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The building was old, but it held two different worlds inside it. On the second floor, behind tall windows fogged by breath and effort, there was music—soft piano notes echoing against mirrored walls.
On the ground floor, there was the sound of impact: gloves hitting heavy bags, shoes scraping against mats, coaches shouting sharp commands.
And in between them, there was a wide staircase.
Jimin was six years old when he first learned how to stand on his toes and pretend it didn’t hurt. The ballet studio on the second floor smelled like powder and polished wood, the mirrors were taller than him, the barre felt cold under his small fingers.
He was the smallest in class. While the other children stretched lazily, Jimin stretched with quiet determination, his knees were always a little bruised, ankles always wrapped in soft pink tape his mother carefully adjusted before class.
“Back straight, Jimin,” the instructor would say gently.
He tried and his reflection tried with him. When the piano played, he forgot everything else—the whispers from boys at school, the way some parents looked at him with confusion, the sting in his arches. When class ended, he would sit on the staircase halfway down, changing out of his ballet shoes carefully, placing them inside his bag like something fragile.
He always paused before going home, because from below, he could hear something different.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Yoongi was eight when he learned how to make his fists tight enough not to shake. The boxing gym on the ground floor smelled like sweat and metal, the lights buzzed faintly overhead, the mats were worn, punching bags swung like quiet threats.
He wasn’t the tallest either but he was quiet in a way that made people underestimate him.
“Guard up,” his coach barked. Yoongi lifted his arms again, even when they felt heavy, he didn’t complain when he fell, didn’t cry when his lip split slightly during sparring, he just wiped it and stood back up.
The sound of gloves hitting leather felt steady. After practice, while others ran outside laughing, Yoongi often lingered. Sometimes he would sit on the staircase, halfway up, unwrapping the white tape from his knuckles slowly.
Because from above, he could hear music: soft, almost fragile.
Jimin grew taller first, his legs lengthened, lines sharpening as his teacher began correcting him less gently, the second floor no longer felt impossibly big—it felt demanding. The music changed too, slower exercises became sharper combinations, turns that made him dizzy, jumps that made his calves burn.
Sometimes, when he descended the staircase, he would hear laughter from below. And sometimes—he would see him.
Yoongi, sitting on the bottom steps, elbows on knees, hands wrapped in fresh tape, his hair damp with sweat, a bruise forming along his cheekbone like something blooming.
Jimin would pretend not to stare but he always failed.
Yoongi’s shoulders began to broaden. His punches sounded different now—heavier, more controlled, the coaches shouted less at him and watched him more. He didn’t linger on the staircase by accident anymore, he timed it: practice upstairs ended at 6:10, he knew because the piano stopped, footsteps descended, soft soles against wood sounded nothing like boxing shoes.
The first time he looked up on purpose, Jimin was tying his jacket around his waist. He looked… different. Less small but stronger in a way that didn’t look like strength.
Yoongi noticed the way Jimin held the railing when going down—not because he needed it, but because balance was a habit. Jimin noticed the way Yoongi rolled his shoulders before climbing—like preparing for impact, even when there was none.
They never spoke, but they started adjusting their pace, one step slower, one second longer.
The mirrors started feeling different. Jimin had spent years studying his reflection—correcting posture, adjusting shoulders, lengthening lines. His body had always been something technical, a tool that now it was changing without asking him first.
His hips were sharper, his jawline less soft, his chest no longer as flat as the other boys in class, his voice betrayed him sometimes—cracking in the middle of counting beats.
He hated that part most, puberty made everything louder, sweat heavier, thoughts harder to ignore—especially when the staircase echoed.
Yoongi was fourteen now, taller, broader, his arms defined from years of repetition, bruises darker, but worn like something earned.
He didn’t look like a boy anymore and that was the problem.
Jimin noticed it one afternoon when Yoongi wiped sweat from his neck with the hem of his shirt. Jimin’s stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with pirouettes, he looked away so fast his neck hurt.
He didn’t understand it at first, he told himself it was admiration, strength recognizing strength. But admiration didn’t make his pulse race when Yoongi climbed the stairs two steps at a time.
Admiration didn’t make him hyperaware of how close their shoulders were when they crossed. And admiration definitely didn’t make him lie awake at night replaying the exact way Yoongi’s hair fell into his eyes when he was tired.
Jimin had seen girls in his class whisper about boys before.
He tried to imagine feeling that way about them, he couldn’t.
But when he imagined—no. He shut the thought down.
The worst part wasn’t the feeling, it was the fear. He already felt watched for being a boy in ballet, already heard the murmurs and learned how to pretend comments didn’t hurt. What would they say if they knew?
He became quieter on the staircase, stopped looking for too long, kept his hands folded tight around his bag strap as if that could contain whatever was trying to spill out of him.
Yoongi noticed the distance, he didn’t know why it was there, only that Jimin no longer met his eyes as steadily, the pauses on the middle step grew shorter.
One afternoon, as they crossed, their sleeves brushed. It was accidental, barely a contact but it felt like a spark through fabric.
Jimin’s breath caught. Yoongi froze for half a second.
Neither said anything—they never did. But that night, Jimin pressed his face into his pillow and whispered something to himself he had never dared say out loud.
Not a confession yet, just a question about himself.
Yoongi had always understood his body in simple terms: weapon, endurance, it was how long he could keep standing after being hit. He didn’t think about it beyond that.
Until he started thinking about someone else’s: first, he noticed that Jimin had grown. Not just taller—sharper, defined in ways that didn’t look like boxing strength but felt just as deliberate, when he walked down the stairs now, there was something controlled about it, balanced, like every step had intention.
Yoongi found himself watching.
One evening, the studio door upstairs was left slightly open as music spilled into the stairwell—a soft, distant piano.
Yoongi finished wrapping his hands but didn’t go inside the gym immediately, he looked up. Through the narrow gap in the railing, he could see part of the second floor.
Jimin was turning, over and over, spinning until his hair lifted with the motion, until his shirt clung slightly to his back with sweat.
He didn’t look fragile like that, he looked strong. Not the kind of strong punch but the kind that endured.
Yoongi’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
He started noticing smaller things: the way Jimin’s lips pressed together when concentrating, the faint crease between his brows when he thought no one was looking, how he avoided eye contact lately and how that bothered him more than it should have.
Why does he look away now?
The question stayed with him longer than it needed to.
During sparring one afternoon, Yoongi missed a block because he was distracted, he got hit harder than usual, his coach shouted at him.
“Focus!”
He nodded but his mind wasn’t in the ring, it was on the staircase, on the brush of fabric from a few days ago, his pulse had jumped for no logical reason.
The realization didn’t arrive gently. It hit one night, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He replayed the image of Jimin spinning, light on his feet, stubborn in his repetition and something inside him softened instead of braced.
That was the problem: Yoongi wasn’t used to softness, especially not directed at another boy. He sat up abruptly, frustrated with himself.
It’s nothing, he thought. But the next day on the staircase, when Jimin’s sleeve brushed his again, Yoongi didn’t pull away immediately, he noticed the warmth, and noticed Jimin’s sharp inhale.
The building had always belonged to two different worlds but one afternoon, they collided.
Jungkook arrived like noise. He was fifteen, broad-shouldered already, restless energy in every step, walked into the boxing gym on the ground floor with his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder and a grin that made the older boys immediately curious.
“New kid?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” Jungkook shrugged. “Transfer.”
Yoongi noticed it first during drills, Jungkook absorbed corrections like he’d been waiting for them, took hits without flinching and hit back harder.
There was something familiar in the way he trained.
The teasing started a week later, it wasn’t unusual for some boys from the gym to hang around the staircase after practice, they leaned against the railings, loud, careless with their words.
That day, Jimin was coming down alone, his dance bag hanging from his shoulder, hair was damp from rehearsal, tired in that quiet, deep way only dancers understood.
“Hey,” one of the boys called out. “Are you still doing princess classes upstairs?”
Laughter followed but Jimin kept walking.
Another voice: “Bet he spins better than he fights.” And more laughter.
Yoongi froze at the bottom step. He hated that kind of noise, the kind meant to shrink someone, but before he could speak—footsteps pounded down from the gym.
“Shut up.”
Jungkook pushed through them without hesitation.
“He’s my cousin,” he said, jaw tight. “And he’s amazing. You couldn’t last five minutes in his class.”
Tension thick enough to settle heavy in the stairwell, Jimin stood still halfway down, eyes wide as he hadn’t expected that. The boys scoffed eventually, muttering, dispersing.
Jungkook turned to Jimin immediately, expression softening. “You okay?”
Jimin nodded, a little stunned. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah,” Jungkook cut him off gently. “I did.”
Yoongi watched the whole thing, watched the way Jimin’s shoulders slowly relaxed, the way Jungkook stood slightly in front of him without thinking.
After that, Jungkook started staying later at the gym, and somehow, he and Yoongi ended up paired together during drills.
At first, it was practical, they were close in weight, similar stamina but training together shifted into something steadier. Jungkook talked more than Yoongi did: about school, how Jimin had been dancing since he was tiny, how stubborn he was when he wanted something.
“He practices even when he’s sick,” Jungkook said once, wiping sweat from his forehead. “It’s annoying.”
Yoongi huffed quietly. “Sounds like you.”
Jungkook grinned, and just like that, something like friendship formed—built out of bruises and shared exhaustion.
Upstairs, Jimin noticed the change.
Jungkook laughing with Yoongi, Yoongi correcting Jungkook’s guard during sparring, the two of them sitting on the lower steps together after practice. He told himself he was happy Jungkook had found someone serious to train with and ignored the small twist in his stomach when Yoongi looked more at Jungkook than at him.
Ignored how the staircase felt different now—less private, more complicated.
Jimin knew about the barbecue two weeks in advance but that didn’t make it better. His mother had been planning it carefully—marinating meat since morning, setting extra chairs in the backyard, string lights hanging between the small trees like soft stars waiting for night.
“It’ll be nice,” she had said. “Jungkook’s parents are bringing someone from the gym too, his close friend.”
Jimin had nodded, he didn’t ask who—he didn’t need to.
By late afternoon, the house smelled like charcoal and garlic, family voices filled every room, laughter echoed too loudly against walls that suddenly felt smaller than usual.
Jimin stayed upstairs longer than necessary, he changed shirts twice, then three times, he told himself it didn’t matter. He had never really spoken to Yoongi, it shouldn’t matter, but the idea of seeing him somewhere that wasn’t divided by floors felt wrong and too exposed.
The doorbell rang. Jimin froze, from his bedroom window, he saw them.
Jungkook walked ahead confidently, carrying a bag of drinks. His parents followed, smiling warmly as Jimin’s parents greeted them at the gate.
And behind them—Yoongi. Black shirt, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed but posture careful, like he wasn’t sure where to place himself.
He looked different outside the gym, softer, somehow.
Jimin’s stomach dropped.
Downstairs, introductions blurred together, adults talking over each other, compliments, familiar teasing between relatives.
Then Jungkook’s voice:
“Hyung, come in.”
Yoongi stepped fully into the yard and for the first time, there were no stairs between them. No middle step, no built-in distance, just open space.
Jimin stayed near the drink table, pretending to rearrange cups. He felt sixteen in the worst possible way—too aware of his own hands, his own breathing.
Yoongi laughed at something Jungkook said, the sound carried.
Jimin risked a glance as Yoongi’s hair fell into his eyes the same way it did after sparring but there were no bruises tonight, no tape around his hands. Just him, looking unexpectedly comfortable with Jimin’s family, that was what unsettled him most.
“Jimin!”
His aunt waved him over.
“Come sit. Don’t hide.”
Jimin stepped forward before he could overthink it.
Jungkook noticed first. “There he is.”
Yoongi’s eyes lifted and held, longer than polite.
“Hi,” Jimin managed.
It felt ridiculous, they had known each other for years without knowing each other at all.
“Hey,” Yoongi replied.
His voice was quieter outside the echo of the gym. For a moment, the noise of the barbecue blurred at the edges, children running past, adults laughing, meat sizzling on the grill.
Jimin became acutely aware of how close they were standing.
Jungkook, completely unaware of the tension thrumming between them, slung an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders.
“Hyung trains with me now,” he said proudly to Jimin. “He’s the best in the gym.”
Jimin forced a small smile. “I know.”
Yoongi glanced at him, something flickering there. You know?
The air felt thicker and Jimin wished for the staircase again, for the safety of parallel movement. Later, as the sky darkened and the string lights turned everything gold, Jungkook was dragged into a loud conversation with the adults.
For a brief moment, Jimin and Yoongi ended up side by side near the fence, not touching, just standing.
“You dance tomorrow?” Yoongi asked, eyes on the yard instead of him.
“Yeah.”
“Big rehearsal?”
Jimin nodded. “Competition next month.”
A pause.
“You’ll win,” Yoongi said simply.
Jimin’s chest tightened.
“You have a match soon too,” he said softly.
“Yeah.”
“Good luck,” they said at the same time.
They both stopped, almost smiled, the smallest shared moment.
The house was finally quiet, the string lights in the backyard had been turned off, the smell of charcoal lingered faintly in the air, mixed with the sweetness of leftover soda and smoke clinging to clothes.
Jimin lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had showered, changed, even brushed his teeth twice but it didn’t help, every time he closed his eyes, the evening replayed in fragments.
Yoongi stepped through the gate, laughing with Jungkook, standing in his backyard like he belonged there and that was the worst part, cause he fit too easily.
Jimin turned onto his side, pressing his face halfway into his pillow, they had barely spoken. But the way Yoongi spoke—steady, certain—it wrapped around Jimin’s chest and refused to loosen.
He had imagined what it would be like to talk to Yoongi properly before, in those daydreams, he was calmer but tonight he felt transparent: too aware of where his hands were, of how close Yoongi stood near the fence, close enough that if either of them shifted an inch—
Jimin squeezed his eyes shut.
Why does it feel different now?
Because there were no stairs, no built-in reason to look away.
Across town, Yoongi wasn’t sleeping either, his room was darker than Jimin’s but his mind was louder. He lay on his side, arm tucked under his pillow, staring at nothing. He hadn’t expected the barbecue to feel like that, so he went because Jungkook insisted, it seemed normal. He hadn’t prepared for seeing Jimin in soft house clothes instead of rehearsal black, watching him laugh with relatives, how strangely protective it made him feel.
It wasn’t the same as the gym. At the gym, he understood roles.
Tonight, he didn’t know what he was.
Guest? Friend of a cousin? Something else entirely?
He replayed the moment by the fence: the way Jimin’s voice dipped slightly when he said competition next month, his hands were clasped behind his back like he needed to hold himself still.
Yoongi exhaled slowly. He had wanted to say more, something like:
I’ll come watch.
Or—
You don’t have to look so nervous around me.
But the words had stayed locked behind his teeth because saying them would mean admitting something, and he wasn’t ready to name it yet.
The gym felt wrong the next day. Yoongi arrived earlier than usual, hoping movement would shake the thoughts out of him but it didn't. Jungkook was already there, wrapping his hands with focused precision.
“You look tired,” Jungkook said without looking up.
“Didn’t sleep much.”
“Same. My mom made me help clean after we got home.”
Yoongi nodded, grateful for the normalcy of the conversation, normal, that’s what today needed to be.
Sparring started. Yoongi usually move like instinct—clean, economical, controlled. Today he hesitated, he blocked half a second too late, missed a counter, got clipped on the shoulder.
“Focus,” the coach snapped.
Yoongi exhaled sharply, he was focused, just not on the right thing. Every time the upstairs piano began its morning exercises, something inside him tightened, he hadn’t realized how aware he’d become of that sound until now.
Upstairs, Jimin wasn’t much better, he had tied his hair back too tight, his reflection looked the same as always but his mind kept slipping. Every time he turned, he thought about the fence, every time he landed from a jump, he wondered if Yoongi was downstairs already.
Stop it. He spun again, lost balance slightly.
His teacher noticed.
“Jimin. Concentrate.”
“Yes, sir.”
He forced his shoulders back, forced his gaze steady, but when the music paused for correction, he found himself glancing toward the door, toward the staircase.
Back downstairs, Jungkook threw a punch too wide and Yoongi corrected him automatically.
“Keep your elbow in.”
Jungkook blinked. “You okay, hyung? You’re distracted.”
“I’m fine.”
The piano upstairs shifted into a faster tempo as Yoongi’s jaw tightened, without thinking too much about it, he stepped back from the ring.
“Bathroom,” he muttered.
Jungkook raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it.
The staircase felt different in daylight, Yoongi climbed slowly, telling himself it was just curiosity, just wanting to see the training space properly. That’s all.
He stopped just before the second floor landing, the studio door was slightly open, music spilled out as he moved closer.
Inside, Jimin was in the center of the room, turning, focused in a way he hadn’t been the day before. There was sweat at his temples, his shirt clung lightly to his back, jaw set with stubborn determination.
He didn’t look delicate, he looked relentless. Yoongi felt something shift in his chest again—not soft this time.
Jimin leaped, landed clean. For a moment, he stood perfectly still.
And then—his eyes flicked toward the door. Towards him.
Time stretched as neither of them moved.
Yoongi should step back, pretend he got lost and go downstairs before this becomes more obvious.
Jimin’s breathing was still heavy from the combination, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide, embarrassed.
Yoongi gave the smallest nod.
Jimin swallowed.
His teacher called his name sharply, pulling his attention away and the moment snapped. Yoongi finally stepped back, heart beating harder than it ever did during sparring.
When he returned to the gym, Jungkook narrowed his eyes immediately.
“You were gone for a while.”
“The lines were long,” Yoongi replied flatly.
Jungkook didn’t look convinced but he didn’t push.
Upstairs, Jimin’s hands trembled slightly when he adjusted his grip on the barre, he hadn’t imagined it—Yoongi had been there, watching him, like it mattered.
The upstairs bathroom door had a sign taped to it:
OUT OF ORDER.
“You can use the downstairs restroom,” the instructor said, clapping his hands once to regain focus. “Quickly, don’t waste time.”
A few students slipped out in pairs but Jimin didn’t, he stayed, again and again. If he kept practicing, he wouldn’t think, if he kept moving, he wouldn’t replay the way Yoongi had stood at the door that morning.
By the time rehearsal ended, the studio was quiet. Sunlight had shifted, stretching long across the mirrors, the other dancers had already gone downstairs to change.
Jimin remained in the center for one last combination, his legs trembling slightly when he finally stopped, he exhaled, wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his wrist.
He grabbed his bag and headed toward the stairs.
The gym downstairs was quieter too, afternoon practice must have ended, only the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of running water lingered.
Jimin hesitated at the entrance. He had been down here before—once or twice—but never alone, never like this. He moved toward the locker room, telling himself it was just a bathroom, just tiles and sinks and lockers like any other.
The door creaked when he pushed it open, steam drifted faintly into the hallway.
He froze. The showers were still running, he should leave. He should. But his legs didn’t move fast enough. Because then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of someone stepping out from under water, a towel being grabbed.
Jimin’s breath caught in his throat, he wasn’t supposed to see, wasn’t supposed to be here at this moment.
He turned slightly—and there he was. Yoongi, with water still clinging to his hair, a towel slung low around his hips, another rubbing through damp strands as he stepped away from the shower area.
For half a second, neither of them processed it, then Yoongi’s eyes lifted, locked onto him.
Time didn’t shatter, it stretched.
Jimin’s mind went blank except for the pounding in his ears. He wasn’t staring—not intentionally. But he noticed everything at once: the definition across Yoongi’s shoulders from years of training, the faint bruise along his ribs, the way his chest rose and fell slowly when he realized who was standing there.
Yoongi stilled.
“Bathroom upstairs,” Yoongi said automatically—then seemed to remember. “Right.”
“Closed,” Jimin managed, voice barely steady.
The air felt thick with steam and something unnamed.
Jimin looked away first this time—too late. Already felt the heat crawl up his neck.
“I’ll— I didn’t know—” he started.
“It’s fine,” Yoongi interrupted quietly.
Yoongi turned slightly, giving him space without making it dramatic. Jimin moved toward the sinks, hands trembling as he set his bag down, he could feel Yoongi’s presence behind him—not touching, not speaking, just there.
The mirror reflected both of them: Jimin in black practice clothes, flushed from exertion, Yoongi with damp hair and water still tracing along his collarbone before disappearing beneath the towel.
Jimin’s breath hitched before he could stop it, he hoped the running water masked it, and hoped Yoongi didn’t notice. He hoped—
“Jimin.”
His name sounded different in Yoongi’s voice inside this room.
Jimin met his eyes in the mirror.
Yoongi wasn’t smirking. He looked… uncertain, like he wasn’t sure which move came next.
“You can change,” Yoongi said quietly. “I’ll wait outside.”
That undid him more than anything else, because it was considerate, it was restraint, it meant Yoongi understood the tension too.
Jimin swallowed. “You don’t have to.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightened just slightly.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I do.”
He picked up his shirt and stepped toward the exit, as he passed Jimin, the air shifted with warmth and faint soap, the door closed softly behind him.
Jimin stood there for several long seconds before moving, his pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, it felt louder now because this wasn’t imagination anymore, it wasn’t distant glances on a staircase. It was real and Yoongi had walked away first. Not to escape but to protect something fragile between them.
Outside in the hallway, Yoongi leaned briefly against the cool wall, his hands were steady but breathing wasn’t. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking this is getting harder to pretend.
The theater lights were blinding. Jimin stood in the wings, breath slow and controlled, costume fitted perfectly against his frame, the audience was a low murmur beyond the curtain—indistinct faces, shifting silhouettes.
Everything went right, applause swelled at the end, louder than he expected.
Accepting the medal placed carefully around his neck, first place, he had imagined this moment for years, but standing there, breathless and glowing under stage lights, one thought cut through everything else.
He didn’t see it.
Backstage, Jungkook burst in first.
“You won!” he shouted, grabbing Jimin by the shoulders. “I told you you would!”
Jimin laughed, a little dazed.
Jungkook’s grin widened. “Hyung’s gonna lose it when I tell him.”
Jimin’s heart stumbled. “Yoongi?”
“Yeah. He was asking when your competition was all week.”
Something warm—and terrifying—spread through Jimin’s chest.
“He was?”
“Obviously,” Jungkook scoffed. “He acts chill, but he cares.”
Jimin looked down at his medal and suddenly, it felt heavier.
Later that night, Jungkook sent the photo: Jimin in costume, medal gleaming. Yoongi stared at it longer than he meant to, his thumb hovered over the screen, zoomed in slightly without thinking.
Jimin’s smile wasn’t wide—it was soft, almost shy.
But his eyes—they looked bright. A slow, unfamiliar warmth filled Yoongi’s chest.
Inside, something expanded quietly.
He typed:
Tell him he did good.
Deleted it.
Typed again:
He looked strong.
Sent.
Jungkook replied instantly:
He IS strong.
Yoongi exhaled through his nose.
Yeah. I know.
A week later, it was the gym’s turn. The boxing competition was louder, no velvet curtains, no orchestral swell. Just harsh lights, the echo of gloves hitting gloves, the sharp ring of the bell.
Jimin stood near the back of the small crowd, dressed simply, trying not to look out of place. He told his parents he was coming to support Jungkook, which was true (mostly.)
Jungkook spotted him first from across the warm-up area and waved excitedly, Yoongi didn’t wave but his eyes found Jimin almost immediately and stayed there a fraction too long.
The first match was Jungkook’s. He fought well—aggressive but controlled, quick on his feet.
Jimin cheered when the referee raised Jungkook’s hand. But when Jungkook stepped out of the ring, flushed and smiling, Jimin’s gaze shifted automatically.
To the other side where Yoongi was wrapping his hands slowly, focused, calm in that quiet way that made him seem older than everyone else.
He rolled his shoulders once, adjusted his mouthguard. And for just a second—he looked up. Directly at Jimin, across the noise, the crowd. Across everything. Jimin nearly forgot how to breathe.
The bell rang and Yoongi moved like he always did—efficient, deliberate. He didn’t waste motion but tonight there was something sharper in him, like he had something to prove, he wanted to win in front of someone specific.
Jimin gripped the edge of the barrier without realizing, every hit made his chest tighten, every time Yoongi took a punch, his stomach dropped, he shouldn’t feel this invested, it wasn’t his fight—but it felt like it was.
Final round: Yoongi slipped a punch cleanly, countered, and made perfect contact.
The crowd roared as the bell rang.
Yoongi’s hand was lifted. Victory. He didn’t smile immediately, eyes looked across the gym first, searching. Until he found—Jimin, staring, holding his breath.
For a moment, the rest of the room blurred, the noise faded, it felt eerily similar to standing on the middle step of a staircase, balanced between two worlds.
Yoongi gave the smallest nod. Just for him.
Jimin felt his pulse answer back.
Jungkook later threw an arm around both of them, sweaty and laughing.
“We all won,” he declared loudly.
Jimin laughed.
Yoongi huffed softly. But under the bright gym lights, with adrenaline still humming and medals heavy around their necks—they both knew: winning felt different when the other was watching.
The gym emptied slowly. Parents congratulated, teammates laughed too loud, medals clinked against chests, the smell of sweat and adrenaline lingered thick in the air.
Jungkook got pulled into photos almost immediately.
“Hyung, don’t disappear!” he shouted at Yoongi before being dragged away by his parents.
Yoongi huffed quietly then his eyes searched, and found. Jimin was standing near the far wall, half in shadow, still holding a paper cup he hadn’t taken a single sip from. For a second, neither moved, then Yoongi walked over.
“You stayed,” Yoongi said, voice lower now that the noise had thinned.
Jimin nodded. “Of course.”
A pause.
“You fought well.”
Yoongi looked at him fully then. “You watched?”
Jimin’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “Yeah.” His voice softened. “I was… nervous.”
Yoongi blinked. “For Jungkook?”
Jimin hesitated just long enough to make it obvious.
“For you.”
Yoongi’s heartbeat kicked up again—not from the fight. From this.
“You don’t have to be,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Jimin replied. “I just—”
He stopped himself. Yoongi stepped closer without thinking, not touching, but close enough to notice how steady Yoongi’s breathing had become.
“You just what?” Yoongi asked.
Jimin swallowed.
The gym lights felt too bright.
“I keep thinking about you,” he admitted before courage could evaporate.
The words hovered between them.
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
Jimin nodded once.
Yoongi exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding something in for weeks.
“I thought it was just me.”
Jimin’s eyes lifted quickly. “What?”
“I keep—” Yoongi paused, jaw tightening briefly. “I keep looking for you. Even when you’re not there.”
That made Jimin’s breath hitch in a way he couldn’t hide, the distance between them shrank to almost nothing. Not touching, but nearly.
Yoongi’s hand twitched at his side like he was debating something.
“If this is weird—” Jimin started, nerves creeping back in.
“It’s not,” Yoongi interrupted.
Now they were close enough that Jimin could feel warmth radiating from him.
Yoongi lowered his voice further.
“When I saw you win… I wanted to be there.”
“You were,” Jimin whispered.
Yoongi’s eyes dropped briefly to Jimin’s lips before snapping back up, the movement was small but impossible to miss.
“I don’t know what this is,” Yoongi admitted quietly. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it anymore.”
Jimin’s pulse roared in his ears.
“Then don’t.”
It was barely a breath of sound.
Yoongi’s hand lifted slightly—and then—
“HYUNG!”
The voice echoed through the nearly empty gym. Jungkook.
They jumped apart instinctively. Jungkook jogged over, medal bouncing against his chest, completely unaware of the atmosphere he had just shattered.
“Why are you two standing in the dark like that?” he asked suspiciously, glancing between them.
“No reason,” Yoongi said too quickly.
Jimin stared at the floor. “Just talking.”
Jungkook narrowed his eyes slightly.
“About?”
“Training,” Yoongi answered at the same time Jimin said, “The match.”
They both froze.
Jungkook blinked.
“Uh-huh.”
Neither of them met his gaze. The moment was gone but not erased.
The upstairs bathroom was closed again, Jimin didn’t even sigh this time, he just went downstairs. He waited until most of the gym had cleared out before showering, telling himself it was just convenience—not avoidance, not anticipation.
When he stepped out, towel secured around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly at his forehead, the locker room felt quiet and safe.
Until the door opened, footsteps.
He turned as Yoongi stopped just inside the doorway. For a second, neither of them breathed.
Jimin’s heart dropped low in his stomach, heavy and loud, he resisted the instinct to cover himself further, the towel was secure, he was fine.
“I thought everyone left,” Jimin said softly.
“Me too.”
Yoongi didn’t step out but he didn’t move forward either.
The air felt warmer than it should have. Jimin hated that he felt exposed—not because of the towel, but because of the way Yoongi was looking at him.
“Are you going to keep staring?” Jimin asked, trying to steady.
Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You’re not making it easy.”
The honesty of it made Jimin’s pulse spike.
“Then don’t resist.”
The words slipped out before fear could catch them, silence fell, thick around them. Yoongi dropped his bag onto the bench without breaking eye contact.
“You think I haven’t been trying?” he said quietly.
The distance between them shrank until it was barely there—heat against heat, breath mixing in the narrow space. Yoongi’s hand lifted slowly, hesitated, giving Jimin a chance to stop this, fingers brushing lightly against his waist, just above the towel as Jimin’s breath hitched.
“Still not nervous?” Yoongi murmured.
“Shut up,” Jimin whispered—but there was no bite in it.
Yoongi’s free hand came up to Jimin’s jaw, thumb resting just beneath his ear, their foreheads nearly touched.
“You can tell me to stop,” Yoongi said, voice low but steady.
Jimin shook his head once and that was all it took.
Yoongi closed the distance. The kiss wasn’t soft, it was weeks—months—of held-back glances and almost finally breaking. Jimin’s hands came up instinctively, gripping the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt, pulling him closer, Yoongi responded immediately, one hand sliding more firmly around Jimin’s waist to steady him.
Heat flared fast, not reckless—but undeniable. They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads pressing together, then leaned back in as if neither trusted the space between them.
The next kiss was slower, intentional. Jimin’s fingers curled at the back of Yoongi’s neck while Yoongi’s hand splayed against his side, warm and grounding, thumb brushing lightly as if memorizing the shape.
When they finally pulled apart again, both breathing harder than they had after any competition, the room felt smaller.
Yoongi rested his forehead against Jimin’s.
“I can’t keep pretending,” he admitted softly.
“Then don’t,” Jimin replied, equally breathless.
Yoongi let out a small, almost disbelieving laugh.
“That’s dangerous.”
“You walked in,” Jimin reminded him.
Yoongi’s lips curved slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
And this time, neither of them stepped away, for a few seconds, neither of them moved. Their foreheads were still touching, breathing hadn’t settled yet.
Yoongi was the first to pull back—not far, just enough to look at Jimin properly, his hand was still at Jimin’s waist. He seemed to realize it at the same time Jimin did, he cleared his throat softly and let go, stepping back half a step.
“Okay,” Yoongi muttered.
Jimin blinked. “Okay?”
“I just…” Yoongi ran a hand through his damp hair, suddenly looking less composed than he had in the ring. “I wasn’t planning that.”
A small, nervous laugh escaped Jimin before he could stop it.
“Oh. Sorry. Should I put it back?”
Yoongi stared at him for a second then huffed a quiet laugh of his own.
“That’s not what I meant.”
The sound of it—softer than usual—eased something tight in Jimin’s chest.
The heat was still there but now there was something else too.
“So,” Jimin said, shifting his weight slightly, suddenly aware he was still only wearing a towel. “Is this the part where you panic?”
Yoongi looked at him again—really looked at him.
“No.”
The answer came fast.
Jimin swallowed. “Good.”
Yoongi glanced at the floor, then back at him. “Are you okay?”
The question surprised Jimin.
“With what?”
“With me not stopping.”
Jimin’s voice softened. “I didn’t want you to.”
Yoongi’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Okay,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Silence settled again—but this time it wasn’t charged in a sharp way. It was… new, like they were both standing at the edge of something and deciding what to call it.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Jimin asked.
Yoongi considered that seriously.
“I have no idea.”
Jimin smiled faintly. “That’s reassuring.”
Yoongi stepped a little closer again, careful this time, not crowding him.
“I know this,” he said. “I don’t regret it.”
Jimin’s pulse steadied.
“Me neither.”
Yoongi hesitated, then admitted, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
Jimin’s eyebrows lifted. “Since when?”
Yoongi gave him a look.
“The staircase,” he said simply.
Jimin felt heat rise to his face.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
They both smiled slightly at that, Jimin shifted again and finally gestured vaguely to himself. “I should probably get dressed.”
Yoongi’s ears went a little red.
“Yeah. Probably.”
He picked up his bag but didn’t immediately leave.
Jimin tilted his head. “You’re staying?”
Yoongi met his eyes.
“I don’t want this to turn into something we only do when no one’s looking.”
The honesty in that made Jimin’s chest tighten.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
Jimin searched his face carefully.
“You’re not scared?”
Yoongi thought about it.
“I am,” he admitted. “But not of you.”
Jimin nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” Yoongi echoed.
They stood there for one more second—neither quite ready to fully break the moment then Yoongi stepped toward the door, stopping just before exiting.
“Jimin.”
“Yeah?”
Yoongi’s gaze softened in a way it never did in the ring.
“You can look at me like that,” he said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not hiding.”
And then he stepped out into the hallway. Jimin stood alone in the locker room, heart finally slowing, this felt different than stolen glances on a staircase, different than tension under bright gym lights.
Yoongi did not plan speeches, he didn’t rehearse confessions, he especially didn’t plan to ask for permission like this felt like the 1800s.
And yet—he found himself standing outside the boxing ring, watching Jeon Jungkook finish up drills, gloves snapping sharply against the pads.
Yoongi waited and Jungkook noticed immediately.
“Hyung?” Jungkook pulled his mouthguard out. “Why are you standing there like you’re about to fire me?”
“I don’t employ you.”
“You look serious.”
Yoongi exhaled slowly. “I need to ask you something.”
That got Jungkook’s attention, he hopped down from the ring, rolling his shoulders. “Okay… that sounds dangerous.”
Yoongi shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, for someone fearless in the ring, this felt stupidly nerve-wracking.
“It’s about Jimin.”
Jungkook blinked once.
“Oh.”
Yoongi narrowed his eyes slightly. “What does ‘oh’ mean?”
“It means,” Jungkook said slowly, “That I’ve been waiting for this conversation.”
Yoongi froze. “You have?”
Jungkook tilted his head. “You think I didn’t notice?”
“Notice what.”
“The staring,” Jungkook replied immediately.
Yoongi said nothing.
“The tension,” Jungkook added. “The fact that you look like someone insulted your bloodline whenever someone else talks to him too long.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “That’s not—”
“It is,” Jungkook cut in, grinning. “Continue.”
Yoongi glared at him for a second before looking away.
“I like him.”
Jungkook’s grin softened into something more thoughtful.
“I know.”
Yoongi hesitated, then forced himself to say it clearly.
“I want to date him.”
That made Jungkook go quiet.
“And?” Jungkook asked carefully.
“And,” Yoongi continued, “you’re his cousin and my closest friend. You’ve been there longer than I have. I’m not trying to mess anything up.”
Jungkook studied him.
“You’re asking for permission?”
Yoongi bristled. “I’m asking if you’re okay with it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
The honesty of that made Jungkook pause.
“You really like him,” Jungkook said quietly.
Yoongi didn’t hesitate this time.
“Yes.”
Jungkook crossed his arms, pretending to think harder than he needed to.
“You’re aware,” he said slowly, “that if you hurt him, I will make your life unbearable.”
Yoongi nodded once. “Fair.”
“I will hide your gloves before competitions.”
“That 's cruel.”
“I will switch your protein powder with flour.”
“That 's worse.”
“And I will absolutely bring this conversation up every time you act tough.”
Yoongi sighed. “Are you done?”
Jungkook’s expression softened fully now.
“You make him different,” he said quietly.
Yoongi’s brows furrowed. “Different how?”
“He smiles before he realizes he is smiling when you walk in.”
That hit harder than any punch.
Jungkook shrugged lightly. “He’s been distracted lately. I figured it was you.”
Yoongi didn’t deny it.
“So,” Jungkook said, stepping closer. “Did he say yes?”
Yoongi hesitated just slightly.
“We haven’t… defined it.”
“But?”
“But I want to.”
Jungkook watched him carefully.
“Then don’t ask me.”
Yoongi frowned. “What?”
“Ask him.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
Jungkook clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“But for the record?” Jungkook added. “Yeah. I’m okay with it.”
Yoongi’s posture relaxed a fraction.
“Thanks.”
Jungkook smirked.
“Just don’t make it weird in front of me.”
Yoongi rolled his eyes. “I won’t.”
“And hyung? If you break his heart,” Jungkook said calmly, “I box professionally.”
Yoongi’s lips twitched slightly.
“I know.”
And for the first time since starting the conversation, he felt steady, because this wasn’t stolen glances or accidental touches, it wasn't locker room almosts. This time he was ready to say it out loud.
Jimin was halfway up the studio stairs when he heard whispering, not normal whispering, the kind that spreads, the kind that means something is happening.
He paused, hand resting lightly on the railing.
“Why is everyone staring?” he muttered.
From the floor below, a path was slowly forming, students shifting aside, murmurs rising.
And then—Yoongi walked in.
He wasn’t in training clothes and wasn't carrying gloves. He was holding flowers.
Not an over-the-top bouquet, not dramatic roses, simple white and pale pink flowers, tied together neatly—slightly awkward in his hands, like he wasn’t fully used to holding something that delicate.
The entire studio went silent.
Jimin blinked.
“Is this a joke?” someone whispered behind him.
Yoongi ignored everyone as he walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped, looked up, found Jimin immediately and didn’t look away.
Jimin’s heart started pounding so hard he thought the whole room could hear it.
“What are you doing?” Jimin asked, voice barely steady.
Yoongi swallowed once. He hated public attention, everyone knew that.
“I was going to do this somewhere quiet,” Yoongi said honestly. “But I don’t want to be quiet about this anymore.”
The room shifted, no one breathed.
Yoongi stepped closer to the first stair, still looking up at him.
“You make me brave in ways I didn’t ask for,” he continued. “And I’m tired of pretending this is accidental.”
Jimin’s fingers tightened around the railing.
Yoongi held the flowers out slightly, not shaking but not entirely steady either.
“I like you,” he said plainly. “Not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way. Not in a ‘maybe someday’ way.”
He took one step onto the first stair.
“I like you in a way that makes me want to stand here and embarrass myself in front of everyone.”
A few quiet gasps, Jimin’s eyes were wide now. Yoongi climbed one more step—still lower than Jimin, but closer.
“Can I be your boyfriend?”
The words echoed in the studio, the silence that followed felt endless. Jimin stared at him, at the flowers, the way Yoongi wasn’t looking at anyone else—not checking reactions, not bracing for laughter.
“Yoongi…” Jimin breathed.
And then something in his chest broke open, he walked down the stairs, straight to him.
Yoongi’s shoulders tensed slightly, like he was preparing for impact.
Jimin stopped one stair above him.
They were almost eye level now.
“You hate attention,” Jimin said softly.
“I do.”
“And you did this anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve to never feel hidden.”
Jimin laughed—but it came out shaky, emotional.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve just asked me downstairs.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.”
The studio was still completely silent, waiting. Jimin stepped down the last stair so they were standing on the same level, he took the flowers gently, looked at them then at Yoongi.
“You’re asking if you can be my boyfriend?” Jimin clarified.
“Yes.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
Yoongi’s expression softened.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Jimin smiled fully now, the kind that starts small and takes over his whole face.
“Then yes,” he said.
The room erupted, cheers, clapping, someone wolf-whistled.
Jungkook’s voice cut through the noise: “FINALLY.”
Yoongi ignored all of it, he was only looking at Jimin.
“You’re saying yes?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again.
“I’m saying yes,” Jimin replied, equally quiet despite the chaos around them. “You can be my boyfriend.”
Yoongi let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for weeks, he stepped close, not kissing him—not yet, just resting his forehead briefly against Jimin’s.
“You’re impossible,” Jimin whispered.
“You love it.”
“I do.”
And this time, when they pulled apart, they didn’t hide the smiles, not from the studio, their friends or each other. People were clapping, some filming, someone yelling that they “called it months ago.”
Jimin was still holding the flowers. Yoongi was still standing close—near enough that the space between them felt claimed.
And then—a voice boomed across the room.
“For the record,” Jungkook shouted, climbing into the boxing ring for absolutely no reason, “I APPROVED THIS.”
The entire studio burst into laughter.
Jimin covered his face with one hand. “Oh my god.”
Yoongi didn’t even turn around. “Get down from there.”
“I had a formal conversation with him,” Jungkook continued proudly. “I felt like a father.”
“You are not my father!” Jimin protested, mortified.
Jungkook pointed dramatically at Yoongi. “He asked me for permission.”
Gasps, more laughter.
Yoongi finally turned. “I asked if you were okay with it.”
“Same thing!” Jungkook yelled.
Jimin’s eyes snapped to Yoongi. “You what?”
Yoongi visibly debated walking out of the building, instead, he said flatly, “You’re welcome.”
Jimin stared at him.
“You asked Jungkook.”
“Yes.”
“Before asking me.”
“I was going to ask you,” Yoongi defended calmly. “I just… handled it in order.”
“In order,” Jimin repeated.
Jungkook leaned dramatically over the ropes. “He was very respectful.”
“Stop talking,” Yoongi warned.
“I threatened him.”
“You absolutely did,” Yoongi muttered.
Jimin’s embarrassment melted into something warmer.
“You did that?” he asked softly.
Yoongi shrugged like it was nothing. “He’s important to you.”
Jimin blinked.
“Oh.”
Jungkook, still standing in the ring like he was officiating a wedding, cupped his hands around his mouth.
“I EXPECT TO BE MENTIONED IN THE ANNIVERSARY POSTS.”
“Get down!” Jimin yelled.
Eventually the noise settled, people drifted back to practice, the moment became something everyone would gossip about for weeks but the air between them stayed different.
It was darker by the time they left. The academy lights were dimmed, most students gone. They walked side by side down the hallway, the loudness from earlier felt far away now.
Jimin looked down at the flowers again. “You really planned this.”
Yoongi nodded once. “It took me twenty minutes to pick them.”
“Only twenty?”
“I panicked.”
Jimin laughed softly, they reached the staircase—the same staircase.
The building was quiet, just the hum of lights.
Jimin looked at him carefully.
“We’re actually… boyfriends.”
Yoongi’s lips curved slightly. “That’s usually what ‘yes’ means.”
Jimin nudged him lightly. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
The word settled between them. Boyfriends. It sounded bigger in the quiet.
Jimin’s expression shifted—not doubt, not fear, just realization.
“This isn’t a secret,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t regret doing it like that?”
Yoongi stepped a little closer.
“No.”
Jimin hesitated—then reached out first. His fingers hooked loosely into Yoongi’s hoodie sleeve.
Yoongi looked down at it, then back at him.
“You can hold my hand,” he said quietly.
Jimin’s ears went slightly pink.
“I know.”
He did it anyway, their fingers laced together.
Yoongi exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured.
“Okay?” Jimin teased softly.
“I just…” Yoongi looked at their hands. “I’ve wanted this for a while.”
Jimin squeezed gently.
“I know.”
A comfortable silence followed, just the two of them on the staircase where everything had almost happened so many times before. Yoongi leaned forward slightly, resting his forehead against Jimin’s for a second.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly—not possessive, just certain.
Jimin smiled.
“And you’re my boyfriend.”
Yoongi’s expression softened at the word. Boyfriend—he repeated it under his breath like he was testing it.
“Yeah.”
They stayed there a moment longer, hands linked, hearts steady, not almost anymore, just finally theirs.