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Jimin was pushing a cart through the aisles, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.
"He wants what?" Taehyung’s voice crackled through the line, sounding confused.
"Pork belly, perilla leaves, three bags of those specific thin-skinned tangerines, and wasabi peas," Jimin whispered, his eyes scanning the produce.
“That sounds pretty normal,” Taehyung responded, and Jimin could hear his shrug through the phone.
"Tae, we aren’t talking snacks. These are our dinner ingredients. Should I eat a little something before I go home? Don’t these ingredients sound weird?"
"Jiminie... you think...?"
"We’ve been disappointed before. I’m not asking him. If I ask and it’s just a weird craving, the look on his face will break my heart."
*****
Jimin held his breath as he unlocked the apartment door, half-expecting to find Yoongi pacing or distressed. Instead, Yoongi was the picture of calm, greeting him with a kiss and a soft, sleepy smile that betrayed absolutely no signs of culinary chaos. Wordlessly, Yoongi claimed the grocery bags, unpacking the pork belly and perilla leaves alongside the tangerines and wasabi peas. He lined them all up on the kitchen island without batting an eye, treating the bizarre combination like a perfectly standard mise en place.
Slipping easily into his role as resident sous chef, Jimin washed the produce and followed Yoongi’s quiet directions. They fell into their familiar domestic choreography: the rhythmic thwack of Jimin's knife against the cutting board, the loud, rich sizzle of the samgyeopsal hitting the hot iron pan, and the comforting brush of their shoulders every time they crossed paths.
Twice, Jimin caught Yoongi drifting closer than the task required, his hip pressing against Jimin's while he reached for the sesame oil, lingering there a beat too long before sliding away. The third time, Yoongi didn't even pretend there was a reason. He stopped stirring, leaned sideways, and pressed his nose to the curve of Jimin's shoulder, breathing in slow and deep. He stayed there as seconds ticked by before pulling back and adjusting the heat on the burner as if nothing had happened. Jimin's hand froze on the knife. His pulse kicked up, a warm current of instinct tugging behind his ribs. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Yoongi's expression was perfectly neutral, his attention back on the pan. Jimin swallowed the question and went back to slicing.
Yoongi simply hummed under his breath, focused and methodical, until the apartment grew thick with a mouthwatering, savory haze and the stove was finally clicked off.
Yoongi plated the crispy, golden samgyeopsal and sat Jimin down. Yoongi took a perilla leaf, smeared it with ssamjang, laid down the pork, and then, to Jimin’s internal horror, crowned it with a bright orange tangerine wedge and sprinkled the wasabi peas on it as garnish. "Eat," Yoongi commanded. Jimin braced himself, expecting a disaster. But as he chewed, the salt, the heat of the ferment, and the bright, sweet spray of the tangerine juice harmonized perfectly. Oh, Jimin thought, relief washing over him. He’s not pregnant. He’s a genius. He’s just found a new flavor profile. He relaxed into his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders.
*****
The warm suds of the dishwater felt grounding, a mundane end to a surprisingly gourmet meal. Jimin reached behind Yoongi’s shoulder as he moved to place the last dried plate into the high cupboard.
Before he could pull back, Yoongi reached out and caught Jimin’s wrists.
With a quiet, focused strength, Yoongi guided Jimin’s arms down, wrapping them around his own waist and locking them there. Yoongi leaned his head to rest his temple against Jimin’s own, melting backward into Jimin’s chest. Jimin felt that familiar swell of protective heat, the instinctual alpha urge to shield this man from everything. He often thought he’d take on the world for Yoongi, though he knew the world wouldn’t dare try this omega.
He turned in Jimin's arms, his face tilting up. Jimin leaned in, expecting a kiss, but Yoongi just nuzzled deep into the crook of his neck, inhaling sharply. It wasn't the usual soft morning greeting; it was a deep, possessive draw that made Jimin’s own alpha instincts rumble in response.
"Jimin-ah," Yoongi murmured, his voice a low vibration against Jimin’s neck.
Then, Yoongi’s hands were sliding under the hem of Jimin’s heavy wool sweater. Jimin’s heart skipped. Was the spicy dinner an aphrodisiac? He began to lean into the touch, his hands finding Yoongi’s waist.
But Yoongi wasn't looking for skin.
With a quick tug, Yoongi pulled the sweater right over Jimin’s head. Before Jimin could even blink in the cool kitchen air, Yoongi took the bunched-up fabric and swiped it firmly across the scent gland at Jimin’s neck, coating the wool in a concentrated burst of alpha pheromones.
"I’ve got to get back to the project," Yoongi said abruptly, then turned and vanished down the hallway, clutching the sweater to his chest like a prize.
The project. Yoongi didn't have a deadline this week. He had said he was taking a break. Jimin’s "culinary genius" theory suddenly felt very thin.
Jimin stood shirtless in the middle of the kitchen, shaking his head at Yoongi’s eccentric exit, the scent of pork belly and tangerines still lingering in the air. He looked down at his own bare chest, then at the empty hallway, then back at his chest, as if the evening’s events might rearrange themselves to make more sense. The refrigerator hummed. A tangerine peel curled on the counter, drying at the edges.
His skin prickled where Yoongi's fingers had been. His body wanted to follow. Every instinct said go to him, press close, put your nose on his neck and breathe until you know. His feet actually shifted toward the hallway before he caught himself, gripping the edge of the counter.
Stop it, he told himself firmly. He's working. He took the sweater because he was cold.
But his hands were already pulling a glass from the cabinet, filling it to the brim, and walking it down the hall to Yoongi's side of the bed and setting it on the nightstand where Yoongi wouldn't have to reach far in the dark.
The cool air of the bedroom finally got to him, raising goosebumps along his arms, but when he stepped into the closet for his favorite hoodie, his hand met empty air.
He blinked, certain he was looking at the wrong section. But no, his side of the closet was noticeably sparse. His favorite flannels were gone. Three of his softest gym shirts were missing. Even the oversized hoodie he’d been planning to wear was nowhere to be found.
A small, frantic thrum started in his chest. He turned back toward the bed, his eyes landing on the blanket covered shape of the nest.
The familiar ring of pillows Yoongi meticulously maintained looked different tonight. It wasn't just a circle of cushions anymore; it was much bigger. Jimin moved closer and pulled back the blanket, and the scent hit him like a door opening into summer. His own alpha pheromones, heavy and warm, braided so tightly with Yoongi's softer, sweeter undertone. Every piece of stolen clothing, laundered or worn, had been placed with intention. He spotted a sleeve of his favorite hoodie peeking out from beneath a pillow, followed by the hem of a flannel tucked into the gap between the headboard and the mattress. His clothes were woven in everywhere.
Jimin’s heart jumped, a wild, soaring hope hitting him so hard he had to steady himself against the bedpost. But just as quickly, he forced it down.
He’s stressed, Jimin told himself, the thought a practiced shield against disappointment. The project. He always gets like this when a track isn't coming together. He’s just... burrowing.
Jimin shook his head at the small voice that whispered provide, protect, stay close. He wanted to fix the bathroom shelf that had been slightly loose for three months and had never once bothered him until this exact second. He wanted to lock the front door twice and check the windows. He wanted to scent everything left in his side of the closet and place it on the bed at the nest. This was what happened when he let the hope in earlier. It crept in and made decisions for him.
Still.
There was no project. Yoongi had said so himself, hands splayed wide: a week for big naps.
Jimin turned toward the small den Yoongi used as a home studio, the door slightly ajar.
Jimin crept toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. If there was no project, what exactly was Yoongi working on in there?
Jimin nudged the door open, the light from the hallway spilling into the dim room. Yoongi was a small, bundled shape on the floor, cross-legged and nearly swallowed whole by Jimin’s stolen sweater. The collar was pulled up over his nose, his eyes focused and sharp beneath the rim of a knitted beanie that protected the tips of his often cold ears. He didn't look up from the tiny MIDI keyboard on his lap, but he reached out one hand, absentmindedly motioning for Jimin to sit in the high-backed desk chair behind him.
Jimin obeyed, his heart thundering in the silence. After a moment, the clicking of keys stopped. Yoongi stood, a bit slower than usual, and climbed directly into Jimin’s lap. He curled up tight, knees high and bare toes braced against the armrest, his side pressing into Jimin’s chest.
With a few clicks of the mouse, Yoongi selected a file labeled simply with a date and a heart. He reached back, sliding his heavy studio headphones over Jimin’s ears.
Jimin listened, but he was lost. What he heard was a pulsing hum, a series of warm, low-frequency tones that felt like being submerged in honey. It was steady, heartbeat-slow, and strangely intimate. He frowned, leaning his head down to catch Yoongi’s eyes. What is this? What is it for?
Yoongi reached up, peeling the headphones off the ear closest to him. "This one..." he murmured, "...this one is for someone with very sensitive ears. It’s a study in low-frequency resonance."
Before Jimin could ask for a translation, Yoongi reached down. He took Jimin’s hand, his fingers warm and certain, and pressed Jimin's palm flat against the center of his stomach.
Under the soft wool of the sweater, Jimin felt an overwhelming sense of gravity. The dots connected like constellations in the dark, the "weird" grocery list, the stolen scents, and the heartbeat rhythm of the music all snapped into a single, breathtaking picture.
"Yoongi," Jimin breathed, the name breaking on a sob he hadn't known was coming.
He didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He peppered every inch of Yoongi’s face with frantic, joyful kisses, his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, until Yoongi finally let out a tiny, breathless huff of a laugh, scrunching his nose to ward off the affection.
Jimin pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Yoongi’s, his fingers curling gently into the oversized wool of the sweater, his hand still pressed protectively over their future.