jeongguk-ah.” Jimin’s voice was there— a little quiet, a little tired, but there. And it was smiling. He could hear it. “What are you wearing?”
The utterly absurd, classic Jimin question, arriving in the wake of days of no contact, made a startled laugh punch out of Jeongguk’s chest. “What? Hyung, are you— where are you right now?”
“Outside your building. In my very handsome car. Come down, I’m double-parked and feeling rebellious.” The lightness was a choice, a deliberate mask. Jeongguk could hear the effort in it, and it made his chest ache with the familiar, protective fondness.
“Right now? It’s pouring.”
“Since when does a little water stop Jeon Jeongguk? I’ve seen you dance in storms. Come on. I have a… thing. And I want you with me.”
I want you with me. The words slid past Jeongguk’s ribs and wrapped around that ever-smoldering flame, fanning it into a warm, radiant glow. Every logical thought— the late hour, the rain, the chaos of the past week— evaporated. There was only this call, this voice, this summons.
What the hell, he thought, a giddy, surrendering warmth flooding his veins. Sure. As long as they're together, he’s willing to do just about anything.
“Okay. Don’t get towed. I’m coming.”
He moved in a blur, shoving his feet into worn sneakers by the door and grabbing the first hoodie he could find. The elevator ride down felt endless, his reflection on the shiny metal doors showing a boy wide-eyed with a hope he recognized from seeing him in the mirror for the past 13 years— ever since a bright-eyed, strong-smiling boy from Busan had walked into a practice room and tilted his world off its axis.
He pushed through the heavy lobby doors. The rain was a cool kiss on his heated skin. And there, like a promise kept, was Jimin’s Porsche, idling under the canopy. He jogged over, the rain speckling his hoodie, and slid into the passenger seat.
The interior was warm, smelling of leather and Jimin’s subtle, clean scent. And there he was. Jimin looked… tired. Deeply tired. Shadows pooled under his eyes, which still managed to crinkle into a smile as he looked over. He was wearing a soft, green sweatshirt, his hair a bit mussed. But he was smiling. Really smiling.
“Took you long enough,” Jimin teased, putting the car in drive. “I was about to start honking the chorus of ‘ON’ and wake the whole neighborhood up.”
“You’re in a weird mood,” Jeongguk said, buckling in, his own smile impossible to contain. The sheer relief of being near him, of breathing the same air, made him feel almost drunk.
“A good weird or a bad weird?”
“Just a Jimin weird. And anything Jimin can never be bad,” Jeongguk settled into the seat, studying him. “How are you, hyung? Really?”
Jimin kept his eyes on the slick road ahead, the smile softening but not disappearing. “I’ve been better,” he admitted, his tone losing some of its performative sparkle, becoming more genuine. “It’s been… a lot. You know? But.” He glanced at Jeongguk, his eyes holding a quiet gratitude. “I’m done hiding in my apartment. I needed to move. To do something.”
“So you decided to go for a rainy drive? With me?” Jeongguk’s heart gave a tender squeeze,
“You said driving in the rain was romantic back in Switzerland, so of course it had to be you.” Jimin said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And besides, I have a mission. And you’re my co-pilot.” He reached over and fiddled with the climate control, his fingers brushing near Jeongguk’s knee. “Is it too warm? You want music? You pick.”
Romantic. The word hung in the air, shimmering with unspoken potential. Jeongguk swallowed, focusing on the screen. He navigated to Jimin’s ‘Driving’ playlist, and a familiar, soothing R&B track filled the space— a song they’d listened to on a long highway in Jeju once. It wrapped around them, a familiar blanket of sound.
“So, what’s the mission? Are we late night street food? Because I could get behind that.”
Jimin chuckled, the sound more beautiful than anything the radio could ever play. “Later. First, we’re going to the salon.”
“The salon?” Jeongguk blurted, turning fully in his seat. “Hyung, everything’s already closed. Did you kidnap Noona? Is she tied up in the back?”
“She owes me a favor,” Jimin said, a sly grin playing on his lips. “A big one. I’ve been babysitting her kids while she goes on dates with her husband. Three toddlers. This is payback.”
“What could you possibly need done at midnight that’s worth babysitting three toddlers?”
Jimin was quiet for a moment, navigating a turn. The streetlights washed over his profile, highlighting the weariness again, but also a determined set to his jaw. “I’m going blonde,” he said, his voice calm and clear.
The declaration hung in the air, mingling with the soft music. Jeongguk just looked at him. “Blonde,” he repeated.
“Yeah. My idea. Not the company’s. Not for a schedule.” He glanced at Jeongguk, his eyes seeking understanding. “There’s the Dior showcase in Paris, early October… they’d probably want something by then anyway. But this is for me. Tonight. I just… I need to feel like me again. You know?”
And Jeongguk did know. He knew what hair meant for Jimin— it was a reset button, a reclaiming of self. After 18 months of being denied the freedom of expression, and then the scrutiny, the violation, the feeling of being defined by someone else’s narrative… this made perfect sense.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk said softly, his voice full of warmth. “I know. That’s… that’s really cool, hyung.”
“You don’t mind staying with me? It’ll be boring.”
“Are you kidding?” Jeongguk said, settling back. “I want front row seats to the rebirth of Park Jimin, Natural Born Blonde.”
—
The salon was a sanctuary of warm light in the dark, rainy block. Jimin’s stylist, Haewon Noona, did indeed look pissed at having to stay after hours, but she greeted Jimin with a tight hug and Jeongguk with a tired smile. “Only for you, Jimin-ah,” she sighed, but her eyes were kind.
Jeongguk sank into a plush velvet chair designated for “the boyfriend,” a spot he’d occupied countless times over the years. Tonight, the title, even unspoken, sent a secret thrill through him. He was here. He was the one Jimin had called, the company he had chosen.
The magic began just a little later. Haewon sectioned Jimin’s hair with gentle precision. The first application of the lightening mixture was a pale contrast against the dark strands.
“You remember the first time I did this to you?” Haewon murmured, her focus on her work.
“How could I forget? I cried,” Jimin said, a ghost of a laugh in his voice.
“You did not!”
“I watered up. It was a big change! Jeongguk-ah, back me up. You were there.”
Jungkoke was transported. He had been there. A cramped salon room years ago, all of them buzzing with rookie nervous energy, eager to prove something to someone.
He remembered the awe he’d felt, watching Jimin transform into something even more ethereal, the strange, new squeeze in his teenage chest. “You did cry when you went ginger,” Jeongguk said softly from his chair. “And then you couldn’t stop looking in every mirror for a week.”
“See?” Jimin said, triumphant. “He remembers.”
“He remembers you being vain,” Haewon corrected, grinning.
As the bleach processed, Jimin’s energy, which had been buoyant, settled. The performance for Jeongguk’s benefit eased into a real, quiet calm. He closed his eyes.
In the silence, Jeongguk let himself look. He traced the familiar lines of Jimin’s profile— the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks.
He watched the faint pulse in his throat. The pining was a deep, resonant hum, a frequency he’d lived on for so long it felt like part of his biology.
How is it possible, he wondered, to know someone this completely and still feel like you’re discovering them?
Jimin’s eyes fluttered open, catching Jeongguk in the act of staring. Instead of calling him out, he just offered a soft, tired smile. “Boring, right?”
“Never,” Jeongguk said, the word coming out more intense than he intended.
After what felt like an age of processing, it was time for the reveal. Haewon led Jimin to the washbowl. Jeongguk listened to the rush of water, the low murmur of their voices as he scrolled on his phone, sent a few thank you’s back to friends who were wishing him happy birthday early from other time zones. Then came the blow-drying, the careful sectioning again for the toner— a violet liquid meant to cancel brassiness.
Jimin sat wrapped in foil, looking oddly regal. He picked up his phone, swiped, and then turned the screen to Jeongguk. It was a photo from their Are You Sure?! shoot in Switzerland, both of them laughing, sticking their hand out of the car, soaking up the rain. “See?” Jimin said, his voice fond. “Rainy drives.”
Jeongguk’s breath hitched. He’d meant it as a throwaway comment back then, about the romance of the misty rain, soft music, and winding roads. The fact that Jimin remembered that and he clung to it tonight of all nights, felt monumental.
Finally, the last rinse. The final blow-dry. Haewon worked with a quiet reverence, using a round brush to shape the damp, pale gold strands. Jeongguk leaned forward, elbows on his knees, utterly captivated.
When Haewon was satisfied, she simply stepped back.
Jimin opened his eyes, looking at his reflection in the mirror. For a long moment, he was perfectly still. Then, a slow, real, breathtaking smile spread across his face. It was a smile of recognition. Of homecoming.
He turned from the mirror, his gaze finding Jeongguk’s first. The question in his eyes was raw, vulnerable.
Jeongguk found he couldn’t speak. The sight had stolen his words, his breath, his every coherent thought. The years collapsed— the bright-eyed rookie, the world-conquering performer, the weary soldier, the private man hurting— all of them fused in this one golden, luminous moment.
“Wow,” Jeongguk breathed, the word inadequate.
Jimin turned from the mirror to look at him, his eyes searching Jeongguk’s face. “Yeah?” he asked, uncharacteristically tentative.
“Hyung… you look… like you.” It was the highest compliment he could give.
—
The drive back from the salon was a journey through a softer world. The rain had gentled to a mist, and the streets, still glossy black, reflected the halos of streetlights like scattered moons.
Inside the car, the atmosphere had shifted. The frantic energy of the late-night escape had melted into a warm contentment. Jimin kept one hand on the wheel, the other drifting up to touch his new hair every few minutes, a small smile playing on his lips every time his fingers encountered the silken texture.
Jeongguk watched him, his own heart feeling too big for his chest. The blonde casted his features in a warm, dreamy glow. He looked both incredibly new and profoundly familiar, like an old favorite song playing for the first time after too long.
“You keep staring,” Jimin murmured, his eyes on the road but his smile widening. “Is it that strange?”
“No,” Jeongguk said, the word coming out hushed with reverence. “It’s the opposite of strange. It’s like… you look like the Jimin I know so well but haven’t had the chance to meet recently...”
Jimin glanced at him then, his eyes soft and a little shiny. He didn’t reply, just reached over and gave Jeongguk’s knee a quick, warm squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel. The simple touch, through the denim of Jeongguk’s jeans, felt like a brand.
They slipped back into the penthouse, the vast space finally feeling less like a dark and lonely enclosure and more like a home. Jeongguk flicked on a few low lamps, casting the room in a pool of amber light. The tall windows showed a city heading to bed under a blanket of comforting fog.
“I’m starving,” Jimin announced, toeing off his shoes and padding into the kitchen in his socks. He hoisted himself up to sit on the marble island, watching as Jeongguk moved to the fridge. “What’s the birthday special, Chef Jeon?”
“It’s not my birthday yet,” Jeongguk protested, but he was already pulling out ingredients: eggs, leftover kimchi, spring onions, a container of day-old rice. “For another… 2 hours.”
“Close enough. I’m celebrating the anticipation.” Jimin swung his legs lightly, the casual domesticity of the scene settling around them like a comfortable old coat. “Kimchi fried rice?”
“I hope it doesn’t disappoint,” Jeongguk said, firing up the stove.
“You could burn water and I wouldn’t be disappointed,” Jimin said, so casually that Jeongguk nearly fumbled the egg he was cracking. He focused intently on the sizzling pan, the rich, spicy aroma of kimchi hitting the hot oil and filling the kitchen.
As Jeongguk cooked, Jimin talked. Not about anything heavy, but about everything. He recounted a funny story about Haewon Noona’s son from earlier in the week. He debated the merits of different hair oil brands. He asked if Jeongguk had seen the latest trailer for the superhero movie he’d been waiting for.
It was a stream of easy chatter, a dance of normalcy. Jeongguk listened, chiming in with grunts or laughs or his own anecdotes, his movements in the kitchen a steady counterpoint to Jimin’s flowing words. This was the rhythm he’d missed so desperately: Jimin’s voice as the soundtrack to his life.
He plated the steaming fried rice, crowning each portion with a perfectly fried egg, its yolk a sunset orange. They ate at the island, shoulders brushing. Jimin moaned exaggeratedly after the first bite, closing his eyes. “God, I needed this. I missed your cooking so much, Jeonggukie.”
“You’ve been living on takeout and convenience store food again?” Jeongguk asked around a mouthful.
“Pretty much.” Jimin poked at his rice. “Didn’t really feel like cooking. Or eating."
The admission was quiet, and Jeongguk let it sit between them, not pushing. He just nudged the container of roasted seaweed closer to Jimin’s plate. “Well, eat up. You need your strength.”
“For what?”
Jeongguk grinned. “For my birthday, obviously. You have to keep up with me tomorrow.”
Jimin paused, his chopsticks hovering. “What are the plans for the great Jeon Jeongguk Day? A party? Fancy dinner date? A night out at the club?”
Jeongguk shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Nothing, really. I told you. Low-key. I might go to the gym in the morning. Do the birthday live for a bit. Honestly, hyung, after the last two years, a day where no one tells me where to be or what to wear is the best gift I can imagine.”
Jimin studied him, his head tilted. The blonde hair fell across his forehead, and he looked so young, so tender. “But no party? No dinner with the members?”
“Dinner with my family in Busan the day after tomorrow. The hyungs… we’ll probably get together next week sometime. But tomorrow… tomorrow is just for me.” He met Jimin’s gaze. “Or. You know. For me and whoever shows up.”
The corner of Jimin’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Well. I showed up, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Jeongguk said, his voice dropping. “You have no idea how much that….” He trailed off, the sentiment too large to finish.
After they cleaned up— Jimin washing, Jeongguk drying, their hips bumping against each other every so often— they migrated to the sectional sofa. Jeongguk dimmed the lights further and navigated to the streaming service, pulling up Are You Sure?! He selected the Sapporo episode, the thumbnail a frozen image of them both bundled in thick coats, laughing breathlessly in a cloud of vapor.
“Ah, my warm curry soup and beer,” Jimin groaned, collapsing onto the cushions and pulling a soft cashmere throw over his legs. He patted the spot right next to him. “Come on, I need to feel some kind of warmth before I start craving curry soup.”
Jeongguk didn’t need to be asked twice. He sank into the space Jimin had created, their hips and thighs aligning. He grabbed a bottle of red wine he’d been saving and two glasses, setting them on the low table.
As the opening chords of the show’s theme played, they fell into a familiar, comfortable silence, broken by bursts of shared laughter. On screen, a younger version of Jimin tried desperately to snowboard without toppling over, his face a comic mask of intense frustration, while Jeongguk laughed so hard he doubled over.
They watched themselves explore whiskey shops, get lost in search of restaurants, and bicker playfully while soaking in the jacuzzi. The wine was rich and smooth, and they drank it slowly, the warmth spreading from their stomachs outwards, loosening limbs and tongues.
Jimin would occasionally lean forward to refill their glasses, his new blonde hair catching the TV’s light like a halo. Every time he settled back, he was a fraction closer, until Jeongguk could feel the solid, warm line of him from shoulder to knee.
During a quiet moment on screen, where they were simply sitting on a park bench watching snow fall, Jimin spoke, his voice a soft murmur. “Do you ever miss it? Just us, a camera crew, and a new city?”
Jeongguk thought about it, his head pleasantly fuzzy. “I miss the us part,” he said honestly. “The rest was just… the setting.”
Jimin didn’t reply, but he shifted, letting his head rest against Jeongguk’s shoulder. Jeongguk froze for only a millisecond, then slowly, carefully, relaxed his arm, letting it drape along the back of the couch behind Jimin. It was the most natural thing in the world, and the most monumental.
The episode came to a close, leaving behind only a trail of fond memories and future promises of travel— when the digital clock on the cable box shifted.
11:59.
Jimin sat up a little, pulling away from Jeongguk’s shoulder. He reached for his glass, took a small sip, and set it down with care. He turned to face Jeongguk, tucking one leg underneath him. The TV’s light danced in his eyes and colored his blonde hair into a renaissance painting.
“Almost time,” he said softly.
Jeongguk’s heart began a slow, heavy thud against his ribs. The wine, the warmth, Jimin’s proximity, the sheer tender normality of the night after such a fraught week— it all coalesced into a tight ball of emotion in his throat.
The clock flipped.
12:00.
A gentle, electronic chime sounded from Jimin’s phone that lay across the table; a notification reminder no doubt.
Jimin’s face broke into a smile so beautiful it made Jeongguk’s breath catch. It was a sunrise, full of warmth and promise. “Happy birthday, Jeongguk-ah,” he whispered, the meaning more than any gift ever made.
Before Jeongguk could even form a ‘thank you,’ his phone, which had been silent on the table, lit up and began to vibrate with the specific, ringtone he’d assigned to his mother. He laughed, a sound of pure delight.
“Eomma,” he said to Jimin, his eyes crinkling. He picked it up and swiped to video call. His mother’s warm, beloved face filled the screen, her smile immediate and bright.
“My son! Happy birthday!” she crowed, her voice loud and full of love. “Are you sick? Are you alone? You look a little flushed!”
“I’m doing great, Eomma. I’m not alone,” Jeongguk said, his voice fond. He tilted the phone. “Look who’s here.”
He angled the camera towards Jimin, who immediately leaned into the frame, waving with both hands, his smile shifting into its most charming, respectful mode. “Hello, Eomeonim! Happy birthday to your son!”
“Jimin-ah!” Jeongguk’s mother’s face lit up even more. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! You look so handsome! Is that… is your hair different? It’s beautiful!”
Jimin touched his hair self-consciously, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Thank you, eomeonim. Just a little change.”
“He looks like an angel, doesn’t he, Jeongguk-ah?” she said, and Jeongguk could only nod dumbly, his eyes glued to Jimin’s glowing, slightly embarrassed face. “I’m so glad you’re not alone on your birthday. Are you two being good? Taking care of each other?”
“Always, Eomma,” Jeongguk said, his gaze flicking to Jimin. “Jimin-hyung takes very good care of me.”
“And you must take care of him!” she insisted. “He works too hard, that one. Both of you! You need to come down to Busan soon. The air is good, and my cooking is better. I’ll make you both haemul pajeon and that stew Jimin likes so much.”
Jimin’s eyes went soft. “I would love that, eomeonim. More than anything. We’ll come soon. I promise.”
They chatted for a few more minutes— about his father, about Bam, about upcoming projects— the easy, mundane talk that was the bedrock of home. When they finally said their goodbyes, with his mother blowing kisses and making Jimin promise to ensure Jeongguk ate a proper meal the next day, Jeongguk felt a profound sense of peace. The call was a tether to normalcy, to all the love in his universe that was simple and unconditional.
He ended the call and dropped the phone back on the table. The room was quiet again, the TV now showing the end credits of their show, soft music playing. Jimin was looking at him, his expression impossibly fond.
“She’s the best,” Jimin said softly.
“She loves you,” Jeongguk replied, the wine and the emotion making him even more honest than usual. “She always has.”
Jimin didn’t deny it. He just reached for the wine bottle and poured the last of it into their two glasses. “To your mother,” he said, handing Jeongguk his glass.
“To my mother,” Jeongguk echoed, clinking his glass gently against Jimin’s.
They drank the last of the wine in comfortable silence, the credits still rolling. When the screen finally went black, reflecting their own dim silhouettes back at them, Jeongguk reached for the remote and turned the TV off. The room was plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the distant glow of the city through the windows.
Jimin set his empty glass down with a soft clink and, without a word, settled back into the couch. This time, he didn’t just lean against Jeongguk; he turned his body, curling into Jeongguk’s side, his head finding the perfect spot in the hollow of Jeongguk’s shoulder. One arm slid across Jeongguk’s stomach, holding on loosely. Jeongguk’s breath stuttered. Then, with a sense of fate, he brought his own arm down, wrapping it around Jimin’s shoulders, holding him close. Jimin fit there as if the space had been engineered for him by god himself.
Jeongguk was drunk. Not on the wine, though that was a pleasant hum in his veins. He was drunk on the scent of Jimin’s new, floral salon shampoo, on the feel of Jimin’s warm, solid weight against his side, on the incredible tenderness of the entire night— the reunion, the transformation, the shared meal, the laughter, his mother’s blessing. It was a happiness so perfect it bordered on pain. The quiet, years-long yearning inside him, usually a manageable background ache after a lifetime of practice, swelled into a crescendo that demanded release right then and there.
He turned his head, his lips almost brushing Jimin’s hair. The words came out in a hushed, raw whisper, spoken directly into the golden strands. “Jimin.”
“Hm?” Jimin’s voice was a sleepy, content murmur against his collarbone.
“I want this,” Jeongguk breathed, his arm tightening just slightly around Jimin. “I want every birthday of mine to be exactly like this. Just this. With you.”
He felt Jimin go very still against him. The silence stretched, thick and pregnant. Then, Jimin shifted, pulling back just enough to look up at Jeongguk’s face. In the dim light, his eyes were deep, dark pools, searching Jeongguk’s. A slow, playful, knowing smile touched his lips, but his eyes remained serious, vulnerable.
“Yah, Jeon Jeongguk,” he whispered, his voice a gentle tease laced with something more. “That sounds an awful lot like you’re confessing. And maybe even proposing. All in one.”
The gentle tease. An open door, held ajar just for him. All the courage gathered from this fragile night, and from the years that led them here, rose in Jeongguk's chest. He looked down at Jimin— at his beautiful face, his new-gold hair, his lips still curved in that almost-smile that felt more precious than anything the world had to offer.
The protective walls he’d spent a lifetime building didn't just crack; they dissolved, turning to dust in the quiet. He was laid bare, utterly exposed, and he found he had no will left to rebuild them. What else was he to do, when he was finally holding his beloved in his arms?
His gaze dropped to Jimin’s mouth, then back to his eyes. He felt dizzy, anchored only by the warm weight in his arms. “What if I am?” he breathed, the words barely a vibration in the air between them.
Jimin’s smile softened, melted, transformed into an expression of such pure, unguarded affection that it stole all the air from Jeongguk’s lungs. He didn’t answer with words. He simply lifted a hand, his fingers cool from holding his wine glass, and cupped Jeongguk’s jaw. His thumb stroked once, slowly, over the apple of Jeongguk’s cheek– a touch so tender, so long-imagined, that Jeongguk had to wonder if this was all just another one of his dreams.
Then Jimin leaned in, and he closed the last, fragile, impossible space between them.
The kiss was a discovery. It was soft, a question and an answer all at once. It tasted of shared red wine and familiar comfort and terrifying, new, and wonderful possibilities.
Jimin’s lips were softer than Jeongguk had ever dared imagine, moving against his own with a gentle certainty that spoke of long-held want. It was the quiet, tender heart of a long, rain-soaked night, of thirteen years of side-by-side existence, finally coming together as one.
When they slowly parted, just enough to share a breath, foreheads resting together, the only sounds were their synchronized breaths and the distant breathe of the city outside. Jimin’s eyes were still closed. He let out a small, shuddering sigh that was pure happiness.
Jeongguk, his entire world reoriented around the point where their lips had met, brushed his nose against Jimin’s. No words were grand enough in the thousands of languages ever spoken; no word could ever convey the depth of affection he held for the only man he truly ever loved. So he whispered the only truth left.
“I am,” he confessed against Jimin’s lips. “I am confessing.”