Chapter Text
Jeongguk's pulse hammered in his chest, a constant reminder what he was carrying—the burden of love that had nowhere to go. He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder and cast a quick glance across the university courtyard.
Jimin was there, sitting under the large oak tree, eyes focused on the open notebook in his lap. As always, he looked composed, effortlessly distant, as though the world around him had no bearing on his thoughts. Jeongguk’s heart ached, a dull throb in his chest that he had grown used to over the past months.
He wasn’t sure when it had become a habit—following Jimin around like a shadow, trying to get close enough for a word, a smile, anything. Jeongguk wanted so badly to be the one to crack that exterior, to see the side of Jimin that no one else could. But every time he got close, Jimin would push him away, as though there was an invisible wall between them. And Jeongguk, stubborn as ever, refused to stop trying.
Even if it was killing him.
Literally.
Jeongguk inhaled sharply, a hand coming up to rub at his chest. It was a dull pain, nothing new, but it was worse today. He had overdone it, staying up all night to finish Jimin’s essay just so Jimin wouldn’t have to. Jimin didn’t even ask him to—he never asked for anything. But Jeongguk wanted to help, to be there, to ease whatever burdens Jimin might have, even if he wasn’t allowed to get close enough to hear about them.
“Guk, you good?” Namjoon’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Jeongguk turned to see his hyung standing a few feet away, his expression a mixture of concern and mild irritation. Namjoon had always been protective, but lately, he wasn’t the only one. Seokjin and Yoongi had noticed too—how Jeongguk ran himself into the ground trying to win Jimin’s affection. It didn’t take long for them to join Namjoon in keeping an eye on him, not that Jeongguk appreciated the extra attention.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jeongguk replied, forcing a smile. It wasn’t exactly a lie—he was fine for now. The ache in his chest wasn’t unbearable yet. And besides, it was nothing compared to the pain of being rejected over and over.
“Fine? You look like you're about to collapse,” Seokjin chimed in, stepping closer with his usual sharp gaze. His concern was always masked by teasing, but Jeongguk knew his oldest hyung well enough to see through it. “Did you stay up again? We told you to rest.”
“Hyung, I’m fine,” Jeongguk repeated, though the words felt hollow even to him. His eyes flickered back to Jimin, still sitting under the tree, oblivious to the storm of emotions swirling around him. Seokjin and Namjoon exchanged glances, and Jeongguk could feel Yoongi’s watchful gaze from nearby, though the older man stayed silent.
“You don’t look fine,” Namjoon muttered, stepping even closer. His sharp eyes dropped to where Jeongguk’s hand still rested against his chest. “You need to take it easy, Guk. You know what the doctor said.”
Yoongi’s quiet voice cut through the tension. “He won’t listen, Joon. You know that.” His tone was soft, but there was an edge of frustration there too. Yoongi was usually the most laid-back of them all, but when it came to Jeongguk’s health, his patience wore thin quickly.
Jeongguk bit back a sigh. The last thing he needed was another lecture about his heart. He’d heard it all before—the warnings, the endless hospital visits, the reminder that his Heart of Glass condition made him vulnerable in a way no alpha should be. But his pride refused to let him dwell on it. He wasn’t going to let his weak heart stop him from pursuing Jimin.
“I’ll be fine,” Jeongguk repeated, his eyes flicking back to the oak tree where Jimin was still sitting, oblivious to the turmoil happening just a few feet away. “Besides, he’s worth it.”
Seokjin crossed his arms, his expression softening slightly. “Jeongguk, no one’s saying he isn’t worth it. But you’ve got to think about yourself too. You’re not doing anyone any favors by running yourself into the ground.”
Jeongguk clenched his jaw. They didn’t understand. How could they? They had never felt what he was feeling—the pull, the instinct to protect and love someone so fiercely that it consumed you. They didn’t know what it was like to be rejected by the one person your entire being was attuned to. Jimin didn’t need to say the words; his actions spoke volumes. The way he brushed Jeongguk off, the cold looks, the walls he kept between them—it was all too clear.
But Jeongguk couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t.
“He’s worth everything,” Jeongguk said quietly, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s figure under the tree.
Namjoon’s sigh was heavy with frustration, but also with a quiet resignation. He had seen this before—the way Jeongguk threw himself into things with a single-minded determination, his heart too big for his own good. Yoongi muttered something under his breath, but Jeongguk didn’t catch it. The others weren’t going to keep arguing with him, but that didn’t mean they would stop watching him like hawks.
Seokjin stepped back, his gaze soft but firm. “Just don’t forget about yourself in all this, Guk. You’ve got a life too.”
Yoongi added in his usual low tone, “And a heart you need to take care of.”
Jeongguk didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Because to him, Jimin was his life.
He could feel his hyungs’ eyes on him, their concern pressing down like an invisible hand. They meant well, of course. Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi were his brothers in every sense of the word, always looking out for him, especially since his diagnosis. But none of them could understand what it felt like—the pull in his chest that kept dragging him back to Jimin, the invisible thread that tethered him to the omega even when every rejection hit him like a fresh wound.
His heart gave another sharp thud, and Jeongguk winced, rubbing at his chest absently. The pain wasn’t new, but lately, it had been getting worse. His condition—the so-called Heart of Glass —was a rare one, and the doctors had warned him over and over again not to overexert himself. But how could he not? How could he stop when every fiber of his being told him that Jimin was his, that Jimin needed him, even if he didn’t know it yet?
Jeongguk’s gaze flickered back to Jimin. The omega was still sitting under the oak tree, surrounded by his friends, Taehyung and Hoseok. They were laughing at something, probably teasing Jimin about something trivial, and for a moment, Jeongguk felt an irrational surge of jealousy. Hoseok and Taehyung could be near Jimin effortlessly, could make him smile, could exist in his space without the constant barrier of rejection that Jeongguk felt. He swallowed hard, the bitterness mixing with the dull ache in his chest.
“You should stop staring before you give yourself another reason to go to the hospital,” Yoongi’s voice drawled from behind him, breaking into his thoughts. The older man followed Jeongguk’s line of sight and gave a small huff. “It’s not healthy, you know, this... obsession.”
“It’s not an obsession,” Jeongguk muttered, tearing his gaze away from Jimin and shoving his hands into his pockets. He didn’t like the way Yoongi said it, like he was doing something wrong, like his feelings weren’t valid. “I care about him.”
Yoongi’s eyes softened, just a little. “We know you do. But you can’t keep putting your body on the line like this. He’s not worth your life, Guk.”
Jeongguk bristled. “He is.”
Seokjin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always were too stubborn for your own good. But this…” He gestured vaguely at Jeongguk, his hand hovering near his chest. “This is dangerous. Your heart can’t handle it.”
“I know my limits,” Jeongguk replied through gritted teeth. “I’m not a kid, hyung.”
“Then stop acting like one,” Namjoon shot back, his tone sharp. The words hung in the air between them, a heavy silence stretching before Yoongi’s expression softened again. “Look, we’re just worried about you. Yoongi, Seokjin… me. We’ve watched you push yourself too far, and we don’t want to see you get hurt. Not because of this.”
Jeongguk’s jaw tightened, and he glanced back at Jimin. The ache in his chest flared again, but this time it wasn’t just physical. “I can’t stop, hyung,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “Even if I wanted to. It’s not something I can control.”
Yoongi stared at him for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he sighed again, softer this time. “Just… be careful, okay?”
Jeongguk nodded, though he knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep.
As he walked, Jeongguk watched as Taehyung playfully bumped shoulders with Jimin, who smiled, his expression softening in a way Jeongguk had never been able to elicit. The sight sent another wave of jealousy through him.
He wasn’t going to give up. Not now. Not ever.
With a deep breath, Jeongguk turned and started walking toward the tree. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and not just because of the exertion. He could feel the eyes of his hyungs on him, but he ignored them. Right now, the only person that mattered was sitting under that tree.
As he approached, Jimin looked up, his gaze flicking over Jeongguk briefly before returning to his notebook. It was as if Jeongguk didn’t exist, like his presence was nothing more than a passing thought. Taehyung and Hoseok noticed him, though. Taehyung’s playful grin faltered, and Hoseok gave Jeongguk a curious look, his head tilting slightly.
“Hey, Jeongguk,” Hoseok greeted, his voice warm as always, but there was a guarded edge to it. The kind that came with knowing how many times Jimin had pushed Jeongguk away. Taehyung, on the other hand, remained silent, his usually playful demeanor subdued as he watched the interaction unfold.
Jeongguk’s eyes remained locked on Jimin, and he forced a smile, though it felt weak. “Hey, Jimin. I, uh... I finished the essay you were working on.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the neatly printed papers, holding them out in offering.
Jimin glanced up, his expression unreadable. For a second, Jeongguk thought he saw a flicker of something—surprise? Annoyance? Gratitude? But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that familiar cold mask.
“I didn’t ask you to,” Jimin said, his voice flat, though there was a hint of exhaustion in it. He didn’t take the papers. Instead, he turned back to his notebook, dismissing Jeongguk without another word.
Jeongguk’s heart sank, the pain in his chest intensifying. He felt the weight of Taehyung and Hoseok’s stares, but it was Jimin’s indifference that cut the deepest. It always was.
But he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t.
“I know,” Jeongguk said softly, his voice cracking slightly. “But I wanted to help.”
Jimin didn’t respond, and the silence that followed was suffocating.
The silence lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, as if the very air between them had thickened. Jeongguk’s outstretched hand, holding the essay, slowly lowered when he realized Jimin wasn’t going to take it. The paper felt heavier than it had moments ago, the rejection settling deep in his chest.
Taehyung shifted awkwardly beside Jimin, shooting Jeongguk a sympathetic glance before turning his attention back to his friend. “You sure you don’t need any help, Jimin? It wouldn’t hurt to take a break.” His voice was light, casual, but there was an underlying concern in the way he spoke.
“I’m fine,” Jimin replied curtly, his voice colder than it should’ve been. Taehyung raised his eyebrows but didn’t push further.
Hoseok, however, leaned forward, his curiosity piqued as he studied Jeongguk. “You always helping him out, huh?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was an edge to it, like he was trying to understand Jeongguk’s motives. “You don’t have to, you know. Jimin’s capable of handling things on his own.”
Jeongguk knew that. He knew better than anyone that Jimin didn’t need him—at least not in the way Jeongguk desperately wanted to be needed. But it didn’t stop the ache in his heart, the desire to be the one Jimin could rely on.
“I know,” Jeongguk muttered, his voice quieter now. “I just... want to help.”
Jimin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers gripping the edge of his notebook tighter. “I don’t need your help, Jeongguk,” he said firmly, finally looking up at him, though his eyes were hard. “Stop trying so hard.”
The words stung more than Jeongguk cared to admit, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of regret in Jimin’s eyes—something that disappeared as quickly as it had come. But the damage was done, and Jeongguk felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the pain creeping up his throat like a chokehold.
“Jimin,” Taehyung interjected gently, sensing the rising tension. “You don’t have to be so—”
“It’s fine,” Jeongguk cut him off, managing a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I get it.”
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the warning signs of his condition flaring up, but he shoved the discomfort down, forcing himself to stand taller. He wouldn’t let them see how much this hurt—not Jimin, not Taehyung, not Hoseok. And certainly not his hyungs, who were undoubtedly still watching from a distance, ready to lecture him about overexertion the moment they had the chance.
“I’ll see you later,” Jeongguk added softly, stepping back from them. Jimin didn’t respond, his gaze already shifting back to his notebook, as if Jeongguk had never been there in the first place. Hoseok gave him a slight nod, and Taehyung offered a small, apologetic smile, but Jeongguk didn’t linger long enough to acknowledge either.
Turning on his heel, Jeongguk walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. His chest tightened further, but he refused to let it slow him down. He’d been through worse—worse pain, worse rejection. And he’d survived.
But even as he told himself that, he couldn’t shake the fact that Jimin’s rejection always hurt, like a door being slammed shut in his face, no matter how hard Jeongguk tried to keep it open.
By the time he made it back to the spot where Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi were waiting, the strain of keeping up the facade was beginning to show. He could see the way their eyes tracked his movements, how Namjoon’s expression darkened as soon as Jeongguk came into view. Seokjin’s arms were crossed, and Yoongi’s usual calm demeanor was overshadowed by a deep frown.
“What did we tell you?” Namjoon’s voice was stern, but there was a thread of worry woven through it. He stepped forward, eyes scanning Jeongguk’s face for any sign of trouble. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself like this.”
“I’m fine,” Jeongguk repeated, but the words felt hollow in his mouth. His heart was pounding faster than it should, each beat echoing in his ears like the ticking of a clock. He rubbed at his chest again, trying to ease the pressure, but it didn’t help. It never did.
“You don’t look fine,” Seokjin said bluntly, his sharp eyes zeroing in on the way Jeongguk’s hand trembled slightly against his chest. “You need to stop, Jeongguk. This isn’t just going to go away.”
Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. He knew they were right. He knew his condition better than anyone. But he couldn’t just... stop. Not when Jimin was still so far out of reach.
“I said I’m fine,” Jeongguk muttered, his voice tight. He turned away from them, trying to put distance between himself and the conversation, but his legs felt weak, and his breath was coming in shorter bursts than before. He could feel Namjoon stepping closer, the concern in his voice thickening.
“Jeongguk, you’re not—”
“Let it go, hyung,” Jeongguk snapped, harsher than he meant to. His head spun slightly, and he had to steady himself against a nearby bench, pretending it was casual. But the look on Namjoon’s face told him he hadn’t fooled anyone.
Yoongi stepped forward then, his expression softer than the others’. “Guk,” he said quietly, placing a hand on Jeongguk’s shoulder. “You can’t keep this up. You know that.”
Jeongguk’s breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully. He knew what they were saying was true. His body was screaming at him to stop, to rest, to let go of the relentless chase for something that might never be his. But his heart wouldn’t let him. His heart—and his wolf—were tethered to Jimin, no matter how many times he tried to pull away.
“I can handle it,” Jeongguk whispered, though the words felt more like a plea than a declaration.
Namjoon exchanged a look with Seokjin and Yoongi, the unspoken conversation passing between them clear as day. They knew Jeongguk was lying. And so did he.
“Come on,” Seokjin said finally, his voice gentle as he stepped forward. “Let’s get you home. You need to rest.”
For once, Jeongguk didn’t argue. He just nodded, allowing his hyungs to guide him away from the courtyard, away from Jimin, and back to the safety of their shared home.
But even as they left the university behind, Jeongguk couldn’t stop thinking about the omega sitting under the oak tree, oblivious to the battle raging inside him. The battle between his heart, his health, and the one thing he wanted more than anything else.
Jimin.
Jeongguk woke up to the familiar, heavy throb in his chest. It was early—far too early for his heart to be giving him problems already. He stared up at the ceiling of his room, the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, and willed his body to calm down. It was just another day, just another morning. He could push through it like he always did.
But today, the weight of everything felt heavier, the ache deeper.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his heart skipped a beat, his breathing short and ragged. With shaky hands, he reached for the bottle of pills on his nightstand, dry-swallowing two of them without bothering to grab water. The bitter taste lingered in his mouth, but it was familiar—something he’d gotten used to over the years.
As the medication slowly worked its way through his system, Jeongguk leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes and taking slow, measured breaths. It was routine by now, this dance between pushing himself too far and reeling himself back just enough to stay upright. He hated it. Hated the constant reminders that his body wasn’t like everyone else’s. That no matter how hard he tried, his heart was fragile—too fragile.
It was a condition so rare that even the most seasoned doctors had barely encountered it before Jeongguk's diagnosis. It wasn’t something that could be easily detected or predicted, and most alphas—born with strong bodies and capable hearts—never had to worry about something like this. But for Jeongguk, it was a ticking time bomb lodged in his chest, one that could go off with the slightest misstep.
The disease was a genetic mutation, a cruel twist of fate that left Jeongguk's heart muscle weak and translucent, as fragile as glass. The tissue, though functional, was prone to tearing under any form of stress—the intense emotions, the physical exertion. Anything could set it off, and once it did, there was little he could do but ride out the pain. For a normal alpha, these things were part of life, part of what made them strong. For Jeongguk, they were constant threats, lurking just beneath the surface.
It was more than just a simple heart condition. It was an ever-present danger, one that hovered over Jeongguk’s every decision, every action. The doctors had warned him countless times, telling him what he already knew deep down: any sudden or intense exertion could cause his heart to seize, leading to a full cardiac arrest. It didn’t take much. A raised heartbeat, a surge of adrenaline, too much physical activity—all of it could trigger the collapse of his fragile heart.
Unlike other heart conditions, where rest or medication could alleviate symptoms temporarily, the Heart of Glass couldn’t be truly mitigated. The risk of sudden heart failure was a constant shadow over Jeongguk's life, and there was no cure in sight. He lived every day knowing that his heart could give out at any moment, and there would be little he—or anyone else—could do to stop it.
Sure, there were medications, like the ones he took every morning, that helped manage the condition. The pills dulled the pain and slowed his heart’s frantic pace when it got too excited. But they weren’t a solution, just a temporary measure. His heart was still weak, still ready to break with the slightest pressure. The doctors had told him to avoid anything that could accelerate his heartbeat. No intense physical activity, no high-stress environments, and above all else, no emotional extremes.
But how could he avoid emotional extremes when he was in love with Jimin?
Every time he saw Jimin, his heart raced. Not in the good way, but in the dangerous, erratic way that sent him spiraling into shortness of breath and a rapid, uncontrollable pulse. And every rejection hit him harder than it should, not just emotionally, but physically. Every time Jimin pushed him away, Jeongguk could feel his heart strain against his chest, the fragile muscle working overtime to cope with the pain. It wasn’t just heartache in the metaphorical sense—it was real, tangible, and deadly.
The disease had stolen a lot from him. It had stolen his chance to live like a normal alpha, to push his body and mind to their limits without fear. It had taken away his ability to indulge in the things that other alphas took for granted—intense workouts, sports, or even the emotional highs and lows that came with relationships.
But worst of all, it made him afraid.
Afraid of his own heart. Afraid that, one day, he wouldn’t be able to get back up after pushing himself too far. Afraid that he’d give everything for Jimin, only for his heart to give out before Jimin ever realized how much he cared.
The doctors had told him to slow down, to take it easy. They’d warned him over and over again that Heart of Glass was unforgiving. Once the damage started, it was almost impossible to reverse. A sudden collapse could end in a heart attack, and if his heart didn’t stop completely, it would leave him hospitalized, perhaps permanently weakened.
They said he should avoid anything that put him under emotional stress, but how could he do that when Jimin was his everything? How could he keep his emotions in check when the very thought of Jimin sent his heart into a frenzy?
In some ways, Jeongguk had resigned himself to the fact that his heart might not last as long as others’. He had accepted that living with the disease meant walking a tightrope between living fully and protecting himself. But even knowing all of this, Jeongguk couldn’t stop. He couldn’t walk away from Jimin, even if it killed him.
Because at the end of the day, wasn’t that what love was? A kind of madness that made you risk everything, even your life, for the one person you couldn’t live without?
For Jeongguk, that was Jimin.
Jeongguk rubbed his face with both hands, sighing into the quiet of the room. He knew it wasn’t healthy. He knew he was pushing himself too far, overexerting his body in ways that could kill him. But how could he stop? How could he give up when the very thought of Jimin sent his heart racing in that terrifyingly fragile way?
The door creaked open, and Jeongguk glanced up to see Namjoon poking his head in, his expression already laced with worry. “You awake?”
Jeongguk gave a small nod, though he didn’t have the energy to muster much more. Namjoon stepped inside, closing the door behind him softly. He crossed the room in a few long strides, sitting down on the edge of Jeongguk’s bed, his gaze scanning Jeongguk’s face for signs of trouble.
“You didn’t look good yesterday,” Namjoon said quietly. “So I stayed with you. We were worried.”
Jeongguk sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard. “I’m fine. I took my meds.”
“That’s not what I mean, Guk, and you know it.”
There it was again. The same conversation they’d been having for weeks now. Months, really. Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi—they all saw it. The way Jeongguk was slowly unraveling, running himself ragged for someone who didn’t want him. They didn’t understand, though. They couldn’t feel the way Jeongguk felt, and couldn't understand how deeply his heart was tied to Jimin.
“You need to stop,” Namjoon continued, his voice soft but firm. “You’re going to end up in the hospital again.”
“I won’t,” Jeongguk muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he believed his own words.
Namjoon’s brow furrowed, his concern deepening. “You’re not invincible, Guk. You can’t keep acting like you are.”
“I’m not,” Jeongguk said quietly, his fingers curling into the sheets. He knew he wasn’t invincible—far from it. Every beat of his heart reminded him of just how fragile he was. But that didn’t change anything. It didn’t make him want Jimin any less. “I just… I can’t stop, hyung.”
Namjoon exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watching Jeongguk with a mix of frustration and helplessness. “I know you think this is worth it,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not, Guk. Not if it’s going to kill you.”
Jeongguk didn’t answer. What could he say? That he’d rather die trying to win Jimin over than live knowing he didn’t? That his life felt meaningless without Jimin in it, no matter how much pain it caused him?
Namjoon sighed again, standing up from the bed. “Just… don’t push yourself too hard today, okay? We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
Jeongguk nodded wordlessly, watching as Namjoon left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He stayed in bed for a few minutes longer, willing the medication to dull the ache in his chest. It was a losing battle, though. The pain wasn’t just physical. It never was.
Jeongguk had always been an optimist. It was part of who he was—bright, sunny, and always looking for the silver lining in every situation. His friends often teased him about it, calling him “the ray of sun” but Jeongguk wore the title with pride. He liked being the one who could lift people’s spirits, who could make them smile even when things were tough. It was how he had lived his life, and it was a trait he wasn’t willing to let go of, even now.
But lately, it had become harder to hold on to that optimism. Especially when it came to Jimin.
The rejection wasn’t new. Jimin had been pushing him away since the first day Jeongguk had tried to help him, but that had never deterred Jeongguk. If anything, it had only made him more determined. He knew Jimin wasn’t cold-hearted; he could see it in the small moments when Jimin’s guard slipped, in the way his eyes softened when he thought no one was watching. There was warmth beneath the surface, a kindness that Jimin tried so hard to hide. And Jeongguk wanted to be the one to bring it out.
Jeongguk wasn’t sure when, exactly, he had started to fall for Jimin. Maybe it was gradual, a slow unraveling of feelings that crept up on him when he least expected it. It could’ve been the first time he noticed Jimin—really noticed him, beyond the distant, cold exterior that he wore like armor.
Maybe it was the time Jeongguk had spotted Jimin in the middle of the bustling campus, struggling with a heavy stack of books. The way Jimin’s arms wobbled slightly under the weight of the towering stack had sparked something in Jeongguk—an instinct to help, to make things easier for him. Without thinking, Jeongguk had rushed over, reaching out to offer his help.
"Hey, let me give you a hand," Jeongguk had said, his voice cheerful as always.
But instead of thanking him or letting him help, Jimin had brushed him off, his voice clipped. "I can handle it."
The words were cold, but there had been a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes that Jeongguk couldn’t quite place—something soft, something vulnerable, hidden just beneath the surface. It was that brief flicker that made Jeongguk stop in his tracks. Despite Jimin’s rejection, something about that moment stuck with Jeongguk, pulling him in even more.
Or maybe it was one of those countless evenings in the library when Jeongguk found himself watching Jimin from across the room, unnoticed and from a distance. Jimin always sat at the same table, surrounded by stacks of books and notes, his brow furrowed in concentration as his pen moved swiftly across the page. He was always so focused, so absorbed in whatever he was studying, that he seemed to shut out the world around him.
Jeongguk admired that about him—the way Jimin threw himself into his work as if it was the only thing that mattered. But there was more to it than that. Every so often, Jeongguk would catch Jimin biting his lip in frustration when he couldn’t figure something out, or he’d see the way Jimin’s shoulders would tense when he was deep in thought. It was those small moments—those tiny glimpses of the person Jimin was beneath the surface—that made Jeongguk’s heart flutter.
He had fallen for Jimin, not just because of the way he looked or the air of mystery he carried around with him, but because of the kindness he kept hidden beneath his sharp exterior. Jeongguk had seen it—had felt it in the quiet moments when Jimin thought no one was watching. Like the time Jeongguk had seen Jimin help a freshman who had dropped all of their notes on the way to class. Jimin had bent down, quickly gathering the scattered papers, his expression neutral as he handed them back without a word. The freshman had stammered out a thanks, and Jimin had simply nodded before walking away.
Or the time Jimin had stayed late at the library during finals week, offering his notes to a stressed-out student who had been frantically flipping through their textbook, trying to cram in last-minute studying. Jimin hadn’t said much—he rarely did—but his actions spoke louder than any words could. He had slipped the student his meticulously organized notes with a quiet, "These might help," before disappearing into the stacks.
Jimin didn’t like to show his kindness outright. He never sought praise or recognition for the small, thoughtful things he did. He was kind in the quiet, subtle ways that most people overlooked, and that was part of the reason why Jeongguk had fallen so deeply for him. There was something beautiful about the way Jimin tried to hide his softness, as if he believed that letting anyone see it would make him weak.
But Jeongguk saw it. He saw the way Jimin cared, even when he didn’t want to. Like the time Jeongguk had been sitting outside, his head spinning from an all-nighter he’d pulled for a class. Jimin had passed by, barely glancing his way at first, but then he had hesitated. For a second, Jeongguk thought Jimin would keep walking. Instead, Jimin had quietly placed a bottle of water on the bench next to him without a word. He hadn’t said anything—hadn’t acknowledged Jeongguk’s tired, grateful look—but the gesture was enough to make Jeongguk’s heart skip a beat.
It wasn’t just the kindness, though. It was the complexity of Jimin—how he was kind but didn’t want to show it, how he was strong but clearly carried the weight of so much pain. Jeongguk could sense that there was more to Jimin than what he let people see. There was a depth to him, layers of emotion and vulnerability that Jeongguk desperately wanted to understand, to reach.
But it wasn’t just those moments that drew Jeongguk in—it was everything about Jimin. His presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore. Jeongguk couldn’t help but be captivated by the way Jimin looked. He was handsome, delicate, and effortlessly beautiful in a way that made Jeongguk’s heart race. There was an elegance to him, a grace in every movement that Jeongguk found intoxicating. And Jimin’s scent—sweet and soothing, like honey—wrapped around Jeongguk every time they were near, tugging at his instincts and making it impossible to stay away.
Jeongguk wasn’t sure if it was the way Jimin’s soft features sharpened when he was focused, or how his lips curved slightly when he thought no one was watching, but every part of him seemed to pull Jeongguk closer. It wasn’t just that Jimin looked good—he was irresistible, the kind of attractive that made Jeongguk feel drawn to him like gravity, as if the world tilted slightly whenever Jimin was around.
Jeongguk found himself drawn to Jimin in a way that felt inevitable, like the pull of gravity. He admired Jimin’s independence, his determination, and the strength that radiated from him, even when he was pushing everyone away. But more than anything, Jeongguk had fallen for the way Jimin made him feel—like there was something worth fighting for, even when it felt hopeless. Because if there was one thing Jeongguk had learned, it was that Jimin was worth every effort, every moment of heartbreak.
No matter how many times Jimin pushed him away, no matter how many walls he built around himself, Jeongguk couldn’t stop himself from trying to reach him. Because Jimin, with all his complexities, with all his hidden kindness, was the person Jeongguk had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.
But Jimin didn’t make it easy. Every time Jeongguk tried to get closer, Jimin would put up another wall, shutting him out before Jeongguk even had a chance to say more than a few words. It was frustrating, to say the least, but Jeongguk had never been one to give up easily. He told himself that if he kept trying, if he kept showing Jimin that he cared, Jimin would eventually let him in.
But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Jeongguk began to wonder if he was fighting a losing battle.
It wasn’t just the emotional toll that was starting to wear Jeongguk down. His body had been sending him warning signals for weeks now, and though he tried to ignore them, the signs were becoming impossible to brush off.
The sharp pains in his chest had started as a dull ache, something he could dismiss as fatigue or stress. But lately, the pain had become more frequent, more intense. It came in waves, sometimes during the day when he was walking across campus or late at night when he lay in bed, trying to quiet the storm of emotions swirling in his mind.
He had grown used to it, in a way. The shortness of breath, the way his heart would beat irregularly, the tightness in his chest—it had all become part of the background noise in his life. He had learned to manage it, to push through it, telling himself that it wasn’t that bad. That he could handle it.
But the truth was, Jeongguk was scared. Scared that his body was betraying him, scared that no matter how much he wanted to keep fighting for Jimin, his heart wouldn’t let him. And he didn’t just mean that metaphorically.
He could feel it sometimes, in the quiet moments when he was alone—his wolf, the alpha inside him, growing restless. His wolf wanted Jimin, needed him, but every time Jimin rejected them, every time Jimin pushed them away, his wolf grew weaker. There were days when Jeongguk could feel his wolf pulling away, retreating into the background as if it, too, was giving up.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Jeongguk had always been strong—physically, mentally, emotionally. He had always been the one who could keep going, no matter what. But this... this was different. His body, his heart, his wolf—they were all tied to Jimin in ways Jeongguk hadn’t fully understood until now. And the constant rejection was taking its toll.
He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but there were days when Jeongguk felt like he was barely holding on.
His hyungs had noticed. They were the only ones who knew about his heart condition, the only ones who had been there when he was diagnosed with Heart of Glass. It was a rare condition, something the doctors had told him couldn’t be cured but could be managed with medication and a careful lifestyle. Jeongguk had been stubborn about it at first, refusing to let the diagnosis slow him down. He had too much life to live, too much to do, to let something like that stop him.
But lately, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi had become more protective, their watchful eyes always on him. Jeongguk could see the concern etched in their faces, could feel it in the way they hovered around him, always ready to step in when they thought he was pushing himself too hard.
Namjoon, especially, had been relentless. He would corner Jeongguk after class, pulling him aside with a look that said he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“You need to slow down,” Namjoon had said more times than Jeongguk could count.
“I’m fine,” Jeongguk always replied, forcing a smile even though he could feel the tightness in his chest that day, a reminder of just how not fine he really was. “It’s under control.”
But it wasn’t under control, and Jeongguk knew it. He could feel it every time Jimin rejected him—his heart would lurch painfully in his chest, and for a split second, he would wonder if this was it. If this was the moment his heart would finally give out.
Seokjin had been just as worried, though he tried to be more subtle about it. He would leave healthy snacks on Jeongguk’s desk, or quietly remind him to take his medication, as if trying not to draw attention to the fact that he was monitoring Jeongguk’s every move. But Jeongguk could see the tension in Seokjin’s eyes, could feel the weight of his concern every time their eyes met.
Yoongi, on the other hand, was more direct. He didn’t hover like the others, but when he spoke, his words were sharp, cutting through Jeongguk’s defenses like a knife.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Yoongi had said one evening, his voice low and serious. “This isn’t just about Jimin anymore. You need to stop before you end up in the hospital again.”
Jeongguk had flinched at the word “hospital,” the memory of his last trip there still fresh in his mind. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to be that weak alpha who couldn’t even handle his own emotions, let alone the physical toll his heart condition was taking on him.
But he couldn’t stop. Not when it came to Jimin.
The truth was, he didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t know how to not care about Jimin, even if it was killing him.
The more Jimin pushed him away, the harder it became to hold on to that optimism Jeongguk was known for. He was losing the fight, slowly but surely, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending that everything was okay.
But the one thing Jeongguk couldn’t do was show Jimin how much the rejection hurt. He couldn’t let Jimin see how badly it was affecting him, both physically and emotionally. Because the last thing Jeongguk wanted was for Jimin to feel guilty or responsible for his condition.
This isn’t his fault, Jeongguk told himself every time his heart ached. It’s not his fault that I feel this way.
But no matter how many times he told himself that, the truth was undeniable: Jimin’s rejection was breaking him, little by little, and Jeongguk didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.
There were days when Jimin wasn’t so cold to him—rare, fleeting moments when the omega’s icy demeanor would thaw just enough for Jeongguk to see the warmth beneath it. It wasn’t much, but those small instances kept Jeongguk hoping, kept him waiting for the day when Jimin’s walls might come down for good.
On those days, Jimin’s words were still sharp, but his actions told a different story. He would linger just a little longer when Jeongguk sat near him, his sweet honey scent curling around them both, soft and warm in a way that made Jeongguk’s heart ache. The subtle brush of Jimin’s hand as he reached for a pen, the way his gaze would flicker toward Jeongguk when he thought no one was looking—it was in these small moments that Jeongguk saw the real Jimin, the one hiding behind all the defenses.
It was those moments that kept Jeongguk coming back, even when the rejections stung. Because despite everything Jimin said, despite the way he pushed Jeongguk away time and time again, Jeongguk knew there was something more beneath the surface. He had caught glimpses of it—the brief, almost unnoticeable softening of Jimin’s features, the way his scent would shift from guarded to something gentler, sweeter, when he thought Jeongguk wasn’t paying attention.
And those days gave Jeongguk hope. Hope that one day, Jimin might let him in.
Today felt like one of those days. Jeongguk had noticed the subtle shift in Jimin’s scent as he approached. It was still the same sweet honey, but there was something less guarded about it—something softer, warmer, that made Jeongguk’s heart skip a beat.
Jimin was sitting in his usual spot outside the library, headphones in, eyes focused on the notes spread out in front of him. He always looked so serious when he studied, with that slight furrow in his brow that made him seem distant—unapproachable, almost. But Jeongguk knew better. He had seen the moments when Jimin’s guard slipped, when his expression softened and the walls he kept so carefully constructed began to crumble, even if just for a moment.
Jeongguk swallowed against the nervousness building in his chest and took a deep breath. He tried to ignore the way his heart raced—tried to convince himself it was just the nerves and not the familiar strain he had been feeling more frequently these days.
He walked up to Jimin, his footsteps quiet against the pavement, the scent of pine trees and sandalwood mingling with the honeyed warmth that always surrounded Jimin. It wasn’t overwhelming—it never was—but it was enough to make Jeongguk feel like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” Jeongguk greeted, stopping in front of the table where Jimin sat. His voice was soft, careful, as if he was trying not to startle him. “Mind if I sit?”
“Hey,” Jeongguk greeted, stopping in front of the table where Jimin was sitting. “Mind if I sit?”
Jimin didn’t look up at first, pretending not to hear him, though Jeongguk knew better. The small twitch in Jimin’s lips, the way his fingers stilled over his notes for just a second—those were telltale signs that Jimin had heard him loud and clear.
Eventually, Jimin pulled out one earbud, glancing up with that familiar guarded expression. “Why are you always bothering me, Jeongguk?”
Jeongguk smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not bothering you. Just thought you might like some company.”
Jimin rolled his eyes, but Jeongguk could see the slight shift in his expression, the tiniest crack in that tough exterior. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Jeongguk pull out the chair across from Jimin and sit down, even though Jimin hadn’t explicitly invited him to.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” Jimin asked, turning his attention back to his notes, but Jeongguk noticed the way his gaze lingered for just a second longer before dropping.
“I finished early,” Jeongguk replied, leaning back in his chair and trying to look casual even though his heart was still pounding uncomfortably in his chest. “Thought I’d see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” Jimin said, his tone sharp, but it lacked the usual bite. He sighed and, after a long pause, added in a quieter voice, “I don’t need you checking up on me all the time.”
Jeongguk’s smile softened. “I know you don’t. But maybe I want to.”
Jimin’s eyes flickered to Jeongguk’s face for a moment, something indecipherable passing through his expression before he quickly looked away. Jeongguk had seen that look before—a flash of vulnerability, quickly hidden away before anyone could notice. Jimin liked to pretend he didn’t need anyone, but Jeongguk had started to notice the little things that gave him away.
They sat in silence for a while after that, Jimin’s focus on his notes, while Jeongguk leaned back in his chair, watching people pass by. The pain in his chest hadn’t subsided, but he was good at hiding it by now. He didn’t want Jimin to notice—didn’t want to give him another reason to push him away.
Eventually, Jimin sighed and closed his notebook, rubbing his temples as if he had been staring at his notes for too long. Jeongguk took the opportunity to speak again.
“You should take a break,” he said gently. “You’ve been at it for hours.”
Jimin glanced at him, a small frown tugging at his lips. “How would you know?”
Jeongguk shrugged, his smile easy. “Because I’ve seen you sitting here all morning. Besides, I can tell when you’re overworking yourself.”
Jimin’s frown deepened, but there was no sharp retort this time. Instead, he let out a soft breath and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping slightly as if admitting defeat.
“I guess I could use a break,” he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes flickered over to Jeongguk, something hesitant in his gaze. “But I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting you,” Jeongguk replied, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table, his voice soft but sincere. “I just... I care about you, Jimin. Whether you like it or not.”
Jimin’s breath hitched slightly at that, and Jeongguk saw the way his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. For a moment, the air between them felt heavy, filled with words that neither of them could say.
“I don’t need anyone to care about me,” Jimin said finally, his voice quieter than before, but the words lacked the conviction they once held.
Jeongguk’s heart ached at that. He could see through the tough exterior, could see the way Jimin was trying so hard to protect himself, to keep people at arm’s length. But Jeongguk wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to let Jimin push him away, no matter how hard he tried.
“I know you think that,” Jeongguk said gently. “But everyone needs someone, Jimin. Even you.”
Jimin’s lips parted as if he was going to say something, but the words never came. Instead, he looked away, his jaw clenching as though he was fighting some internal battle. For a long time, they sat there in silence, the weight of Jeongguk’s words hanging between them.
And then, just when Jeongguk thought Jimin might get up and leave, something unexpected happened.
Jimin’s hand, which had been gripping the edge of the table, relaxed slightly. His fingers unfurled, and for the briefest of moments, they brushed against Jeongguk’s hand, so lightly that it could have been an accident.
It was a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it was enough to send a rush of warmth through Jeongguk’s chest. Jimin wasn’t cold. He wasn’t indifferent. Beneath all those walls, there was something softer—something that Jeongguk had always known was there.
Jimin quickly pulled his hand back, as if realizing what he had done, and he cleared his throat, his expression guarded once again. “I should get back to studying.”
Jeongguk nodded, his heart swelling with something he couldn’t quite put into words. “Okay. But if you ever want to take a break... I’m here.”
Jimin didn’t respond, but the tension between them had shifted. The walls were still there, but they weren’t as impenetrable as they once seemed. And Jeongguk knew, in that moment, that he wasn’t fighting a losing battle. There was still hope, still a chance that Jimin might let him in, even if it took time.
The next few days passed in a similar pattern. Jeongguk would find Jimin in the usual places—the library, the café, the courtyard—and despite the rejections, despite the cold stares, he stayed. He didn’t push, didn’t force Jimin to talk, but his presence was a constant, quiet reassurance.
And slowly, ever so slowly, Jimin’s resistance started to crack.
It wasn’t obvious at first. There were no grand gestures, no sudden confessions. But Jeongguk noticed the little things—the way Jimin would let him sit beside him without protesting, the way his replies were less sharp, less defensive. He even noticed the way Jimin would sometimes glance at him when he thought Jeongguk wasn’t looking, as if trying to figure him out, trying to understand why Jeongguk hadn’t given up yet.
One afternoon, when Jeongguk offered to grab coffee for both of them, Jimin didn’t argue. He simply nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Jeongguk walked away.
It was progress. Small, but meaningful.
But even with the progress, Jeongguk could feel the strain on his body growing worse. The pains in his chest were becoming more frequent, and there were times when he had to stop and catch his breath, leaning against a wall or sitting down until the feeling passed. He didn’t want Jimin to notice—didn’t want him to see the toll it was taking.
Because the truth was, Jeongguk didn’t know how much longer he could keep going like this.
But he wasn’t going to give up. Not now. Not when he was finally starting to see the cracks in Jimin’s armor.
Jeongguk remembered the hospital clearly—its sterile scent, the faint hum of machinery, and the cold, almost too-bright lights that reflected off the polished floors. He had never liked hospitals. They were places of sickness, of fragility, and for as long as he could remember, Jeongguk had prided himself on being strong. He was an alpha.
But that day, all of that had been stripped away.
He sat in a stiff chair in the cardiologist’s office, his back straight, his hands clenched into tight fists on his lap. His chest felt tight, not because of the pain that had started bringing him here in the first place, but because of the oppressive silence that hung in the air. His mother sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, her usual calm demeanor laced with barely concealed worry. Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi were there, too, standing by the door like silent sentinels, their eyes fixed on Jeongguk, waiting.
The doctor sat across from him, his expression grave, a thick file open in front of him. It wasn’t the first time Jeongguk had come in for tests. He’d been in and out of the hospital for weeks, undergoing scans, stress tests, blood work—anything to figure out why he had been feeling so tired, why his heart had been beating too fast, too erratic. But this time was different. This time, the doctor had answers.
And Jeongguk wasn’t sure he wanted to hear them.
“Jeongguk-ssi, you have a condition called Heart of Glass,” the doctor began, his voice carefully neutral, like he was delivering news he had given a thousand times before. “It’s a rare congenital disease, a genetic mutation that weakens the structure of your heart muscle, making it fragile—more fragile than it should be. The strain it’s under could lead to cardiac episodes if we don’t manage it carefully.”
Jeongguk blinked, the words barely registering at first. His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles turning white. He had expected something, but not this.
“What... what does that mean?” Jeongguk asked, his voice unsteady, which only made his frustration flare. Alphas were supposed to be strong, resilient. They weren’t supposed to have fragile hearts. “How fragile are we talking about?”
The doctor’s gaze softened slightly, but there was no hiding the seriousness in his tone. “Your heart muscle is weaker than a normal alpha’s. It’s more translucent than it should be—hence the name, Heart of Glass. Even moderate physical exertion can cause strain. Your symptoms—the fatigue, shortness of breath, and irregular heartbeat—are signs that your heart is already struggling.”
Jeongguk swallowed hard, his chest tightening further. “What’s the treatment? What do I need to do?”
His mother leaned forward slightly, her hand coming to rest on Jeongguk’s shoulder—a grounding presence, even if Jeongguk wasn’t sure he wanted to be grounded right now. He didn’t need comforting. He needed answers.
“We can manage the condition with medication and careful monitoring,” the doctor said, flipping through Jeongguk’s file. “Beta blockers will help slow your heart rate, and we’ll need to monitor your heart’s activity regularly. But, Jeongguk... there’s no cure. It’s a lifelong condition.”
Jeongguk’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and this time, it had nothing to do with the disease. “No cure?” he repeated, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. “You mean... I’ll always have this?”
The doctor nodded, his expression apologetic. “Yes. With proper care, you can live a long life. But you’ll need to avoid intense physical exertion and high-stress situations. Overexerting yourself could trigger a cardiac episode, and in your case, the risk of sudden cardiac arrest is higher than normal.”
Jeongguk’s blood ran cold. Sudden cardiac arrest?
His mother, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, her usually calm face betraying panic. “Are you saying... are you saying he could have a heart attack? Just from overexertion?”
The doctor met his mother’s gaze and nodded. “Yes, that’s a possibility. The heart muscle’s fragility makes it more susceptible to failure under strain.”
His hyungs sharp intake of breath echoed in the room, and Jeongguk could feel the weight of their concern pressing in on him from all sides. His hyungs were always there, always looking out for him, but this time it felt different. This time, they couldn’t fix it. And that scared Jeongguk more than anything.
“I’m an alpha,” Jeongguk said, his voice firmer now, pushing back against the cold fear creeping into his chest. “I can’t just... stop. I can’t live like that. I need to be active. I need to train. I need to—”
“Jeongguk, honey,” his mother interrupted gently, squeezing his hands. “Your health comes first.”
“But I can’t live like that!” Jeongguk snapped, standing up from his chair, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides. The sudden movement made his chest tighten painfully, but he ignored it. “I’m an alpha! I’m not supposed to be... fragile.”
The doctor’s voice was calm but insistent. “Jeongguk-ssi, I understand this is difficult to accept. But your condition doesn’t define your strength. You can still live a fulfilling life, but it has to be within your limits.”
“My limits?” Jeongguk’s voice cracked, and he hated the way it sounded, like he was breaking. He wasn’t supposed to break. “You’re telling me I have to live my life in a bubble? That I can’t even push myself a little without risking... dying?”
His mother stood up then, placing both hands on Jeongguk’s face, cradling him like a child. Her voice was shaky but it was filled with the quiet authority that always calmed Jeongguk, even in moments like this. “You’re not going to die, Jeongguk. We won’t let that happen. We’ll figure this out. We’ll make sure you stay healthy.”
But Jeongguk wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was spinning, caught in the web of everything he was being told. No cure. Lifelong condition. Risk of sudden cardiac arrest. He felt trapped, like his body was a cage that he hadn’t realized he was living in until now.
And through it all, his wolf stirred restlessly inside him, growling in frustration. Jeongguk had always relied on his wolf’s strength, its natural alpha instincts to protect, to lead. But now, his wolf seemed weakened, unsure of itself, as if it didn’t even know how to handle this news.
Jeongguk clenched his jaw, fighting against the overwhelming urge to scream or punch something—anything to break the suffocating feeling that was closing in on him. He wanted to run, to push his body to its limits just to prove that he wasn’t as fragile as the doctor said he was.
But he couldn’t.
Because deep down, Jeongguk knew that the doctor was right. His body had been sending him signals for weeks—months, even. The exhaustion that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he slept. The way his heart would race out of control after simple tasks, leaving him breathless and weak. The sharp, stabbing pains that had started in his chest recently, making him stop whatever he was doing just to catch his breath.
He had ignored it all. Told himself it was just stress, or overworking, or anything other than what it really was.
But now, sitting in that cold hospital room, with his mother’s hands steady on his hands and the doctor’s words ringing in his ears, Jeongguk couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Heart of Glass.
His heart was fragile. And no amount of strength, no amount of alpha pride, could change that.
The campus buzzed with its usual hum of activity—students moving to and from classes, the soft murmur of conversations—but for Jeongguk, everything seemed muted. The only thing that felt sharp, real, was Jimin. He was always there, whether in the back of Jeongguk’s mind or right in front of him, and today was no different.
Jeongguk had tried to keep his distance after Jimin started ignoring him. He wanted to give him space, thinking maybe that’s what Jimin needed. But it was difficult—impossible, really. No matter how much he told himself to stay away, he couldn’t stop the pull that always led him back to Jimin, even if it hurt. Even if each interaction chipped away at the fragile hope he clung to, making him feel more and more like he was standing on the edge of something that would break him entirely.
Jimin had always been this unattainable figure in Jeongguk’s life, someone so guarded and so distant that it seemed impossible to get close. But Jeongguk had tried. He had given his all—his heart, his efforts, his patience—because for some reason, his wolf had decided that Jimin was the one. The omega that belonged to him, even if Jimin didn’t know it.
“Jimin!” Jeongguk called out, his voice cutting through the chatter as he jogged to catch up with the omega.
Jimin stiffened at the sound of his name, his shoulders going rigid, but he didn’t stop walking. There was a time when Jimin would have slowed down, maybe even let Jeongguk walk with him. But lately, everything between them felt like it was crumbling. Jeongguk couldn’t understand why.
But Jeongguk wasn’t giving up, not this time.
“Jimin, wait!” Jeongguk’s voice was softer now, but there was something heavier behind it, something that made Jeongguk’s heart ache. He needed to understand why things had changed, why Jimin had suddenly started pulling away when Jeongguk thought they were getting closer.
Jimin finally stopped, his back still turned toward Jeongguk, but Jeongguk could feel the tension radiating from him. His body was stiff, as if he was bracing for something. Jeongguk knew this wasn’t going to be like their usual conversation—this was different.
“I... I just need to ask you something,” Jeongguk began, his voice shaking slightly as he stood there, his heart pounding in his chest. “Did I do something wrong?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jeongguk could feel the weight of the question hanging between them, and each second that passed only made the tightness in his chest worse. Why wasn’t Jimin answering? What had he done to make Jimin pull away?
Jimin turned slowly, and the moment their eyes met, Jeongguk knew something was wrong. Jimin’s expression wasn’t just cold—it was conflicted, torn between frustration and something deeper that Jeongguk couldn’t quite place.
“I thought we were okay,” Jeongguk said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words cracking as he spoke. “I thought you were okay with me being around. We were getting closer, weren’t we? We were friends.” His voice shook as he tried to hold onto the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t imagined it all. “But then you just... stopped. You started ignoring me, pushing me away again, and I don’t understand why.”
Jimin’s chest heaved with shallow breaths, his hands clenched at his sides, but he didn’t say anything. Jeongguk’s heart pounded faster, panic clawing at his throat. What did I do? Why did he start pulling away when things were finally getting better?
“Please,” Jeongguk said again, his voice trembling with desperation. “Just tell me what I did wrong. Because I thought we were okay. I thought you were okay with me.”
Jeongguk’s hands hung uselessly by his sides, and his throat felt tight with the words that wouldn’t come. Jimin’s silence was unbearable, a heavy weight pressing down on Jeongguk’s chest, making it hard to breathe.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?” Jeongguk asked softly, his voice cracking under the pressure. His vision blurred slightly as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “I just... I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away.”
And that was when it all fell apart.
“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Jimin exploded, his voice sharp and trembling with frustration. Jeongguk’s heart clenched painfully at the outburst, but he didn’t back away. He couldn’t. He needed answers.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Jeongguk. I did,” Jimin spat, his voice rising with each word. His fists were clenched tightly, his knuckles white as he finally turned fully to face Jeongguk.
Jeongguk flinched at the harshness in Jimin’s tone, but he couldn’t move. His body refused to listen, his feet rooted to the spot as the weight of Jimin’s words pressed down on him like a crushing force. His mind raced, trying to piece it all together, but nothing made sense.
“I’m the one who’s wrong,” Jimin continued, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like—how dangerous it is to let people in, to trust someone. You’re so... you’re so kind, and you think that’s enough, but it’s not. It’s never enough.”
Jeongguk’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as he listened to Jimin’s words, each one cutting deeper than the last. He didn’t understand. How could he? All he wanted was to be there for Jimin, to help, to love him. Why wasn’t that enough?
“You don’t know what it’s like to watch everything fall apart,” Jimin continued, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions. “You don’t know what it’s like to watch someone you love be destroyed by a bond, to watch them die slowly because they loved someone too much. My mom is dying , Jeongguk. She’s dying because of what love did to her, because she trusted someone with her heart, and now she has nothing left.”
Jeongguk’s heart lurched painfully in his chest, his pulse racing wildly as the weight of Jimin’s words hit him like a freight train. His mom... dying? Because of a bond? He had no idea Jimin had been carrying that burden, and now it felt like the ground beneath him had been pulled away.
“And you...” Jimin’s voice broke, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he fought to hold himself together. “You’re the worst part of it. Because I like you. I like you, and that scares the hell out of me. My omega wants you. But I can’t... I can’t let myself get close to you, because if I do, it’ll end the same way. It always does.”
Jeongguk’s vision swam as the full weight of Jimin’s confession crashed over him. He likes me? Jimin’s words echoed in Jeongguk’s mind, but there was no relief in them. Because Jimin wasn’t saying this to bring them closer—he was saying it to push Jeongguk away for good.
The realization hit Jeongguk like a punch in the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. Jimin didn’t want him. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. And Jeongguk... Jeongguk couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t change the way Jimin felt or take away the fear that consumed him.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispered, his voice breaking as he looked away, unable to meet Jeongguk’s gaze. “But I can’t do this. I can’t... let you in.”
Jeongguk’s heart shattered, the cracks spreading through his chest like wildfire. He wanted to reach out, wanted to grab Jimin and tell him it didn’t have to be this way, that they could figure it out together. But the look in Jimin’s eyes—the devastation, the guilt—told him that no matter what he said, it wouldn’t change anything.
The fragile hope Jeongguk had been holding onto slipped through his fingers, leaving behind nothing but the sharp sting of rejection. He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he fought back the tears that threatened to fall. He couldn’t cry now. Not in front of Jimin. He couldn't break like this. Not here.
Jeongguk’s heart gave a painful lurch, but he pressed on, his words tumbling out faster than he could control. “I just... I want to be there for you.”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Jimin said flatly, his voice cold and distant. He didn’t even pause in his writing.
Oh.
Just when Jeongguk had started to believe that things were finally getting better—finally shifting between them—everything shattered again. The fragile hope he’d been holding onto slipped right through his fingers, leaving behind the familiar sting of disappointment.
It hurt more than he wanted to admit. Because just when he thought Jimin was beginning to let him in, the walls were back up, higher than ever, and Jeongguk was left on the outside, looking in.
Jeongguk swallowed hard, his hand twitching at his side. “I... I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Jimin interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes were sharp, hard, like shards of ice that cut straight through Jeongguk. “I don’t need you.”
The words hit Jeongguk like a physical blow, knocking the air out of his lungs. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, the familiar tightness creeping up his throat. “I’m just trying to make things easier for you. I thought maybe if I—”
“I don’t care what you thought,” Jimin snapped, slamming his notebook shut, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Do you think I’m helpless? That I need someone like you following me around all the time?”
Jeongguk flinched at the harshness in Jimin’s tone. “No, that’s not what I—”
“Then why are you always here?” Jimin’s words were venomous now, each one cutting deeper than the last. He stood up abruptly, glaring at Jeongguk with a fire that Jeongguk had never seen before. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you. How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your thick skull? Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you have to make everything so difficult for me?”
Jeongguk’s heart pounded erratically, each beat painful and uneven. His breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled to find the right words, but they stuck in his throat, unable to form.
“I like you, Jimin. I like you so much,” Jeongguk whispered, his voice barely audible. He could feel the sting of tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of Jimin.
“You can't. You shouldn’t.” Jimin shot back coldly. “I never asked for anything from you, Jeongguk. You’re the one who keeps showing up, thinking you can do something that I don’t even want.”
“I thought maybe if I kept trying, you’d—” Jeongguk’s voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence. His wolf recoiled at the very idea, knowing that it had no chance left.
Jimin stepped closer, his frustration boiling over. “What? You thought if you kept pushing, I’d suddenly fall at your feet in gratitude? That I’d see you as my alpha?” He scoffed, his gaze cold and unforgiving. “That will never happen.”
The words struck Jeongguk like a hammer, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, each beat more erratic than the last. His vision blurred slightly, the world tilting as the strain on his body grew worse.
“I just… I told you already. I care about you, Jimin. Why won't you give me a chance? I want to prove to you that I—”
Jeongguk whispered, his voice trembling.
Jimin’s expression didn’t soften. “I don’t need your care,” he spat. “I don’t want it. There's no chance between us.”
Jeongguk’s chest constricted further, the pain spreading like wildfire, but he ignored it. He had to. “But I—”
“Stop acting like you’re doing me some kind of favor. You’re suffocating me.” Jimin snapped, his eyes flashing with anger.
Jeongguk staggered back slightly, his hand flying to his chest as the pain became too much to bear. His heart pounded violently, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, but he couldn’t look away from Jimin’s face—couldn’t stop the ache in his chest from deepening.
“I... I’m sorry,” Jeongguk whispered, his voice cracking. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out at any moment. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Jimin said coldly. “Just stop. Stop trying so hard. Stop showing up in front of me. You’re not my alpha, Jeongguk. You never will be.”
That was it. That was the final blow.
Jeongguk’s wolf let out one last, defeated howl before falling silent. Jeongguk could feel it—his alpha retreating, deciding there was no point in fighting anymore. His body trembled violently, his legs buckling as his wolf relinquished control. It saw no reason to keep fighting for survival. What was the point when his omega didn’t want him? When Jimin, his chosen mate, had made it clear that he wasn’t needed?
“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk croaked, barely able to get the words out. His heart was no longer just aching—it was shattering, piece by piece. His wolf had given up, and now his body was following suit.
Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “Stop apologizing. Just stop.”
Those words sealed Jeongguk’s fate. His heart gave a violent lurch, and the pain became unbearable, spreading through his chest like fire. His wolf—the alpha that once made him feel strong—had abandoned him. Without it, Jeongguk was lost, his body slowly giving in to the overwhelming sense of defeat.
Jeongguk nodded weakly, taking a step back. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll... I’ll stop.”
Jeongguk turned, stumbling away from Jimin. Each step felt heavier than the last, the world tilting and spinning as the pain consumed him. His hand flew to his chest, trying in vain to keep his heart from tearing apart completely.
He didn’t make it far. His legs gave out, sending him crashing to the ground, the grass beneath him soft yet cold. His vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges as the world around him faded.
“Jeongguk!” A voice—Namjoon’s—shouted from somewhere behind him, but Jeongguk couldn’t respond. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, his body trembling violently as he slipped into unconsciousness.
The last thing he heard before everything went black was the sound of footsteps running toward him.
His wolf was gone. His alpha had given up.
And now, Jeongguk’s body was ready to follow.