Chapter Text
Yoongi opens the door after exactly one knock. He doesn’t even check the peephole.
He’s shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, loose shorts slung low on his hips, blinking slowly like his brain hasn’t finished booting up yet. There’s a faint trail of steam following him out from the bathroom, his apartment still warm and humid, smelling faintly of soap.
The door barely has time to swing fully open before Jimin slips past him, ducking under Yoongi’s arm like he owns the place.
“Are you free this weekend?”
Yoongi turns slowly, still holding the door, watching Jimin already halfway down the hallway. The door stays open behind him, letting in a draft of cooler hallway air that does nothing to wake him up.
“…Hi?”
Jimin doesn’t answer. He kicks off his shoes by the wall, toeing them into a messy pile, and heads straight for the kitchen. He opens the fridge without asking, crouching slightly to peer inside like he’s inspecting inventory.
Yoongi closes the door and locks it, then leans back against it for a second. He exhales tiredly. It’s too late for whatever nonsense Jimin brings with him whenever he visits.
“Don’t hi me,” Jimin calls from inside the fridge. “Answer the question.”
Yoongi pushes himself off the door and walks toward the kitchen. “You didn’t even look at me.”
“I looked,” Jimin mumbles, already pulling out the pizza leftovers from last night and setting it on the counter. He opens the foil, inspects the contents critically, then transfers two slices onto a plate before shoving it into the microwave.
Yoongi stops beside the counter, arms folding loosely over his chest. “You walked straight past me. Maybe greet me first before getting inside my apartment without asking, hmm?”
Jimin hums uninterested while the microwave whirs to life.
Yoongi sighs, already exhausted. He drags a hand through his damp hair and watches Jimin move around his kitchen with irritating comfort. “Why are you in my apartment, Jimin?”
“You let me in.”
“I opened the door.”
“Same thing.” Jimin reaches into the fridge again and grabs one of Yoongi’s bottled coffees, twisting the cap while waiting for the pizza to reheat. He takes a long drink and immediately makes a face. “You buy the worst coffee.”
“That’s because it’s not for you.” Yoongi reaches out and snatches the bottle from Jimin’s hand, taking a gulp himself.
Jimin squints at him. “Wow. Stealing from guests now?”
“You are not a guest. Not a welcomed one, anyway.”
Jimin shrugs, unconcerned. He finally turns around then, eyes dragging slowly over Yoongi’s bare chest, lingering on his collarbones, the faint water droplets still clinging to his skin. Jimin inhales subtly, omega senses catching on the clean alpha scent rolling off him.
“Oh,” Jimin says, thoughtful. “You showered.”
Yoongi looks down at himself, then looks back at Jimin with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”
Jimin clicks his tongue. “You should’ve put something on before opening the door.”
“You came over unannounced.”
“You still could’ve grabbed a shirt.”
Yoongi rubs his face with both hands. “Why are you here?”
The microwave beeps loudly and Jimin brightens immediately. He pulls the plate out, nearly burning his fingers, and sets it on the counter. Steam curls up from the pizza and he blows on it.
“Okay. So. Are you free this weekend?”
Yoongi stares at him. “…This feels like a trap.”
“It isn’t,” Jimin says around a bite of pizza, immediately regretting it when the heat hits his tongue. He starts exhaling quickly through his mouth, fanning his lips with one hand. “It’s just a yes or no question.”
Yoongi watches him struggle with the cheese. “You always say that right before something terrible happens.”
Jimin swallows with effort. “Wow. You have zero faith in me.” Jimin points at him with the pizza slice. “So? Free or not?”
Yoongi doesn’t respond. He just turns away and walks toward the couch, grabbing the shirt he abandoned earlier and pulling it over his head as he goes.
Jimin follows him with his eyes. “Hey,” He calls. “You didn’t answer.”
Yoongi tugs the shirt down over his torso and turns back. He leans against the arm of the couch. “Why do you need my weekend?”
Jimin grins, slow and pleased. “Date.”
Yoongi blinks once. “…What.”
“A date,” Jimin repeats cheerfully, taking another bite of pizza.
“With who?”
“With me.”
Yoongi stares at him like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence.
Nothing comes.
“Jimin.” Yoongi groans, already knowing what’s coming next.
“Yes?”
“Are we doing this again?”
Jimin nods, mouth full.
Yoongi exhales through his nose and walks into the kitchen. “How many times have we done this now?” Yoongi doesn’t look directly at Jimin when he asks. He stares past him instead, at the faint smudge on the wall above the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he’s bracing for impact.
Jimin tilts his head, chewing slowly, eyes drifting upward as if the answer might be written on the ceiling. “Do you want the official count,” he asks around a mouthful of pizza, “or the estimate?”
Yoongi lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, though nothing about this feels funny yet. “The legal estimate.”
Jimin hums thoughtfully, tapping one finger against his chin. He sways slightly on his feet, weight shifting from one hip to the other, gaze unfocused in that way he gets when he’s doing mental math he absolutely does not care about. “Mm,” he says after a moment. “At least twenty.”
Yoongi chokes. Not dramatically, just enough that he has to cough into his fist, blinking hard.
“Twenty?!”
Jimin shrugs, completely unbothered. “Give or take.”
Yoongi straightens slowly, eyes narrowing. “Jimin.”
Jimin lifts his eyebrows innocently. “Okay,” he amends. “Maybe closer to thirty.”
Yoongi stares at him like he’s just admitted to tax evasion. “You cannot,” Yoongi says carefully, pointing at Jimin with his finger, “just keep ambushing me with criminal activity.”
Jimin scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s not criminal.”
“It is absolutely criminal.”
“It’s performance art.” Jimin tries.
Yoongi drags his hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly like he’s trying to physically reset his brain. “It is fraud,” Yoongi says flatly. “Why now?”
Jimin slides off the counter, landing lightly on his feet. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, already unlocking it. “Because,” he says, thumbs moving fast across the screen. “Look.”
He steps closer and holds the phone up between them.
The website loads and it shows a restaurant with minimalist design, beige and cream tones and way too many gold accents.Words like artisan, experience, and curated scattered aggressively across the page, as if someone got paid extra per buzzword.
Yoongi leans in slightly, squinting at the screen. “It looks expensive.”
“It is expensive.”
“Why would we go somewhere expensive?”
Jimin shrugs. “Because it just opened.”
Yoongi straightens. “So?”
Jimin smiles, slow and satisfied. “So they’re desperate.”
Yoongi gives him a look, the kind that says I raised you better than this.
Jimin meets it without flinching and nods solemnly. “They haven’t built a reputation yet,” Jimin explains, swiping through photos of plated food. “They’re going to be generous. Probably give freebies on the opening day anyway. Maybe complimentary drinks too. Or one of those weird tiny desserts they bring out on a slate.”
“And?”
Jimin’s smile widens. “And,” he says brightly, eyes lighting up, “if we add a proposal on top of that?”
Yoongi feels something dark and deeply familiar bloom in his chest, a mixture of dread and anticipation. The same feeling he gets every time Jimin says trust me. “Jimin.”
“They might throw in a free meal,” Jimin continues. “Maybe wine or dessert. You know how emotional they get when they think two soulmates just got engaged.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitches before he can stop it, just barely.
Jimin sees it immediately. “Oh don’t pretend,” he says, pointing at the alpha’s face. “You love it.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You even cried that one time.”
“I do not remember such a thing.” Yoongi turns away sharply, opening the fridge like it has personally offended him, pretending very hard that he did not, in fact, tear up the first time Jimin dramatically gasped and collapsed into his arms in front of a sobbing waitress.
Yoongi stares into the fridge for a second longer than necessary. Not because he’s looking for anything, but because sometimes it helps to pretend he’s alone.
The cool air brushes against his face, bottles lined neatly on one shelf, leftover containers stacked with precision on another. He grips the edge of the fridge door and exhales slowly through his nose.
“…You’re unbearable,” he mutters, voice muffled slightly by the open door.
Behind him, Jimin just hums. The kind of hum that says I know.
Yoongi straightens and reaches inside, grabbing a cold soda. The can sweats immediately against his palm. He pops it open with one motion, and finally turns back around.
“So,” Yoongi says, taking a long sip from it. The carbonation burns pleasantly down his throat. He gestures vaguely with the can. “Let me get this straight.”
Jimin leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely, chewing his pizza with visible satisfaction.
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I knocked,” Jimin says easily. “And you opened the door.”
“You didn’t wait for permission.”
“You made eye contact.”
Yoongi groans. “That is not consent.”
Jimin shrugs.
“You demanded my weekend. You didn’t even say hello.”
“Ugh, get to the point already.” Jimin sighs exasperated.
Yoongi squints at him. “And now,” He continues, pacing slowly across the kitchen floor, bare feet padding softly against tile, “you want us to fake propose again.”
“Yes.”
Yoongi stops in front of him. “Because you think they’ll give us free food.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe dessert too.”
Jimin’s eyes light up at that, soft brown turning bright, shoulders lifting just a little like he’s physically holding in excitement. His scent turns a note sweeter and Yoongi tries to ignore it.
“Maybe,” Jimin says. “Possibly.”
Yoongi watches him for a moment, then he raises the soda and takes another long sip, letting it linger in his mouth before swallowing.
They stand there in silence for a moment, Jimin chewing and Yoongi drinking, the apartment humming quietly around them.
This is how most of their terrible ideas start.
Yoongi sighs and it comes from deep in his chest. “…What time should I pick you up?”
Jimin gasps like Yoongi just confessed his undying love. He straightens so fast he nearly knocks his elbow into the counter.
“Oh my god,” Jimin says, clutching at his chest dramatically. “You didn’t even pretend to resist.”
“I am resisting,” Yoongi replies flatly.
“You folded in under two minutes.”
Yoongi gives him a tired look and Jimin grins back, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
“They open this weekend, so I’m thinking we should be there around 7pm.”
“And you already checked their reservation availability, right?” Yoongi asks.
Jimin winces. “…Maybe I did more than that.”
Yoongi eyes him. “You already booked it, didn’t you?”
Jimin holds up a finger. “Technically, I put myself on the waitlist.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
Yoongi does not respond and Jimin watches him for a moment. Then softly, Jimin repeats it as a confirmation, “You love me.”
Yoongi fiddles with his soda again, even though it’s already open.
They’ve been doing this for years.
It started in college, when rent was overdue and Jimin cried easily on command and Yoongi could look devastatingly serious on cue.
The first time had been accidental.
Jimin made a joke about people proposing in restaurants and Yoongi, half asleep, half drunk, had dropped to one knee.
They’d gotten free pasta that night.
After that, it became a system which they managed to refine over the years.
Yoongi learned how to look stoic and devoted while Jimin learned how to cry with his whole face. They learned which places were soft-hearted, which managers loved romance.
They were just two broke students looking for a free meal back then.
Now they aren’t broke, nor students anymore, but they still do it anyway.
Sometimes because it’s funny, but mostly because Jimin likes the attention.
And also maybe because Yoongi likes that sometimes Jimin’s omega instincts kick in and he gets dramatic and clingy and Yoongi gets territorial for no reason and suddenly they’re holding hands in public like idiots.
Yoongi glances at Jimin who is watching him hopefully. He exhales long. “…Fine.”
Jimin squeals and launches himself forward and wraps his arms around Yoongi’s waist. “Yes! I knew you’d come through, hyung!”
Yoongi stiffens immediately. “Get off me.”
Jimin presses his cheek to Yoongi’s chest. “No.”
“Come on, you’re leaving your scent all over my clothes,” Yoongi grumbles, pretending to get annoyed by it, even if he is probably going to smell his shirt for the rest of the night.
“It’s called bonding, hyung.”
“It’s called violating my personal space.”
Jimin tilts his head back and pouts, giving Yoongi the puppy eyes that he knows the alpha can’t resist.
Yoongi sighs and pats Jimin’s shoulder once. “Go home, pup.”
Jimin finally releases him, bouncing backward. “Okay but I’m sending you outfit inspo. We should match.”
“No.”
“And proposal scripts.”
“Jimin.”
Jimin grabs his shoes and opens the door. “I’ll pick you up Saturday!”
Yoongi points. “You do not pick me up. I will pick you up, so be ready at six.”
Jimin grins. “Goodnight, hyung!”
The door finally shuts and Yoongi stands there for a moment.
“Such a brat,” he mutters to himself.
Yoongi arrives at Jimin’s place at exactly six p.m. Not six-oh-one, not six-ish. He likes to be on time, always.
He stands in the hallway outside Jimin’s apartment with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He’s dressed nicer than usual.
He wears a soft grey button-up tucked neatly into black jeans, sleeves rolled once at the forearms and clean sneakers. Even his hair has been styled, not dramatically, but enough that it looks better than the messy hair he usually likes to wear. He smells faintly of cologne layered over his natural alpha scent, something subtle and expensive.
He lifts his hand and knocks.
He waits, and waits, and waits. Ten seconds pass, then twenty, thirty.
Yoongi glances at his watch and exhales slowly through his nose.
Finally, after a full minute, the door swings open.
Jimin appears, half turned toward the hallway, one hand still fumbling with an earring, the other bracing against the doorframe. He’s already dressed, black slacks, silky shirt, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to secure the tiny clasp.
“Come in,” Jimin says immediately, stepping aside. “I can’t get this stupid thing to—”
Yoongi steps inside. He doesn’t even get both feet over the threshold before he speaks. “You said six. I am here at six, but you’re not ready.”
Jimin snorts, still fighting with the earring. “Don’t start.”
Yoongi shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair near the entrance.
Jimin reaches back and closes the door behind Yoongi, then immediately turns and starts walking deeper into the apartment. “I just need to find the right shoes,” Jimin calls over his shoulder. “And possibly a different belt. And I don’t like this earring anymore.”
Yoongi watches him go and he sighs, deeply and resigned. He stays where he is, hands sliding back into his pockets, taking in the space while Jimin rummages noisily out of sight.
He doesn’t come over often.
Only when Jimin hosts something, drinks, birthdays, spontaneous gatherings that somehow always end with their friends group passed out on the couch.
The apartment smells like Jimin.
Not overwhelmingly, just traces of omega warmth mixed with whatever laundry detergent he uses and the faint sweetness of something floral. It’s comfortable and lived-in. Shoes kicked near the door, a hoodie draped over the arm of the couch, a half-empty mug abandoned on the coffee table.
Yoongi inhales without meaning to.
His alpha instincts respond immediately, subtle and annoying, recognizing the space as belonging to someone whose scent he likes more than he should.
He shifts his weight awkwardly.
From inside the bedroom, Jimin shouts: “Do black loafers feel too serious?”
Yoongi doesn’t raise his voice. “I don’t know, just pick something so we can go.”
Jimin appears in the doorway again, holding two different pairs of shoes, earring still dangling uselessly from one ear. “Rude.”
Jimin looks down at himself, then back at Yoongi, eyes flicking briefly over Yoongi’s outfit. “Ah,” Jimin says softly. “You dressed up.”
Yoongi shrugs. “Bare minimum.”
“That’s not bare minimum,” Jimin says, walking closer. “You tucked your shirt in.”
Yoongi shifts, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Don’t make it weird.”
Jimin steps right into Yoongi’s space, squinting at his hair. “You even styled it.”
Yoongi leans back slightly. “Don’t touch me.”
Jimin touches him anyway, smoothing a stray strand into place with gentle fingers. “There,” Jimin says, satisfied. “Now you look like a responsible adult.”
Yoongi swats Jimin’s hand away when it starts drifting toward his hair again. “Stop,” he mutters. Then, after a second, adds, “You’re still missing an earring.”
Jimin blinks and he reaches up automatically, fingers brushing his bare earlobe, then lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Oh. Right.”
He lifts the tiny hoop again, angling it toward his ear, tongue peeking out in concentration. He tries once, misses, and tries again, squinting harder like that might help. The earring slips from his fingers and nearly drops, but Jimin catches it at the last second.
Yoongi watches Jimin struggling for approximately three seconds, maybe four, then he pushes off the wall. “Give it.”
Jimin freezes mid-motion. “What?”
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Jimin looks at him, then at the earring, then back at Yoongi. “I am literally putting it in my ear. How can I do it wrong?”
Yoongi clicks his tongue then takes the earring from Jimin’s hand carefully, fingers brushing Jimin’s for just a split second longer than necessary.
He steps closer, close enough that Jimin can feel the warmth of his body.
Close enough that Yoongi catches the sweet undertones in Jimin’s scent, something floral and warm that settles low in his chest before he can stop it.
“Hold still,” Yoongi murmurs.
Jimin obeys immediately. He tilts his head slightly, offering his ear without thinking about it, shoulders relaxing. His hands drop to his sides, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his pants.
Yoongi lifts his hand slowly and his thumb brushes the curve of Jimin’s jaw by accident. Jimin takes a sharp inhale.
Yoongi’s fingers are steady, careful as he guides the small hoop through Jimin’s piercing. His knuckles graze Jimin’s cheek, the pad of his thumb resting briefly just under Jimin’s ear.
Jimin doesn’t move. Doesn’t really breathe either.
His scent spikes faintly, sweet warmth blooming in the air between them, subtle but unmistakable.
Yoongi notices, but pretends he doesn’t.
He focuses on the clasp, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in concentration. His other hand lifts automatically, hovering near Jimin’s shoulder like he might steady him if he sways.
The earring clicks into place. “There,” Yoongi says quietly.
He drops his hands immediately and steps back.
Jimin blinks once, then again, and he touches the earring softly, checking. “…Thank you.” His voice comes out a little softer than before.
Yoongi clears his throat and looks anywhere except Jimin’s face. “Put your shoes on,” he mutters. “And let’s go.”
Evening settles soft over the city, and Yoongi and Jimin end up standing in line outside the restaurant, shoulder to shoulder.
Jimin doesn’t hesitate, he hooks his arm through Yoongi’s when they get forward in line.
Yoongi stiffens on instinct. “…Is that necessary,” he mutters, glancing down at where Jimin’s fingers curl comfortably around his sleeve.
Jimin leans in, cheek nearly brushing Yoongi’s shoulder. “Yes. We’re in love. Remember?”
Yoongi clicks his tongue. “We are pretending to get engaged.”
“Same thing,” Jimin says brightly.
Yoongi exhales through his nose, but he doesn’t pull away.
The line moves. They reach the front, and Jimin straightens. “Hi,” Jimin says to the host. “I have a reservation for tonight. Park Jimin.”
The man checks his tablet, nods, then gestures them inside. “Right this way.”
The doors open, warm lighting glowing off dark wood and marble. Quiet conversation floats through the space, accompanied by soft clink of glasses and silverware.
Yoongi steps in and immediately feels out of place. His sneakers feel too loud against the floor, his grey shirt suddenly feels too plain, and he becomes hyper-aware of his posture, his hands, the way his shoulders naturally hunch.
This is not his environment.
He flicks a glance at Jimin, who, meanwhile, looks perfectly at home.
He walks beside Yoongi with easy confidence, arm still looped through his, eyes already drifting over the room with open curiosity. There’s no hesitation in his step, no visible self-consciousness. He’s humming under his breath, soft and content, like this is just another place he belongs.
Jimin can fit anywhere.
They’re guided to a small table tucked near a window. Candlelight flickers between them as they sit.
Yoongi adjusts his chair and Jimin immediately reaches for the menu. He scans, lips parting slightly as he reads, eyebrows lifting every few seconds.
“Oh,” Jimin murmurs. “Oh wow.”
Yoongi opens his own menu and stares at it like it’s written in another language. He recognizes maybe three words. He closes it halfway, opens it again, and sighs quietly.
The waiter appears shortly after. “Can I get you started with drinks?”
Yoongi orders something safe, something he can pronounce, while Jimin orders something sparkly.
Then it’s time for food. Yoongi picks a dish that sounds familiar enough and hopes for the best.
Jimin, on the other hand, can’t decide. He tilts his head, flipping pages back and forth, tapping one corner of the menu with his finger.
“They all sound good,” Jimin says softly, more to himself than anyone else.
Yoongi watches him for a second, then he leans back in his chair. “Get whatever you want.”
Jimin looks up, one of his eyebrow lifting in a questioning manner.
Yoongi shrugs. “Whatever you’re craving. It’s on me.”
Jimin blinks. His eyes widen just a little, round and surprised. “…Are you sure?”
Yoongi meets his gaze steadily. He isn’t the broke student he used to be, counting coins for instant ramen. He signed contracts, he started producing for idol groups, long nights that finally turned into steady income. It’s been almost five years now of doing real work, so yeah, he can treat Jimin with whatever he wants. Besides, the restaurant might throw in a free meal or dessert if everything goes right.
He nods once. “I’m sure.”
Jimin studies him for a moment longer, searching his face, then smiles, slow and soft and grateful in a way that makes Yoongi’s chest tighten. “…Okay,” Jimin says quietly. “Then I’m getting two things.”
Yoongi huffs. “Of course you are.”
Jimin grins and turns back to the menu, already excited again, humming under his breath like this night is unfolding exactly the way he wants.
And Yoongi watches him, elbows on the table, pretending not to notice how easy it feels to sit here with him.
Jimin sighs out of nowhere, long and soft, the kind that slips out without meaning to.
Yoongi follows his gaze and spots at two tables away, a couple who is completely wrapped up in each other. The guy is feeding his partner little bites from his fork, murmuring something that makes them laugh. Their knees are touching, one hand never leaves the other’s wrist. They keep leaning in close, foreheads brushing, whispering like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist.
They’re unbearable.
Jimin watches them for a few seconds longer than necessary, then he sighs again. “Ah,” Jimin says quietly. “Young Love.”
Yoongi hums.
Jimin tilts his head, still staring at the couple, his chin resting in his palm. “Do you think we’ll ever be like that?”
Yoongi blinks, taken by surprise. He looks at the couple, then back at Jimin, and his eyebrows shoot up.
“…You mean,” Yoongi says carefully, lifting his hand and gesturing vaguely between the two of them, “us two?”
Jimin finally turns to him, and he breaks into a giggle immediately. “No,” Jimin laughs, waving him off. “God, no. I mean separately.”
Yoongi relaxes a fraction.
Jimin smiles sheepishly. “Like—do you think we’ll ever find… you know. The one.”
Ah.
Yoongi leans back in his chair. He thinks about it for a second. “Maybe,” he ends up saying. He hasn’t really thought much about it, about being in love, about searching for the one.
Jimin hums thoughtfully, nodding to himself.
The food arrives then, plates placed carefully between them. Steam curls upward, carrying rich smells that make Yoongi realize how hungry he actually is.
Jimin’s eyes light up immediately. “Oh my god,” He murmurs. “This looks insane.”
Yoongi barely has time to react before Jimin is already rearranging his cutlery.
They start eating, falling into comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Yoongi clears his throat. “I’m gonna go talk to the waiter,” he says, pushing his chair back.
Jimin looks up mid-bite. “Why?”
Yoongi stands, leaning slightly toward him. “About the dessert,” he murmurs. “I’ll ask them to bring the ring with it.”
Jimin’s eyes widen dramatically. “Oh.”
Yoongi points at him. “And you’re going to act surprised.”
Jimin immediately straightens in his seat and places a hand over his chest. “Okay,” Jimin whispers. “I can do surprised.”
Yoongi snorts under his breath and turns, walking toward the waiter, leaving Jimin at the table practicing expressions in the reflection of his spoon.
Yoongi finds the waiter near the service station, polishing glasses with the kind of focus that suggests he’s either extremely professional or desperately avoiding eye contact with customers.
Yoongi clears his throat. “Uh—excuse me.”
The waiter looks up immediately, eyes bright, posture snapping into place. “Yes, sir?”
Yoongi shifts his weight, suddenly aware that he’s standing in the middle of a very expensive restaurant wearing sneakers and pretending he knows how to behave in places with cloth napkins.
“So,” Yoongi starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
The waiter’s expression softens into polite curiosity. “Of course.”
Yoongi leans in a little, lowering his voice. “I’m… proposing tonight.”
The waiter gasps. Not a subtle gasp, nor a professional one either. “Oh my god,” the waiter whispers. He clasps his hands together in front of his chest and his eyes immediately dart toward the table where Jimin is sitting, currently poking suspiciously at his garnish.
“That’s your omega?”
Yoongi follows his gaze. “Yeah.”
Which is technically true. In performance art and in fraud.
The waiter’s face lights up like someone just turned on a Christmas tree inside his skull. “He’s beautiful.”
Yoongi nods once. “He knows.”
The waiter lets out a tiny squeal that he tries very hard to swallow. “This is amazing,” he whispers urgently. “Okay, okay—do you have a ring?”
Yoongi pulls the small velvet box out of his pocket.
The waiter presses both hands over his mouth. “Oh my god.”
Yoongi shifts uncomfortably. “You’re reacting more than he will.”
“No, no, this is perfect,” the waiter says. “We love love here. We support love.”
Yoongi hums. “Great. So I was thinking you could sneak this in with dessert?”
The waiter straightens, instantly professional again, but with a visible shimmer of excitement behind his eyes. “Of course, dessert course. I’ll bring the plates, then I’ll come back with the ring on a separate tray. I’ll say something like ‘Sir, there’s something extra for you tonight.’”
Yoongi nods.
“And then you kneel?”
Yoongi pauses. “…Let’s not get carried away.”
The waiter looks mildly disappointed. “Okay, okay. But I can dim the lights a little. And maybe we can cue the soft music?”
Yoongi raises a brow. “You have proposal music?”
The waiter beams. “Of course!”
Yoongi exhales slowly.
They finalize the plan, shake hands like they just closed a business deal, and Yoongi walks back to the table feeling faintly like he just committed to a very elaborate lie.
Jimin looks up the moment he returns. “Well?” Jimin whispers loudly. “Did you tell him?”
Yoongi slides back into his chair. “All set.”
Jimin’s eyes sparkle. “Do I need to cry?”
“No.”
“Can I cry?”
“Please don’t.”
Jimin presses his lips together, trying, and failing, to look composed. Yoongi watches him for a second, shaking his head.
He can’t believe they’re still doing this. He also can’t believe how easy it is to fall back into it with Jimin.
Jimin reaches across the table and lightly kicks Yoongi’s ankle under it. Yoongi frowns and kicks him back. They both grin like idiots and suddenly it feels like they are back in college again.
Dessert arrives fifteen minutes later. It’s plated like modern art, something chocolate, something mousse, something drizzled with a sauce that probably costs more than Yoongi’s monthly grocery budget in college.
Jimin gasps softly. “Oh wow.”
Yoongi watches him pick up his spoon, hesitate, then abandon it in favor of his fork because he suddenly wants everything at once.
Yoongi watches this whole internal debate play out on Jimin’s faces and clears his throat.
Jimin looks up. “What?”
Yoongi opens his mouth and then the waiter comes back.
“Excuse me,” the waiter says brightly, appearing beside their table with another small tray in hand.
Yoongi stiffens and Jimin blinks. The waiter sets the tray down gently between them. On the plate there is a small velvet ring box to which Jimin’s eyes snap to immediately.
“This,” the waiter continues, clearly trying very hard not to grin, “is something extra for you tonight, sir.”
Jimin slowly turns to Yoongi. “…Extra?”
Yoongi swallows.
He shoots the waiter a look that says this was not the timing we discussed, but the waiter just gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up and retreats like he’s just completed a side quest.
Jimin stares at the box, then at Yoongi, then back at the box, trying to gesture to Yoongi that this is his cue to propose.
Ah, right.
Here we go.
Yoongi slides out of his chair and Jimin immediately brings a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god.”
Yoongi drops down on one knee, ignoring the way his jeans pull tight at the thigh and how several nearby tables have started to openly stare. He picks up the velvet box from the plate and opens it.
Inside is the simple silver ring they’ve been reusing for years, polished just enough to look convincing.
“Park Jimin,” Yoongi says, voice steady, because if he’s going to commit fraud he’s at least going to do it professionally. “From the moment you stole my fries in sophomore year, I knew my life was over.”
Jimin lets out a tiny, strangled sound. He has been hearing the same speech over and over, but it still gets to him.
Yoongi continues. “You’re loud, dramatic, emotionally irresponsible, and you drink my coffee even when I label it. But somehow, you also make everything better.”
Jimin’s eyes are already glossy. Of course they are.
“Will you marry me?” Yoongi says, lifting the ring.
Jimin stands up so fast his chair screeches against the floor. “Yes,” Jimin blurts. “Yes—oh my god—yes!”
Jimin doesn’t just lean in, he launches himself. It’s barely controlled enthusiasm, he surges forward so fast Yoongi has to brace instinctively, one hand still holding the ring while the other comes up automatically to steady Jimin by the waist.
Jimin’s palms frame Yoongi’s face, warm and slightly clammy, thumbs pressing into his cheeks. Yoongi takes one of Jimin’s hands gently and slides the ring onto his forth finger.
It fits perfectly, because of course it does, they’ve been using the same ring for years.
Jimin stares at it for half a second, then he makes a tiny broken sound in his throat.
They collide chest-to-chest, Jimin practically launching himself into Yoongi. His arms snake around Yoongi’s shoulders, fingers gripping the back of his shirt, pulling him impossibly close. Yoongi catches him this time, one arm curling securely around Jimin’s back, holding him steady, while the other hovers awkwardly with the empty ring box before he finally lets it dangle uselessly at his side.
Jimin’s face burrows into the hollow of Yoongi’s neck, close enough that the subtle, intoxicating scent of him, the clean musk of alpha, hits Jimin full force. His senses spike, a flush creeping up his neck and into his chest, and he exhales against Yoongi’s skin in a shaky, almost delighted gasp.
Yoongi’s own breath catches at the contact, nostrils flaring just enough to take in the sweetness and tension of Jimin pressed so close. There’s a faint sway as they shift, balancing themselves instinctively, bodies aligning without thought.
Somewhere nearby, a slow clap rises, breaking the bubble for just a moment, followed by another tentative clap from the next table. Yoongi clears his throat, glancing down at Jimin whose face is still pressed against him, cheeks faintly pink, eyes closed, utterly caught in the moment.
Yoongi hears a quiet sniffle from a woman two tables away and briefly considers the fact that they may have emotionally compromised a stranger.
Jimin pulls back just enough to look at him and his eyes are suspiciously shiny.
He cups Yoongi’s face again, dramatically, like they’re in the final scene of a rom-com, and plants an exaggerated kiss on Yoongi’s cheek, loud, lingering, and absolutely unnecessary.
“I love you,” Jimin whispers, soft and breathy, pitching it just right for anyone close enough to overhear.
Yoongi doesn’t even blink. He leans in slightly and murmurs back, completely deadpan, “You owe me for this.”
When they finally sit back down, Jimin immediately holds his left hand up in front of his face like he’s inspecting a rare artifact. He tilts it this way and that, watching how the restaurant lighting catches on the metal.
Yoongi drops back into his chair and reaches for his water, taking a slow sip and pretending his heart isn’t still doing something mildly inappropriate in his chest.
He tells himself it’s adrenaline or maybe secondhand embarrassment.
He tells himself it’s definitely not because Jimin’s eyes had gone shiny in a way that felt convincing.
Jimin hums, clearly satisfied, then leans back in his chair, glowing like he just got engaged in a very public, very expensive fairy tale.
That’s when the waiter appears again.
He’s smiling at them, like he just witnessed true love and it fixed something inside him. “Congratulations,” the waiter says warmly. “That was really beautiful.”
Jimin immediately bows in his seat, hands pressed together. “Thank you,” he says, voice soft.
Yoongi nods once, stiff.
The waiter hesitates, shifts his weight, then clears his throat. “Um,” he says, voice polite. “Our manager would actually love to speak with you both, if that’s okay.”
Yoongi blinks once, then smirks faintly. Beside him, Jimin stiffens for half a second, but then his eyes light up. Of course, this worked. They did the proposal, it looked perfect, and surely the restaurant wants to reward them.
They exchange a glance, the same look they’ve perfected over years of fake dates.
The waiter continues cheerfully, “She just wants to congratulate you.”
Jimin nods a little too fast, like he’s practically salivating at the imagined freebies. “Oh. Yes. Of course,” he says, voice tight with excitement.
Yoongi pushes his chair back slowly, feeling the weight of expectation in his legs. Then, without thinking, he offers Jimin his arm. Jimin takes it immediately, and they fall into step behind the waiter.
Shoulders brush, fingers curl together more tightly than they need to, and both of them are acutely aware of the warmth and scent of the other so close, Jimin’s sweetness mingling with the faint spice of Yoongi’s scent.
Jimin leans a little closer, whispering, “If they actually give us a free meal, I’m fainting dramatically.”
They’re guided away from the dining floor and down a narrow hallway lined with abstract art and soft recessed lighting, the sounds of clinking glasses and quiet laughter fading behind them. Jimin keeps close to Yoongi’s side, fingers still loosely hooked around his arm.
The private office is smaller than Jimin expects.
There’s a low beige couch facing two minimalist armchairs, a sleek glass desk tucked neatly into one corner, and exactly one framed inspirational quote mounted on the wall in tasteful gold lettering that reads Create Moments That Matter.
Jimin pauses just inside the doorway and squints at it. Yoongi follows his gaze and exhales quietly through his nose.
A few moments later, the manager joins them in the office.
She’s tall, poised, unmistakably alpha, wearing a tailored blazer that probably cost more than Yoongi’s first car. Her hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and her smile is warm in that practiced, hospitality-trained way that makes you feel immediately welcome and slightly evaluated at the same time.
She clasps her hands together as soon as she sees them, eyes lighting up.
“Oh my god,” she says, genuinely delighted. “First of all—congratulations.”
Jimin straightens instantly. “Thank you,” he says, voice soft and radiant.
Yoongi nods once beside him, polite and composed, already mentally preparing for the part where she offers complimentary champagne or a free dessert. His shoulders stay relaxed, but his brain is actively calculating the value of potential perks.
The manager gestures toward the seating area. “Please, have a seat.”
They comply.
Jimin immediately perches forward on the edge of the couch, hands folded neatly in his lap, vibrating faintly with barely contained excitement. His knee bounces once before he forcibly stills it.
Yoongi settles back more cautiously, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other loosely crossed over his stomach.
The manager takes one of the armchairs and folds her legs gracefully.
“Your proposal was absolutely beautiful,” she says warmly. “We’ve already had three tables ask about you.”
Jimin gasps quietly, one hand flying to his chest. “Really?”
Yoongi lifts his eyebrows, a slow, impressed rise.
Good. Public reaction means success. Success usually means freebies.
The manager nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes. Everyone was completely charmed.”
Jimin glows and Yoongi allows himself the faintest smirk.
The manager shifts slightly in her seat, clearly settling into presentation mode. “My name is Ms. Han. I manage this location. As you probably know, we just opened today.”
“Yes,” Jimin says immediately, leaning forward a little more. “It’s gorgeous. Everything is gorgeous. And the food is great.”
Ms. Han laughs softly, pleased. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
She smooths her blazer and continues. “We’re trying to establish ourselves as more than just a fine-dining restaurant. We want to become a destination.”
Yoongi’s attention sharpens. Destination.
Okay? Where is the free food?
Ms. Han glances between them. “Especially for weddings.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens just a fraction.
Ms. Han leans forward slightly. “We’re launching our wedding program next month. Ceremony space, reception, catering, full experience. But because we’re new, we need visibility.” She smiles again. “And you two,” she gestures between them, “are exactly the kind of couple people remember.”
Jimin blinks, once. Then again, slower, like maybe his brain just malfunctioned. “Us?” he repeats, pointing vaguely between himself and Yoongi, as if there’s any chance she means someone else hiding behind the ficus.
Ms. Han’s smile doesn’t waver. It actually deepens, the kind of smile people wear when they’ve already decided something. “Yes,” she says gently. “Your chemistry is honestly incredible.”
Yoongi coughs into his fist, the sound sharp and unexpected in the quiet office, while Jimin presses his lips together, cheeks coloring faintly, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.
Ms. Han folds her hands neatly on the glass desk, posture elegant, composed, radiating alpha authority in a way that makes Yoongi sit a little straighter despite himself being an alpha too.
“Now,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “here’s what we’d like to propose.”
Yoongi has a strange feeling about this already. He rubs his thumb against the side of his index finger, a small grounding habit, while Jimin leans forward unconsciously, elbows hovering over his knees like he’s about to receive life-changing news.
“We would love to host your wedding here.”
There’s a beat of silence where the hum of the building feels louder than it should, and Jimin tilts his head, brows knitting together in slow-motion confusion.
“…Host?”
Ms. Han nods. “As in,” she clarifies smoothly, “venue, full catering, decor, coordination—everything. Completely taken care of by us.”
Yoongi’s eyes widen a fraction before he can stop them and Jimin’s jaw drops openly this time.
“You mean, for free?” Jimin echoes, voice pitching higher than usual.
Ms. Han gives a small, graceful nod. “In exchange,” she continues, “we’d document your wedding for promotional purposes. Professional photos, short-form videos, a testimonial if you’re comfortable. You’d be featured across our platforms as our first official couple.”
Yoongi stares at her.
This is not what they came for.
This is way much more than a free dessert.
Yoongi clears his throat, dragging his gaze away long enough to glance at Jimin, who looks like he might float off the couch. “That’s…” Yoongi says slowly, choosing his words like they might explode if handled wrong, “very generous.”
Jimin nods beside him, still visibly stunned. “Very generous,” he echoes, blinking rapidly.
Ms. Han smiles like she knows exactly how surreal this sounds, “And,” she adds lightly, as if she’s offering extra breadsticks, “we’d also cover your honeymoon.”
Yoongi freezes. Not metaphorically.
Physically.
His spine locks, his shoulders go rigid and his brain blue-screens. Jimin inhales sharply, fingers clutching into the fabric of Yoongi’s sleeve without even realizing he’s done it.
“Honeymoon?” Jimin repeats, barely above a whisper.
Ms. Han nods again, utterly calm. “Two weeks, all expenses included, in a private resort with an ocean view, spa packages, the whole thing.”
Yoongi turns slowly toward Jimin, eyes wide in pure disbelief. Jimin turns back just as slowly, pupils blown, mouth parted.
This was supposed to be a cute dinner scam.
This was supposed to end with maybe a free tiramisu.
Jimin’s instincts kick in before his common sense has a chance. “Yes!” Jimin says immediately.
Yoongi makes a strangled sound.
Jimin blinks, then looks at him. “What?”
Yoongi stares. “Did you just agree to a sponsored wedding and honeymoon without consulting your partner?” He forces a smile to which Jimin replies with a shrug.
“She said ocean view.”
Yoongi closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Ms. Han is watching them with amusement, and Jimin is already mentally packing swimwear. Yoongi exhales slowly through his nose, widening his eyes at Jimin.
Yoongi forces a polite laugh. “We—uh—we’d need a little bit of time to discuss,” he says.
Ms. Han nods graciously. “Of course.” She stands. “I’ll leave you two alone for a moment.” She exits, closing the door softly behind her.
The door clicks shut behind Ms. Han, soft and final, leaving the room suddenly too quiet. Yoongi sits frozen on an office couch processing the fact that his omega— well, not his omega, but this annoying omega sitting next to him on the couch, just agreed to a fully sponsored wedding and honeymoon like he’d been offered extra fries.
Yoongi turns very slowly.
Jimin is practically vibrating where he sits, hands folded together in his lap, shoulders tucked in tight. Yoongi exhales sharply through his nose and rubs a hand over his face.
“Park Jimin,” he says, voice low, “what exactly do you think you just did?”
Jimin blinks at him, confused by the tone. “I said yes?”
Yoongi drops his hand and stares. “Yes,” Yoongi repeats. “You said yes. To a wedding venue. And a honeymoon.”
Jimin shifts on the couch, finally registering that Yoongi isn’t matching his energy. “Well,” Jimin says carefully, tilting his head, “she was offering a lot.”
Yoongi lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s not the point.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped together between his knees like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. “The point,” Yoongi continues, eyes lifting to Jimin’s, “is that this is fake.”
Jimin’s smile falters.
“Our engagement is fake,” Yoongi says more firmly. “We did this to get a free meal. That’s it.”
Jimin opens his mouth, closes it, then shifts closer on the couch, instinctively shrinking into himself a little. “But it’s just—”
Yoongi cuts in gently but firmly. “If we go through with this, Jimin, we don’t just play along for a night.”
Jimin’s brows knit and Yoongi holds his gaze.
“We’d have to actually get married.”
The words settle into the room and Jimin freezes.
Oh.
His shoulders drop a fraction and his excitement drains away in real time. “Oh,” Jimin says softly.
Yoongi watches him process it, watches the way Jimin’s fingers twist together, how his gaze drifts to the glass desk, then the framed quote on the wall, then back to Yoongi.
“I didn’t think about that part,” Jimin admits.
Yoongi sighs, tension leaking out of him in a slow breath. “That’s obvious.”
Jimin chews on his lower lip, eyes unfocused for a moment, then he straightens. “Well,” he says, lifting his chin slightly, voice regaining confidence, “we can just get divorced after.”
Yoongi blinks. “What.”
Jimin gestures vaguely with one hand, like he’s explaining something very simple. “We do the wedding, we go on the honeymoon, we enjoy two weeks at a luxury resort with everything included, and then we come back and sign divorce papers.” He shrugs lightly. “Not a big deal.”
Not a big deal.
Yoongi stares at him. He leans back against the couch with a soft groan, dragging both hands down his face.
“You cannot treat marriage like it’s a free trial subscription.”
Jimin scoots closer until their knees brush. “Why not?” Jimin says reasonably. “People get divorced all the time.”
“That’s not—” Yoongi drops his hands and turns toward him. “What would we even tell our families?” Yoongi asks, incredulous. “Hi, surprise, we got married for brand exposure and a resort package?”
Jimin winces. “…Okay, that part might be complicated.”
“Complicated,” Yoongi echoes. “Jimin, this is insane.”
Jimin reaches out, fingers automatically curling around Yoongi’s wrist. “But think about it,” Jimin says softly. “Two weeks. No work. No responsibilities. Just us, somewhere beautiful.”
Yoongi opens his mouth to argue and Jimin squeezes his wrist gently.
“They handle everything. The ceremony, the food, the planning. We don’t have to spend anything. We show up, smile, take pictures, eat fancy meal, swim in the ocean.” He tilts his head, eyes hopeful. “And then we come home and go back to normal.”
Yoongi looks away. He stares at the floor, jaw tightening, mind racing through logistics and consequences and hypothetical disasters.
He imagines his mother’s reaction, his father’s, he imagines explaining this to literally anyone.
He also imagines Jimin barefoot on a beach, hair messy from saltwater, laughing too loud under the sun.
He hates that his chest tightens at that.
“This is a terrible idea,” Yoongi mutters.
Jimin’s grip softens, thumb brushing lightly against Yoongi’s skin. “Maybe,” Jimin says. “But it’s also kind of amazing.”
Yoongi lets out a long, tired breath. He looks back at Jimin, at the hopeful curve of his mouth, the way his scent has softened in the quiet room, entirely too persuasive.
Yoongi clicks his tongue once, resigned. “…Fine.”
Jimin’s eyes light up immediately.
“Fine, Park Jimin.” Yoongi repeats. He exhales, shaking his head. “Let’s get fucking married.”