Chapter Text
The school bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, but Jimin stood in his usual quiet spot near the gate, arms tucked tightly around the straps of his red backpack. His polished shoes, already showing signs of wear, pressed into the dust as he waited with his head down. The late afternoon sun made his small frame glow faintly—like a porcelain figure placed in the wrong setting.
Namjoon’s car pulled up right on time. It always did. The sleek black vehicle came to a gentle stop, and Namjoon stepped out, composed as ever in his suit, his tie slightly loosened and his expression soft.
“There you are, young master,” Namjoon said, his voice low and warm.
Jimin barely looked up. He gave a faint nod—just enough to acknowledge him.
Namjoon didn’t comment. Instead, he quietly reached for the red backpack on Jimin’s shoulders and slipped it off with practiced care. He opened the car door and waited. Jimin climbed in without a word, settling into his seat as if the weight on his shoulders had followed him inside.
Namjoon started the engine, the quiet hum filling the silence between them. Classical music played faintly through the speakers—something gentle and smooth, chosen because it helped Jimin relax.
“Did something happen at school today?” Namjoon asked after a few minutes, glancing at the boy through the rearview mirror.
Jimin didn’t answer. He kept his gaze outside, where the scenery passed like it didn’t matter.
Namjoon didn’t push. “You know I’m here for you, young master. Always,” he said, voice soft. “If there’s something on your mind… you can tell me anything.”
Jimin hesitated, hands resting still on his lap. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again.
“Do you know if…” he started, but the words faded. He shook his head quickly. “Never mind.”
Namjoon glanced at him again. “If what?”
“It’s nothing.”
Namjoon let the silence stretch again, patient as always. Then he said quietly, “It didn’t sound like nothing.”
Jimin fidgeted with the hem of his uniform blazer. After a moment, he finally mumbled, “Do you… Do you know if Father will be home tonight?”
Namjoon didn’t answer right away. His hands remained steady on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. But Jimin already knew.
“I mean,” Jimin quickly added, “it’s not because I want to see him or anything. It’s not that. It’s just…”
He paused, chewing on his lower lip.
“The school,” he said finally. “The principal asked to meet him. She said it’s important. They only have your number, but she said this time it has to be Father.”
Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did she say what it’s about?”
“No,” Jimin whispered. “But… I never skip class. I always do my homework. I don’t talk back or cause trouble.”
“I know you don’t,” Namjoon replied immediately, his voice firmer now. “You’ve done nothing wrong, young master. Of that I’m sure.”
Jimin’s eyes stayed on the window, voice smaller still. “I’m not asking because I miss him or anything,” he repeated. “It’s just school stuff.”
Namjoon exhaled quietly through his nose, then offered the same line he always did—because it was the one Jimin needed, even if they both knew it wasn’t quite true.
“Your father always asks about you. He cares, young master. He really does.”
Jimin shook his head. “That’s not why I asked.”
Namjoon reached back when the car stopped at a light, resting a hand gently on Jimin’s knee. His touch was warm, grounding.
“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Jimin gave a tiny nod, not quite convinced—but willing to let it be.
“…Thank you, Namjoonie hyung.”
The quiet returned for a while after that—heavy, but no longer suffocating. The kind that Jimin was used to. Still, it pressed against his shoulders like the straps of his too-heavy backpack had only shifted rather than vanished.
Namjoon didn’t speak right away. He never rushed him. Jimin liked that about him—how he always gave space like he understood, without needing to say it out loud.
Then, after a few more turns down familiar streets, Namjoon spoke again. This time his tone was lighter, carefully steering them back to something safe.
“So… what else happened at school today, young master?”
Jimin didn’t answer at first. He kept his gaze trained on the window, watching the blur of trees and cars, his reflection faint and tired in the glass. But then his lips tugged at the corner, just a little.
“There was something…” he admitted quietly.
Namjoon raised an eyebrow in the mirror, encouraging but not pushy.
Jimin turned away from the window to face forward now, hands folded neatly on his lap, as if preparing for a report. “We got our math tests back. The one from last week.”
A pause. Then he added, a little brighter, “I got full marks. Even the bonus question.”
That tug in the corner of his lips grew into a real smile—small but proud, the kind that only appeared when he forgot to be careful.
Namjoon smiled too, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “Full marks? And the bonus? That’s incredible, young master.”
Jimin nodded, and now his voice had a little more life to it. “The bonus question was hard. It was this long, multi-step problem about measurements and speed. Most of the students said they didn’t understand it, and Ms. Han said it was meant to challenge us. She told us it was okay if we couldn’t solve it.”
He paused, then almost sheepishly added, “But I didn’t think it was that hard.”
Of course he didn’t. Numbers had always made sense to him—like tiny puzzles he could untangle with enough patience. Not like people. Not like the silence at home, or the way his father’s voice used to sound before it disappeared completely.
Namjoon chuckled softly, the sound like warm tea on a cold day. “It’s because you’re brilliant.”
Jimin ducked his head a little, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “Ms. Han even wrote ‘Excellent work, Jimin!’ at the top with a little star. She only does that for special things.”
Namjoon’s heart swelled, even if he didn’t say it. “I’m proud of you. Truly.”
Jimin looked down at his hands, the shy flush creeping into his cheeks. He always believed Namjoon meant it when he said things like that—but hearing it still felt strange. Not bad. Just... new every time.
Then Namjoon added something else, almost casually. “I’ll make sure to tell your father, too. He’ll be proud of you.”
Jimin blinked once. The warmth in his chest fluttered, unsure what to do with that.
He wanted to believe it. Part of him still wanted to believe it, even though the larger, older part had already given up. He imagined what it would be like—his father pausing at his desk, looking over the math paper, nodding silently, maybe saying Good job, son in that deep voice he barely remembered anymore.
But he didn’t say any of that out loud. That would be too much. Instead, he nodded quietly and pressed his forehead against the window, letting the cool glass ground him again.
“Okay,” he said, voice soft.
Namjoon didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. Just kept driving, as steady as ever.
For a while, Jimin let himself sit in the silence again—but this time, it didn’t feel as heavy. He thought about his math paper, the neat red marks of approval, and Ms. Han’s little star drawn next to his name. He wondered if she knew how much that meant to him.
He didn’t have many things to be proud of—not the kind that mattered at home. Not like golf trophies or etiquette praise or perfect posture during dance lessons. But this… this was his.
By the time they turned into the long, winding driveway of the Park estate, the sky was starting to soften into late afternoon hues—gentle purples and pinks stretching across the horizon like a lullaby.
Jimin sat up a little straighter.
He knew the next few hours would pass like usual: home tutoring, stiff lessons in a room that felt too big, a quiet dinner Namjoon would make him eat even if he wasn’t hungry. His father wouldn’t be there. He never was.
But maybe, tonight, Namjoon would leave his math test on the corner of his father’s desk. Maybe it would stay there, even if no one looked at it. Maybe it would mean something. Or maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, Jimin allowed himself to feel proud. Even if it was just for himself.
When they arrived home, the estate stood as it always did—quiet, polished, and impossibly grand. The gates opened without a sound, the gravel under the tires barely crunching. It looked like a place where nothing could go wrong. Like a palace in a storybook.
But even the most beautiful castles could feel hollow inside.
Namjoon parked near the side entrance, the one used for family and staff. Jimin pushed the door open slowly, his small shoes clicking on the marble floors as he stepped inside. The cool air met his skin like it always did—neither welcoming nor cold. Just… indifferent.
Namjoon followed behind him, carrying Jimin’s red backpack without a word. It always struck Jimin, how carefully Namjoon handled it. Like it was something delicate. Like it mattered because it belonged to him.
They climbed the sweeping staircase together, Jimin a few steps ahead, Namjoon’s steady presence just behind. When they reached his room, Namjoon placed the backpack gently on the edge of the bed and went to open the wardrobe.
Jimin stood still for a moment before lifting his arms, wordlessly waiting. Namjoon returned with fresh clothes—a soft cream shirt with little golden buttons, and tailored shorts with suspenders. Afternoon attire. House rules.
Namjoon dressed him in practiced silence, hands gentle and efficient. Jimin didn’t mind being helped. He could dress himself, of course, but this routine made him feel… cared for. Like someone was paying attention, even if just for a little while.
As Namjoon fastened the last button, Jimin finally spoke.
“What’s today’s snack, hyung?” His voice was lighter now, trying.
Namjoon gave a small smile as he adjusted Jimin’s collar. “You’ll have to see. The chef prepared something special this afternoon.”
Jimin’s eyes lit up slightly, just a flicker. “Will Seokjin hyung be joining me today?”
Namjoon hesitated for a moment before answering, just long enough for Jimin to already know.
“He wanted to, but he’s caught up with work again,” Namjoon said gently. “A few urgent meetings. He sends his love.”
Of course. He always did.
Jimin’s face fell for a breath, then quickly pulled itself back together. He pressed his lips into a straight line and nodded like it didn’t matter.
“That’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t. “He’s very busy.”
Namjoon didn’t correct him. He only offered a quiet pat on the shoulder and opened the door for him. Jimin walked through it without a sound, his small frame swallowed by the grandeur of the hallways.
The garden was glowing by the time they stepped outside, bathed in golden afternoon light. It was sprawling and manicured, with tall hedges and trimmed roses and soft green grass that didn’t dare grow out of line. Birds chirped faintly from the trees, and a soft breeze moved through the air, lifting the ends of Jimin’s hair as he stepped across the stone path.
At the center of the garden stood the white round table near the fountain, where he always had his afternoon snack. The table was already set—an ornate spread of pastries, cakes, scones, and sugared fruit arranged with perfect symmetry. A silver teapot steamed gently beside a delicate porcelain cup with honey on the side, just the way he liked it. But there will be only one chair taken. As always.
Jimin slid into the chair without a word, looking down at the mountain of sweets in front of him. It was all for him. Every tart, every macaron, every slice of sponge cake. So much attention to detail. So much sugar. So much effort. And still… it felt like too much.
“Hyung,” he said, turning slightly. “Why don’t you sit with me today?”
Namjoon, who had taken his usual position behind Jimin like a shadow, blinked. “That wouldn’t be proper, young master.”
“But… it’s just tea,” Jimin said, his voice quieter now. “And there’s so much food.”
Namjoon smiled softly. “I’m your attendant, young master. A servant. This is your table.”
“I know,” Jimin murmured, looking back at the untouched plate in front of him. “But… you’re also Namjoonie hyung.”
The words hung in the air like a leaf caught mid-fall. He didn’t mean to sound upset, and he wasn’t angry—he was just… tired. Tired of having everything but what he wanted.
He picked up a fork and poked at a raspberry tart, then set it back down without taking a bite.
“It’s not like anyone else will come sit with me.”
Namjoon didn’t answer. Jimin didn’t need him to. The silence said enough.
He tried not to pout, but his lips did it anyway. He poured the tea himself, hands careful, then added honey with a little silver spoon. The chair across from him stayed empty. It always did. Sometimes he pretended someone was there—his late mother, maybe, or Seokjin on a day when he wasn’t busy. But pretending didn’t work as well as it used to.
“I know the rules,” Jimin said after a while. “But sometimes I wonder who made them.”
Namjoon’s voice was quiet. “People who forgot what it means to be lonely.”
Jimin looked up at that. For a second, it almost sounded like Namjoon wasn’t speaking as his attendant—but just as himself.
He wanted to ask, Are you lonely too? but didn’t. Maybe he already knew the answer.
So instead, he lifted his teacup, took a small sip, and let the warmth settle in his chest. Then he took another bite of cake. It was his second éclair—sweet cream piped inside, a thin ribbon of dark chocolate glaze on top. It was perfect. He didn’t even like éclairs.
He chewed slowly, far too slowly, swinging his little legs under the chair in a rhythm that didn’t match any melody—certainly not the ones he was supposed to be practicing.
The fountain bubbled beside him, birds still chirped somewhere in the garden trees, and the wind whispered gently through the leaves like nature was trying its best to make this afternoon feel peaceful.
But Jimin had read the time on the antique clock in the hallway on his way outside.
His piano lesson was scheduled in ten minutes.
“Would you like more tea, young master?” Namjoon asked from behind, his tone as calm and polite as ever.
Jimin shook his head quickly. “Still drinking this one.”
Even though his cup was nearly empty.
Namjoon, of course, didn’t comment. He never pointed out things Jimin didn’t want to hear. But Jimin could feel the way time was inching forward. Could sense how the moment was slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to slow it down with sugar and tea.
He took a bite of a tart and declared far too enthusiastically, “This is so good. I might need another one.”
Namjoon didn’t answer immediately. Jimin knew he was hesitating. He could hear it in the pause, in the polite inhale. Finally, Namjoon spoke.
“I’ll let Madame Song know you’ll be slightly delayed.”
That meant he’d already called her. Of course he had. Namjoon was always ten steps ahead. Even when Jimin was pretending.
Jimin put down his fork, suddenly less hungry. He looked out at the garden instead of at the untouched sweets on the table.
He hated piano.
He hated how cold the keys felt under his fingers, how no matter how hard he tried, the sounds never came out the way he wanted them to. He hated how Madame Song sat behind him like a statue, never smiling, never helping, just watching with sharp eyes and cold hands that tapped his wrists whenever he made a mistake. He hated that she called him young sir with no warmth in it. He hated that she smelled like old lavender and something sour. He hated that she once told him, Some children simply don’t have the hands for music.
And most of all, he hated that he had to go.
Because his father said so. Because his life was already written out in carefully arranged schedules and folders. Because being a Park meant refinement, and refinement meant piano, and golf, and dancing, and sitting at a table with too many sweets and too few people.
“Hyung…” Jimin said softly, still looking out over the garden. “Do I really have to go today?”
Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He rarely did when Jimin asked him something like that. Jimin wondered if it was because he wanted to say no. Or if it was because he didn’t.
“You know we can’t cancel,” Namjoon finally said, gently. “Your father approved the schedule. He expects you to attend your lessons.”
Jimin already knew that. He wasn’t really asking to be excused—he never was. He just wanted someone to understand. To say, I know you hate it. I know it’s not fair.
Instead, he stood slowly, brushing crumbs from his lap, and nodded.
“Okay,” he said, voice quiet.
Namjoon took a step forward, reaching for the napkin to clean Jimin’s hands, as he always did. Jimin held them out obediently, and the warm cloth wiped away the sugar and stickiness with practiced care.
“Shall we go?” Namjoon asked once he was done.
Jimin glanced back at the table. So much food still untouched. So many cakes arranged like artwork, perfect and pointless.
He turned away from them.
“Yes,” he said, even though he meant no.
They walked back through the garden path, the sunlight soft and gold on the flowers, and Jimin wondered—if he ran into the hedge maze and didn’t come out, how long would it take for anyone to notice? Would Madame Song wait at the piano bench forever? Would his father remember the lesson was scheduled at all?
He didn’t run, of course.
He went inside.
The music room smelled faintly of varnish and leather and something older, something tired. The grand piano sat at the center like a silent beast, gleaming under the light from the tall windows. Madame Song stood beside it, already waiting in her usual gray dress, her expression unreadable.
Namjoon led him in and bowed politely.
“Good afternoon, Madame.”
“Good afternoon,” she said without looking at him.
Jimin stood by the bench, his shoes tapping lightly on the polished floor. He looked at the keys like they were sharp.
Namjoon placed a gentle hand on his back and whispered, “You’ll be alright, young master.”
Jimin didn’t nod. He just climbed onto the bench and placed his fingers on the keys.
They felt as cold as always.
Madame Song sat beside him, straight-backed and silent, and the lesson began.
Same drills. Same scales. Same tapping on the wrist when he was off by a beat. The same feeling that no matter how perfectly he memorized the notes, it would never sound quite beautiful enough.
Still, Jimin tried. He always did.
Even when it didn’t matter. Even when he hated it.
Because that’s what was expected of him.
And maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, his father would hear the music through the halls one day and think to himself, That’s my son.
After the lesson ended, Jimin bowed politely to Madame Song, even though he didn’t want to, even though his hands ached and his pride ached more. She gave him a curt nod and said as expected, like that was a compliment, and Jimin forced a smile because it was what he was supposed to do.
Namjoon was waiting at the doorway, holding Jimin’s water bottle. Jimin walked past Madame Song without another word and took the bottle from him silently.
He didn’t say anything on the way to his room. He was too tired to pretend.
When they arrived, Namjoon opened the door for him and gently reminded, “Study hour, young master.”
Jimin nodded and walked in, dragging his feet slightly on the carpet. He heard the soft click of the door closing behind him, and then the soft murmur of Namjoon’s voice through the wood—he was on the phone with Secretary Jung. It was probably about something important. Maybe about the company. Or maybe—maybe about his father.
Jimin tried not to listen too hard.
He sat at his desk and pulled out his notebook. The light above cast a warm glow over his books and his pencil case, his carefully organized schedule, the math test he was proud of. The pink band he wore on his wrist caught the light—a reward from Namjoon for doing well. Jimin liked looking at it. It reminded him someone cared.
But even with the reward, even after the sweets, and the tea, and the music lesson endured—everything felt a little hollow tonight.
He tried to focus, resting his cheek on his palm as he flipped through the textbook. The words blurred a little, but he pushed himself. Jimin always pushed himself. No one else would, not really.
He reached for the next worksheet, fingers catching the edge of the paper just a little too sharply. A sharp sting bloomed on the side of his finger.
“Ah—ow.”
Jimin looked down and saw the tiniest line of red bloom across his skin. It was thin, almost invisible. But it stung, bad enough to make his eyes water a little. He held his finger up, lips quivering.
“Hyung!” he called, voice higher than he meant it to be. “Namjoonie hyung!”
The door flew open faster than he expected.
Namjoon rushed in, eyes wide. “Young master? What is it? Are you alright?”
“I cut my finger,” Jimin said, pouting, holding it up like it was something terrible.
Namjoon knelt beside him instantly, gently cupping Jimin’s small hand in his much larger one. He inspected it quickly, panic flickering in his eyes despite how small the injury really was.
“It's just a paper cut,” Jimin mumbled, cheeks flushing now that Namjoon looked worried.
But Namjoon didn’t seem convinced. He stood up quickly. “Wait here. I’ll call Ms. Harin.”
Jimin blinked. “Hyung—no, it’s not that—”
But Namjoon was already in the hall again, calling louder than usual. “Ms. Harin! Hurry! Master Jimin’s bleeding!”
Jimin could hear her startled response from down the corridor. He winced, suddenly embarrassed.
A minute later, the maid, Ms. Harin appeared, nearly running with the first-aid kit in hand. She looked from Jimin to Namjoon, breathless. “What happened?”
“Paper cut,” Jimin said quietly.
Harins's eyes narrowed slightly. “You screamed for me like he lost a limb.”
Namjoon scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “He sounded like he was hurt bad.”
Jimin held up his finger again, a single bead of blood still visible. “It hurts.”
Harin sighed but knelt beside him anyway, opening the kit. “It’s small, Master Jimin. Just a clean—”
“No,” Jimin cut in, pulling his hand back quickly. “It’ll sting.”
“You’re a brave boy,” she tried to coax.
“It stings,” Jimin insisted, crossing his arms. “I want Namjoonie hyung to do it.”
Harin paused. Namjoon’s eyebrows shot up.
“Me?” he asked, uncertain.
“Yes,” Jimin said, almost defiantly now. “You do it.”
Harin arched an eyebrow but said nothing, simply handed the alcohol wipe and bandages over before standing. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
Namjoon sat down beside him with the kit in his lap. Jimin watched him closely, eyes wide, lips still pouting.
“You sure about this?” Namjoon asked gently.
Jimin nodded. “You’re gentler.”
That made Namjoon smile, just a little. He took Jimin’s hand again and tore open the wipe. “It might sting.”
Jimin looked away. “I know.”
The wipe touched his skin and Jimin hissed dramatically. “Ah—it hurts!”
“It’s just a wipe,” Namjoon chuckled under his breath, though his hand was steady, careful. “You're very brave.”
“I am,” Jimin agreed, still turning his face away like that helped.
Once the cut was clean, Namjoon reached for the small box of bandages and picked the one with the soft pink kittens Jimin liked. He peeled the backing off and wrapped it gently around Jimin’s finger, smoothing the edges down with his thumb.
“There. All better.”
Jimin looked at his hand proudly, turning it this way and that. “Thank you, hyung.”
Namjoon gave him a small bow of his head. “Anytime, young master.”
He meant it. Jimin knew he did.
Jimin leaned his cheek against Namjoon’s arm for a second, just a second, before pulling back. “Do you think Father would have come if I’d gotten really hurt?”
Namjoon didn’t answer.
And Jimin didn’t ask again. He looked at his finger instead, admiring the tiny pink kitten that smiled up at him, and pretended it didn’t matter. But it did. It really, really did.
Once the crisis of the terrible paper cut had passed and the kitten bandage was properly admired, Jimin returned to his seat at the desk. Namjoon didn’t leave this time. He pulled a chair quietly beside him and sat with a soft thud, not too close to crowd him, but close enough that Jimin felt... safe again.
It was easier to concentrate like that.
He flipped through his math workbook, mumbling the formulas to himself under his breath as he scribbled answers with his pink pencil. It was the one with a tiny bunny eraser that Namjoon had bought for him from a bookstore downtown. Jimin liked using it during study time. It made the numbers less annoying.
Namjoon didn’t say anything while he studied. He just sat there like a quiet anchor, arms folded over his chest, watching with warm eyes. Every now and then, Jimin would glance sideways just to make sure he was still there—and he always was.
But after half an hour, a gentle knock came on the door. Namjoon stood immediately, opening it just enough to peek through.
“Master Jimin,” said one of the maids softly, Harin again, her voice more hesitant than usual. “Your brother is expecting you downstairs.”
Jimin didn’t move.
He held his pencil tighter, arms crossing slowly over the desk.
“No,” he said, voice sharp and pouty. “If Jin hyung wants to see me, he can come here.”
Harin blinked, clearly unsure what to do. “Ah... should I—”
Namjoon stepped in calmly, his voice patient. “Just tell Master Seokjin that the young master is studying, and asking for him instead. He’ll understand.”
She bowed quickly and left.
Jimin slumped back in his chair, chin resting on the edge of his desk, bottom lip stuck out in a full pout.
“Stubborn,” Namjoon murmured, though there was no scolding in his voice. Only something fond and a little tired.
Jimin stuck his tongue out at him.
It wasn’t long before another knock came—more cheerful this time—and before Namjoon could even open the door, it swung open wide.
“Why didn’t my sweet little brother come greet me?” Seokjin sang as he walked in, wearing one of his fancy suits, jacket slung over his shoulder, smile glowing as if he hadn’t been away for over a week.
Jimin turned away from him dramatically.
Namjoon stood and bowed politely, but Seokjin waved him off and walked straight over to the desk.
“Jiminie,” Seokjin said, crouching beside the chair now. “You’re not happy to see me?”
“I’m mad at you,” Jimin said plainly.
Seokjin blinked, hand pausing mid-reach. “You’re mad?”
Jimin nodded once, stubborn.
Seokjin tilted his head, softening his tone. “Can I ask why?”
“You’re always busy,” Jimin said, eyes filling slightly but refusing to look at him. “You say you miss me but you don’t visit. You don’t call. You don’t come to snack time in the garden. I wait and wait and Namjoon hyung always says you’re working.”
“I am working,” Seokjin replied gently.
“But I miss you,” Jimin blurted out, and now he looked at him, eyes round and glassy. “And I don’t want to miss you anymore.”
Seokjin’s expression shifted then. Something in his face cracked, just a little—his usual soft smile faltering at the edges. He reached out and gently smoothed Jimin’s hair back, pushing a stray strand behind his ear.
“Oh, Jiminie,” he said softly, “I miss you too. So, so much. You’re right. I’ve been too busy.”
“You always say that,” Jimin whispered.
“I know. And I always mean it.” Seokjin took both of Jimin’s hands into his, kissing the one with the little kitten bandage lightly. “But you’re more important than any business meeting. And if I forget that, you have every right to be mad.”
Jimin looked at him for a long time. Then slowly, he turned his chair toward Seokjin and climbed into his lap, curling like a small cat.
“Just stay,” Jimin muttered. “For today.”
“I will,” Seokjin promised, wrapping both arms around him. “I’m all yours for the rest of the night.”
Jimin didn’t answer. He just buried his face in Seokjin’s shirt and let himself be held.
Namjoon stepped quietly back to his post by the door. He didn’t say anything either.
But Jimin knew he was still there. And now, his Jin hyung was too. For tonight, at least, it was enough.
Dinner that night didn’t feel like dinner at all. It felt like a celebration.
Jimin couldn’t remember the last time he had someone sitting with him at the long, too-wide dining table. It was always just him and Namjoon standing off to the side, or sometimes one of the maids who left as soon as the plates were set. Quiet, quiet meals with nothing but the sound of silver scraping china. He was used to them now. He even knew where the dishes would be placed without looking. How long each course would take. The exact minute the servers would bow and retreat. He’d memorized the rhythm of loneliness.
But tonight, the seat next to him was filled. Really filled.
Seokjin sat beside him, close enough that their chairs touched slightly at the corners. He took off his blazer, rolled up his sleeves like he used to when they cooked ramen together late at night years ago, and insisted on serving Jimin’s soup himself.
Jimin beamed the whole time, so much his cheeks hurt.
And for once, he actually finished everything on his plate.
“I told you it tastes better when someone’s sitting with me!” Jimin said, spoon tapping the empty dish for emphasis. “Even the carrots weren’t gross today!”
Seokjin laughed, deep and warm, the kind of laugh Jimin didn’t realize he’d missed until he heard it again. “I’m shocked,” he said dramatically. “The infamous Park Jimin ate carrots willingly? The world might end tonight.”
“They were not willingly! I just didn’t notice them, because I was too busy talking to you!”
“Well then,” Seokjin said, raising his glass in a toast, “To sneaky carrots and chatty brothers.”
Jimin giggled and clinked his glass of juice against his hyung’s.
Namjoon stood by the door, like always, but even he looked... softer somehow. Less like a guard and more like a quiet presence watching over them. When Jimin caught his eye, he gave him a small smile. Jimin didn’t say anything, but he felt it in his chest—a little thrum of happiness.
He tried not to let it show too much. Tried to eat slowly, savor every bite, drag the time out as long as possible. If he finished too fast, would Seokjin leave again? Would he get up, say he had a meeting, ruffle Jimin’s hair and disappear for another five days?
No. Not tonight.
“Tell me more about school,” Seokjin said, scooping rice onto his plate with a practiced hand. “Namjoon says you’ve been working hard.”
“I got full marks on my math test!” Jimin announced, sitting up straighter. “Even the bonus question that everyone else said was impossible!”
“Of course you did,” Seokjin said, eyes gleaming with pride. “I knew you’d be top of your class in no time.”
Jimin wriggled in his seat, cheeks turning a bit pink. “The teacher even showed my paper to the other class!”
“I hope you told them it’s because your brain is made of diamonds.”
“I didn’t,” Jimin grinned, “but maybe I will next time.”
They kept talking like that through the second course, then dessert, then tea. Jimin didn’t usually drink tea at night—it was part of his snack time, not dinner—but tonight he sipped the honeyed chamomile just to keep his brother at the table longer.
He told Seokjin everything he could think of. About how the principal wanted to meet their father but hadn’t said why. About how the boy who sat behind him kept poking his shoulder with a pencil. About the girl who shared her eraser with him during science class and how she smelled like strawberries. About how he hated piano lessons and how the teacher’s eyebrows looked like fuzzy caterpillars.
Seokjin listened to every word.
He laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at the right moments, made faces when Jimin complained. He even made a note in his phone to ask their father—pretend to ask, Jimin corrected silently—to change the piano teacher. It wouldn’t happen, but it felt nice to pretend.
By the time they reached the bottom of their teacups, the sky had already turned navy and the garden lights outside were glowing softly through the windows. The chandelier overhead sparkled like stars.
Jimin leaned sideways against Seokjin’s arm, head gently resting there. He didn’t say anything, just sat in the warmth of his brother’s presence, heart feeling heavier and lighter all at once.
He knew this wouldn’t last. Seokjin had meetings. Business. Deadlines. He always did. But tonight, he stayed. He didn’t even check his watch. And Jimin didn’t let go.
After dinner, the warmth in Jimin’s chest still hadn’t faded. It lingered like the last traces of sunlight behind the clouds—soft and golden, even as the halls grew dimmer under the quiet hush of evening. He walked beside Namjoon down the corridor, small hand tucked loosely into his hyung’s larger one. Their steps were slow, unhurried, like neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.
When they reached his room, Namjoon opened the door first and gently ushered him inside. The lights flickered on low—just enough to cast a soft glow on the plush carpet and cream-colored walls. Everything smelled faintly like lavender and clean sheets. Familiar. Safe.
Namjoon set the evening clothes aside and helped Jimin into the bathroom. It was routine by now, the way Namjoon knelt to help him with the buttons, rolled up his sleeves, tested the water temperature with the back of his hand before filling the deep white tub. But still, Jimin loved it. He loved how careful Namjoon was, how he never poured water too fast, how he always remembered to use the citrus-scented soap instead of the floral one because Jimin hated smelling like roses. The water was warm, just right.
Namjoon sat by the tub while Jimin splashed his toes, washing behind his ears and humming a song that had no melody, just a soft little noise to fill the silence. Jimin talked in fragments—about the carrot rice, about how Seokjin laughed too loudly, about how maybe tomorrow he’d try to smile more at school, even if no one smiled back.
Namjoon only nodded, drying Jimin’s arms and legs with a thick white towel when the water cooled. Then came the softest nightwear, fresh from the drawers: pale blue cotton with little clouds stitched on the sleeves. Jimin liked this one best. He looked small in it. Clean. Warm and sleepy.
Namjoon tucked him in gently, drawing the comforter up to Jimin’s chin. The boy reached for his plush bear from the side of the bed, cradled it close to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close yet. He was waiting. And Namjoon seemed to know that.
Just as he turned to dim the bedside lamp, there was a soft knock at the door, and Seokjin stepped in.
Jimin didn’t say anything, just watched with wide eyes as his brother crossed the room, his face lit up in a smile.
“Are you already tucked in?” Seokjin asked softly, crouching beside the bed.
Jimin gave a little nod, too sleepy to speak but too awake to pretend he wasn’t excited.
Seokjin brushed the bangs away from Jimin’s forehead, cool fingers ghosting over his skin. “You were such a good boy today. I’m proud of you.”
Jimin’s lips curved into the faintest pout. “You said that at dinner.”
“I know,” Seokjin chuckled. “But you deserve to hear it again.”
He leaned down, kissed Jimin’s forehead—right between his brows, where his mother used to kiss him—and then, just as gently, kissed his cheek. Jimin’s heart ached in that quiet way it did when everything felt too nice, too rare, like it might vanish in a second.
“Will you be gone again tomorrow?” he whispered.
Seokjin didn’t answer right away. His hand stilled, resting lightly over Jimin’s tucked-in shoulder.
“I’ll try to stay,” he said. “At least until lunch. But I have to go to the office later.”
Jimin wanted to say don’t. He wanted to say stay here, just stay. But he didn’t. He only nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Okay,” he whispered, eyes fluttering.
“Sleep well, sweet boy,” Seokjin said, giving his hand a final squeeze.
When he left the room, Namjoon dimmed the lights the rest of the way and sat quietly in the armchair by the wall, just like he did every night.
And Jimin laid there, warm under the blankets, his brother’s kiss still tingling on his forehead, his bear clutched tightly in his arms.
He closed his eyes, listening to the soft rustle of Namjoon turning a page in a book, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
Just for tonight, everything was okay.