Chapter Text
There are worse ways to waste a life than running a coffee shop in a city you once swore you’d leave.
That’s what Yoongi tells himself every morning as he flips the sign to open, knowing damn well he’ll be here until he’s old and gray, making americanos for people who still call him that Min boy and ask when he’s getting married.
But here he is.
The shop isn’t much. Small, tucked into a quieter part of Daegu, the kind of place that stays afloat on regulars who don’t need a menu and never overstay their welcome. It smells like freshly ground coffee and vanilla syrup, and in the winter, like cinnamon and the occasional burnt espresso shot.
He never planned on running the shop.
His father started it from nothing, his mother still cares about it deeply, and his younger brother, Jungkook, keeps insisting they should start selling “trendy” things like dalgona coffee and oat milk matcha lattes.
Yoongi stayed because someone had to. Because his father passed too soon, because his mother needed him, because Jungkook was fourteen when it happened and somebody had to make sure he didn’t grow up too fast.
He tells himself it’s fine. That this life is fine.
Most days, he almost believes it.
Most days, he likes the predictability of it all. The way Hoseok absently straightens the stacks of cups, nudging them into a perfect line even though no one ever notices. The comforting hum of low chatter. The hiss of steaming milk.
He likes that nothing ever changes.
Until today.
Because at 9:07 a.m., predictability ceases to exist.
Because at 9:07 a.m., Park Jimin walks into his coffee shop.
Yoongi doesn’t register it at first.
Just another guy in an oversized hoodie, cap pulled low, mask covering half his face. The only reason Yoongi even looks twice is because the guy moves like he’s waiting for something to happen, like he expects to be noticed.
Hoseok, who never notices anything before noon, stops mid-wipe.
“Holy shit.”
Yoongi frowns. “What?”
Hoseok’s grip locks onto his arm.
“Hyung,” he whispers, urgent, like they’re in the middle of an espionage thriller. “That’s Park fucking Jimin.”
Yoongi blinks, then looks again.
For a second, he doesn’t see it. Just another customer, another face hidden under layers of anonymity.
But then he sees the way he holds himself. The quiet, effortless confidence. The same posture Yoongi has seen a hundred times in photos, on billboards, in music videos.
Oh.
Oh, hell.
It is him.
World-famous. Idol. Billboard-dominating, stadium-filling, five-MAMA-awards-in-one-night Park Jimin. Standing in Yoongi’s coffee shop like he belongs here.
And, of course, Yoongi is the one who has to take his order.
He steps forward, fingers tapping idly against the counter. “Hey. What can I get you?”
Jimin hesitates for half a second, like he isn’t used to ordering for himself. Then, with a quick tug, he pulls his mask down just enough to speak. “One iced vanilla oat milk latte. Extra sweet. With whipped cream.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “So, basically a milkshake.”
Jimin blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You just ordered melted ice cream with a shot of espresso.”
Jimin’s eyes narrow. “It’s coffee.”
“It’s dessert,” Yoongi corrects, already grabbing a cup and marking it. “You could’ve just asked for a vanilla milkshake and saved the trouble.”
Jimin leans onto the counter, elbows resting against it, eyes locked on Yoongi like he’s assessing something. “You have a lot of opinions for a barista.”
“I’ve been making coffee for more ten years,” Yoongi replies, tapping the screen to confirm the order. “So technically, it’s a professional opinion.”
Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “And what does your professional opinion say about my drink?”
Yoongi glances at him, then at the order on the screen. “It says you don’t like coffee. You like coffee-flavored sugar.”
Jimin scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You like the idea of coffee,” Yoongi clarifies, slipping the order ticket onto the queue. “You just don’t want it to taste like coffee.”
Jimin presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “You think I have bad taste.”
Yoongi shrugs. “I think your drink has bad taste.”
That earns him a hum, amused and unbothered. “And what do you drink, then?”
He nods toward the cup by the register, half-full and long forgotten. “Black coffee. No sugar.”
Jimin stares. “That sounds depressing.”
“It’s real coffee.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, head shaking. “Wow.”
Yoongi pretends not to hear the sound of it. Pretends not to notice the way it sticks in his chest.
Behind the counter, Hoseok’s already working on the drink, though he casts Yoongi a look like are you serious right now.
Jimin doesn’t budge. Just tips his head, watching. “Do you always insult your customers’ drink choices?”
“Only when they deserve it.”
“And what makes a drink choice deserve to be insulted?”
Yoongi leans on the counter. “When it’s got more sugar than caffeine.”
“Ah,” Jimin says, nodding like he understands something deeply important. “So you’re one of those coffee snobs.”
“Snob?” Yoongi deadpans. “No. Just someone who believes coffee should still taste like coffee.”
Jimin watches him, intrigued. “So you think my order is embarrassing?”
Yoongi glances over as Hoseok tops the drink with whipped cream, adding an unnecessary swirl like he’s decorating a birthday cake. He looks back at Jimin, unimpressed. “I think your drink should come with a free toy.”
Hoseok smacks the cup onto the counter with a little too much force, barely holding back laughter. Yoongi picks it up, handing it to Jimin with a look that’s 50% customer service and 50% judgment.
Jimin doesn’t break eye contact as he takes it.
“What a shame,” he says, sipping through the straw. “And here I thought you were kind of cute.”
Yoongi nearly chokes.
Jimin grins, taps his phone against the card reader, and turns toward the door.
And then, right before he reaches it, Jimin glances back.
It’s quick. Barely there.
But Yoongi catches it.
And then he’s gone.
The shop settles, the stillness stretching just long enough to be noticed.
Hoseok lets out a breath, then turns on Yoongi like he’s just watched someone kick a puppy.
“Hyung.”
Yoongi sighs, already regretting the incoming conversation. “What.”
Arms folded, Hoseok narrows his eyes. “Did you seriously mock Park Jimin’s drink order and somehow get him to flirt with you?”
Yoongi taps the screen to clear the order, as if that’s the only thing happening. “I stated facts.”
“Right,” Hoseok says slowly. “Facts that made him smile at you. Call you cute. Look back before leaving.”
That earns him a towel to the counter. Yoongi wipes in small, aggressive circles.
“You’re reaching.”
Hoseok leans in like he’s studying a new species. “I don’t think people talk to him like that.”
Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just turns and walks away.
From behind, Hoseok calls, voice light with disbelief. “Guess he didn’t mind.”
Yoongi keeps walking. Doesn’t react. Just steps into the back room, closes the door behind him, and leans against it.
It’s nothing.
Of course, it’s nothing.
But for some reason, he can’t stop picturing the way Jimin smiled.
Jungkook slides onto the counter stool with all the confidence of a man about to deliver life-changing news. Yoongi already knows it’s going to be about the future of the café.
“You just need to hear me out, hyung,” Jungkook insists, leaning in like they’re conspiring. “We’re falling behind. Do you know how many cafés are doing nitrogen-infused cold brews now? Or Japanese-style slow drip? We could invest in a proper siphon setup. Maybe even a roasting station.”
Across from them, Hoseok stifles a yawn and resumes wiping down the espresso machine. “Uh-huh. And who’s gonna fund this cutting-edge coffee empire?”
Jungkook sighs, frustrated. “I’m just saying, we should innovate. Everyone’s moving forward while we’re sitting here making the same three drinks we did a decade ago.”
Yoongi takes a slow sip of his black coffee. “The café has been here for twenty years. People come here because they like that it hasn’t changed.”
Jungkook looks personally offended. “People come here because we’re the only decent place within five blocks, hyung.”
Hoseok hums in agreement, stacking freshly cleaned cups. “He’s not wrong.”
Yoongi sighs. “Fine. Get your siphon setup. Just don’t come crying to me when you set the counter on fire.”
Jungkook lights up like he’s won a prize. “Oh, I won’t.”
It’s a slow morning, predictable in the way Yoongi has come to rely on.
The same regulars filter in at their usual times. The elderly couple by the window, sharing a single pastry and speaking in hushed tones. The student who always forgets to charge his laptop, asking to borrow an outlet adapter. The office worker who buys two americanos, one for now, one for later.
The door opens.
It’s quiet at first, nothing out of place, until conversation slows, small pockets of silence surfacing between words. A few heads turn. Someone reaches for their phone.
Yoongi looks up.
Park Jimin steps inside.
No cap this time. Just an oversized, light-colored sweatshirt, sleeves covering his hands, a face mask hiding half his face. It’s not much of a disguise. Not enough to make him unrecognizable.
It takes a second for Jungkook to register what’s happening. The moment he does, he grabs Yoongi’s arm under the counter like his soul is trying to leave his body.
“Hyung,” he whispers, voice frantic. “Holy shit.”
Yoongi barely reacts, keeping his focus on the counter. “Hm?”
Jungkook tilts his head toward the door, subtle but urgent.
“That’s Park Jimin,” he hisses. “Right there. In front of us.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I know.”
Jungkook turns to him in slow horror. “Then why aren’t you surprised?”
Yoongi sighs. “Because he was here last week.”
Jungkook almost falls off the stool. “And you didn’t tell me?!”
Hoseok flicks his towel at Jungkook’s arm. “Inside voice.”
Jungkook claps a hand over his mouth like he just committed a crime. His eyes are huge when he turns back to Yoongi. “He was here and you didn’t tell me?!”
Yoongi shrugs, acting bored. “Didn’t seem important.”
Jungkook looks personally betrayed.
Before he can go into full meltdown mode, Jimin approaches the counter.
Yoongi, being a functional human, does the normal thing and acknowledges him. “Hey. What can I get you today?”
Jimin tugs his mask down. “Iced caramel oat milk latte. Extra sweet. With whipped cream.”
This time, Yoongi marks the order without comment.
Jungkook, vibrating with barely contained excitement, scrambles for a pen. Then hesitates, looking between Jimin, the counter, Yoongi, back at Jimin.
Jimin notices.
His mouth curves, amused. “Want me to sign something?”
Jungkook dies on the spot.
“I—uh—what? No, I—I mean—if you—only if you want to—”
Jimin smiles, clearly used to this reaction. He takes the pen from Jungkook’s trembling hand and grabs a receipt from the counter.
“Who should I make it out to?”
Jungkook makes a high-pitched noise Yoongi didn’t know he was capable of.
“J—Jungkook,” he stammers.
Jimin nods, scribbles his signature, then adds a tiny doodle of a puppy with its tongue sticking out next to it before sliding the receipt back. “Here you go.”
Jungkook clutches it like it’s the most valuable object he’s ever owned.
Hoseok watches the scene unfold, clearly entertained. “Think he might frame that.”
Jimin glances at Yoongi. “And you? Want an autograph too?”
“I’m good,” Yoongi deadpans.
Jimin snorts.
Hoseok, still smirking, finishes preparing the drink and slides it across the counter.
That’s when disaster strikes.
Yoongi reaches for something at the same time Jimin takes the cup. Their hands graze. Yoongi’s elbow bumps the edge.
The drink tilts.
Cold liquid spills all over Jimin’s sweatshirt, streaks of whipped cream sinking into the fabric, pooling onto the floor in messy, sugary splatters.
The café goes silent.
Jimin freezes.
Jungkook lets out a tiny, horrified gasp.
Hoseok presses his lips together, struggling not to laugh.
Yoongi, watching the scene unfold in real time, closes his eyes for a second. Lets out a steadying breath.
Jimin looks down at himself. Blinks.
“Well,” he says, completely deadpan. “That’s cold.”
Yoongi grabs a towel from beneath the counter and hands it over. “Here.”
Jimin takes it, dabbing at his clothes. “Starting to think you have a personal vendetta against my drink orders.”
Yoongi sighs. “Trust me, I wouldn’t waste coffee on purpose.”
Hoseok snickers. Jungkook still looks shocked.
Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, already regretting his next words. “I live upstairs. You can change if you want.”
Jimin tilts his head, intrigued. “You’re inviting me upstairs?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Unless you want to walk around drenched in caramel and coffee.”
Jimin glances down at himself, then back at Yoongi. A slow grin tugs at his lips.
“Well. When you put it that way.”
Yoongi nods toward the door. “Come on.”
Jimin follows him outside.
The air is warm, the street still busy with the morning crowd. Yoongi barely glances at the black car parked by the curb until he notices the man standing beside it. Sunglasses, stiff posture, the kind of presence that makes it obvious he isn’t just a driver.
Jimin slows for half a second. “I’ll be right back. No worries.” His tone is casual, like this is routine.
The man—his manager, probably—doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at Yoongi, measuring something. Then, after a pause, he nods.
Jimin doesn’t wait for more.
Yoongi leads him a few steps further, stopping at the entrance next to the café. He keys in the code, the door unlocking with a quiet beep.
Jimin steps in after him.
The door clicks shut behind them.
The stairwell is quiet, the faint sounds of the street below muffled by thick walls. The only thing filling the space is the sound of their footsteps as they climb, Jimin a step behind Yoongi, shaking out the damp fabric of his sleeves.
At the top, Yoongi unlocks the door and pushes it open. The apartment is small, the kind of place that feels lived-in rather than carefully arranged. A sofa with a blanket thrown over one arm, a coffee table cluttered with a couple of dishes and an empty takeout container, a shelf crammed with books and vinyls.
Yoongi doesn’t think much before heading straight to his dresser. He pulls out a hoodie, grabs a clean towel, and holds them out.
“Here. You can change in there.”
Jimin takes them without comment, disappearing into the bathroom. The water runs a moment later.
Yoongi lets out a steadying breath and looks around properly. The coffee table is still a mess, so he moves to clear it, stacking the dishes and tossing the takeout container into the trash. He wipes a stray coffee ring off the counter, straightens a chair that doesn’t need straightening. It’s not much, but it keeps his hands busy.
The bathroom door opens.
Jimin steps out, sleeves pulled over his hands, shaking them dry as he glances around. His own sweatshirt is folded over one arm, the hoodie Yoongi gave him hanging loose, not dramatically oversized, just different enough to notice.
His gaze drifts, taking in the space, pausing when he spots the piano tucked against the far wall. He tilts his head slightly, fingers brushing the edge as he wanders closer. "You play?"
Yoongi leans against the back of the couch. "Not much anymore."
Jimin watches him for a beat. “Why not?”
Yoongi shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Got busy.”
Jimin’s fingers hover over the keys, thoughtful. Then, he presses down, the opening notes of something slow and familiar filling the space.
Yoongi groans. “You’re not serious.”
Jimin grins. “‘River Flows in You’ is a classic.”
“It’s also what every kid plays when they think they’re gifted.”
Jimin plays a few more notes, watching him from the corner of his eye. "So what did you play?"
Yoongi doesn’t answer at first. Jimin just waits, fingers still resting on the keys.
Then, finally, Yoongi steps closer. The space between them narrows. He reaches past Jimin, pressing down on a chord. Then another. A melody pulls itself from memory, something instinctive, buried under years of dust.
Jimin watches, quiet.
Yoongi plays another chord, then stops, fingers still resting lightly on the keys.
Jimin tilts his head. “You should still play.”
Yoongi sighs, shaking his head. “Not really my thing anymore.”
Jimin studies him for a moment, then just says, “Shame.”
There’s no rush to fill the silence.
Then, after a beat, Jimin steps back.
“Thanks for the hoodie.” He tugs at the hem slightly. “I’ll send it back.”
Yoongi gestures vaguely. “Keep it.”
Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”
Yoongi nods, running a hand through his hair. “Looks better on you, anyway.”
Something flickers across Jimin’s face, subtle but there. He doesn’t comment on it, just pulls the sleeves further over his fingers and turns toward the door.
Yoongi follows him, stopping just inside the threshold as he steps into the hallway.
Jimin pauses, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into the weight of the hoodie. He tugs at the hem absently, fingers brushing the fabric, but his gaze flicks up just as quickly.
It should be a normal moment. Just a goodbye, nothing else.
But he doesn’t move.
Neither does Yoongi.
Jimin looks at him, head tilting slightly, expression unreadable. It’s not hesitation. Not expectation. Just a quiet, unspoken thought hanging in the air.
Then, before Yoongi can name it, before he can decide whether to break it, Jimin leans in.
It’s quick, thoughtless, like closing a door or reaching for a light switch. Like something that was always going to happen.
Yoongi freezes.
His brain stutters, tries to catch up, but Jimin is already there, mouth warm against his, kissing him like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Yoongi doesn’t kiss back at first. He doesn’t do anything, really. Just stands there, barely breathing, as Jimin presses just close enough for Yoongi’s pulse to trip over itself, messy and unsteady.
And then—too soon, too easily—Jimin pulls away.
He lingers, gaze flicking over Yoongi’s face like he’s committing something to memory.
"Probably best not to tell anyone about this."
Yoongi blinks, still catching up. His voice comes out flatter than he means it to, but at least it’s something.
"As if anyone would believe me."
Jimin’s lips curl. He shifts slightly, glancing once, just briefly, at the small name tag clipped to Yoongi’s hoodie.
His gaze lifts again, something amused in the way he looks at him now.
"Bye, Yoongi-ssi."
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
Yoongi doesn’t move.
His mind feels half a step behind his body, still stuck somewhere between the front door and Jimin’s mouth. His fingers flex at his sides, like they just realized they could have done something but never got the message.
After a long second, he lets out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding.
What the hell just happened?
Sunday dinners at his mom’s house have always been part of Yoongi’s life.
It’s never a big production. Just a home cooked meal, easy conversation, his mother fussing over them even though Jungkook is an adult and Yoongi’s in his thirties.
After dinner, Yoongi barely makes it to the couch before Jungkook claims the remote, already searching for something to watch. He scrolls through channels with the focus of a man on a mission, stopping only when he finds exactly what he wants.
He sits up fast, nearly knocking the remote off his lap. “Hyung, wait—shut up, this is it.”
Yoongi leans his head back against the cushions, already regretting every decision that led him to this moment. “What, did the apocalypse start while I was sitting down?”
Jungkook ignores him, practically vibrating as the host on the screen gestures toward the stage with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Tonight, joining us, we have none other than Park Jimin!”
The audience erupts in cheers, the camera panning to Jimin as he walks onstage. His cardigan hangs open over a white tank, dark trousers fitted at the waist. He moves with easy confidence, smiling like he already knows exactly what he’s doing.
Jungkook makes a sound that can only be described as a squeak.
Yoongi watches in silent horror as his little brother, a grown man, clutches a couch pillow to his chest like a middle schooler watching their first romance drama.
“God, he’s unreal,” Jungkook mutters, eyes glued to the screen. “Like, how is someone that famous still so humble? Look at him! He’s just naturally cool. And talented. And so—”
“—human, like the rest of us?” Yoongi interrupts.
Jungkook looks personally offended. “Are you seeing the same person I’m seeing?”
Yoongi flicks his gaze to the screen.
Jimin is laughing at something the host says, head tilting back, the kind of laugh that makes the crowd react like they’ve just been blessed by the divine.
He’s stupidly photogenic, Yoongi will give him that.
“Whoever gets to kiss him,” Jungkook sighs dramatically, “is the luckiest person alive.”
Yoongi chokes on his water.
Jungkook turns immediately, laser-focused. “Why are you being so weird?”
Yoongi wipes his mouth, entirely too aware of the way his pulse just stuttered. “I’m not.”
Jungkook squints at him, unconvinced. “You almost died just now.”
“That was carbonated water in my lungs.”
Jungkook lets it go, turning his attention back to the screen, where the camera zooms in on Jimin’s face.
“You know,” he muses, “he was cool in person, too.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow.
Jungkook leans back against the couch, arms crossed. “I mean, I knew he’d be nice, but he was actually really nice. Like, not fake at all.”
Their mom, who has been completely unbothered by this exchange, finally speaks up, reaching for the remote to turn the volume down slightly.
“He’s handsome,” she says, nodding toward the screen. “You can always tell when someone is used to being adored.”
Yoongi picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, pretending that isn’t the most accurate thing she could have said.
Jungkook sighs, shaking his head. “Man, I almost died when he came to the café. Can’t believe you actually spilled coffee on him.”
Yoongi does not choke again.
He does, however, check the time.
“It’s late,” he says, pushing himself up from the couch. “I should head out.”
Jungkook snorts. “Hyung, you had Park Jimin in your apartment and didn’t even get a picture.”
Yoongi sighs, already regretting staying this long. “Yeah, well. I was busy making sure he wasn’t dripping iced caramel latte all over my floor.”
Jungkook groans. “You’re so boring, hyung. We’re watching the rest of this.”
“You are,” Yoongi corrects, already reaching for his jacket.
His mom smiles softly as she folds the blanket that was draped over the couch. “Don’t work too much.”
Yoongi hums in acknowledgment, ruffling Jungkook’s hair on the way out just to hear him yell.
The air outside is cooler now, the streetlights flickering on as he steps off the porch.
Yoongi tugs his jacket closer, hands slipping into his pockets as he walks toward his car.
He doesn’t think about the show Jungkook is still watching inside.
Doesn’t think about the way Jimin laughed, or how easy it was to recognize it.
Doesn’t think about the weight of a moment that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
He just gets in the car and drives.
Monday morning, and Yoongi is already regretting not staying in bed.
The café is quiet when he steps inside, the scent of fresh coffee settling in the air. Hoseok is behind the counter, half-listening to Taehyung, who is currently sprawled across a chair like he’s been waiting for an escape.
Yoongi walks past them, heading for the counter. He grabs a cup, fills it himself from the pot, and leans against the counter to take his first sip.
“You look dead inside,” he tells Taehyung, eyeing the way he’s practically melting into his seat.
“I am,” Taehyung sighs. “I don’t belong in the morning shift, hyung. I’m a night person.”
Yoongi takes another sip. “So your suffering is self-inflicted.”
“No, my suffering is capitalism,” Taehyung mutters, letting his head drop against the back of his chair.
Hoseok snorts. “You’ve been here for two hours.”
“Two hours too long.” Taehyung groans, stretching his arms over his head. “Oh, right! I just remembered something.”
Yoongi raises a brow. “That’s never a good start.”
“Someone called for you a few days ago.”
Yoongi blinks once. “Okay?”
“Yeah, they left a number or something,” Taehyung says, rubbing his face. “Didn’t say their name… just called themselves ‘the guy you spilled coffee on.’”
Yoongi stills.
Hoseok, who absolutely wasn’t paying attention before, definitely is now.
“…What?” Yoongi says slowly.
Taehyung shrugs. “Yeah, like—Friday, I think? Called the café, left a number for you to call him back. I was gonna tell you, but then I got distracted by… something.” He frowns, then shrugs. “Dunno.”
Hoseok bursts out laughing.
Yoongi stares at him. Then at Taehyung. Then at absolutely nothing, because his brain has fully short-circuited.
“Wait,” Hoseok wheezes, gripping the counter. “You’re telling me you forgot to tell him that Park Jimin called? For him?”
Taehyung blinks, processing.
Then, slowly, he frowns. “…Wait. What?”
Hoseok grins. “Park Jimin. Global superstar. Five MAMAs in one night. That Park Jimin.”
Taehyung blinks again. Looks down at the counter, then back at Yoongi.
His eyes widen.
“No way.” He stares at Yoongi. “Why the hell would Park Jimin call you?”
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Tae. Maybe he wants a refund.”
Taehyung gapes. “You’re kidding.”
Yoongi exhales slowly. “And you’re telling me this now.”
Taehyung nods. “Yup.”
Hoseok looks like he might collapse from laughter.
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Did you at least write down the number?”
Taehyung pauses. Then suddenly straightens, looking around.
“Oh, wait. Yeah. I put it somewhere.”
He wanders over to the counter, rummaging through a small stack of receipts before pulling out a tiny slip of paper.
“There you go,” he says, holding it out. “Knew I had it.”
Yoongi stares at it.
The number is small, scrawled in Taehyung’s usual messy handwriting, followed by a note underneath:
"From the guy you spilled coffee on.”
Hoseok leans against the counter, grinning. “So,” he drawls, “when are you calling him back?”
Yoongi takes the paper. Folds it once between his fingers.
He grabs his coffee, takes a sip, and doesn’t say a word.
Hoseok bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re panicking.”
Yoongi scoffs. “I’m not.”
Hoseok grins harder. “You are.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “I’m drinking coffee.”
Taehyung, still processing, watches Yoongi hold onto the note. “Wait. You’re actually calling him?”
Yoongi glances at the number, then slips it into his pocket. His expression doesn’t change. “I guess I have to.”
Taehyung stares. “That’s insane.”
Yoongi lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”
Taehyung gestures vaguely at him. “Because it’s Park Jimin?”
Neither of them answers.
Yoongi finishes the last of his coffee and sets the cup down. “See you later.”
Hoseok tilts his head, smirking. “Try not to think about it too hard.”
Yoongi pauses for half a second. Scoffs. “I won’t.”
Then, without another word, he pushes the door open and steps outside.
He doesn’t head straight home.
He walks. Past the café, past the line of small shops still setting up for the day, past the old woman who sells flowers outside the convenience store. Daegu moves at its usual rhythm, familiar and predictable, but his thoughts aren’t really following along.
The slip of paper in his pocket feels heavier than it should.
He’s not thinking about it, except that he is.
The number isn’t saved yet. He could just forget about it, let it stay a meaningless note tucked away somewhere. But he already knows that’s not happening.
Before he can overthink it, he pulls out his phone.
Dials.
It only rings twice.
There’s a pause before Jimin picks up, like he’s checking the number before answering.
“Hello?” His voice is smooth, cautious.
Yoongi shifts his grip on the phone. “Uh… it’s Yoongi. The guy from the café.”
“Wow.” Jimin’s voice is smooth, amused. “You really took your time to call back.”
Yoongi glances toward the pavement. “Yeah, well. I only got the message today.”
Jimin hums like he doesn’t believe him at all. “You should fire your staff.”
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “Tempting.”
There’s a quiet pause, just long enough to be noticeable. Then, Jimin speaks again.
“I called because I wanted to invite you over for a drink.”
Yoongi waits.
Jimin hesitates, not obvious, but there. “But...”
Yoongi cuts in before Jimin can take it back.
“Sure. I can come over later.”
There’s the slightest beat of silence, like Jimin hadn’t expected that answer.
His response comes softer this time. “Oh.”
Yoongi almost smiles. “Problem?”
“No, just—” Jimin pauses, then goes with it. “Things are going to be kind of busy here, but okay. 7 p.m. would be fine.”
Yoongi leans against a railing, phone tucked closer to his ear. “And where exactly is ‘here’?”
Jimin tells him the address. It’s a bit out of the way, but not unreasonable.
“Got it,” Yoongi says.
Jimin lingers for a second before speaking again, tone just a little too casual to be casual.
“Try not to be late. Three days was already pushing it.”
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
Jimin clicks his tongue, half a smirk in his voice. “See you later, Yoongi-ssi.”
The line goes dead.
Yoongi lowers his phone, staring at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
Then, slipping his hands into his pockets, he starts walking.
He doesn’t head home. Not yet.
Halfway down the street, he slows. His thoughts are too loud, his feet too restless.
Without really thinking about it, he turns back.
By the time he reaches the flower stand near the convenience store, the old woman is adjusting a bucket of lilies. She barely glances up as he approaches, only acknowledging him with a small nod.
Yoongi scans the selection, his gaze settling on the tulips: soft yellow, white, streaks of red.
He nods toward them. “A bunch of those.”
The woman hums, wrapping them neatly in brown paper. “A gift?”
Yoongi pauses for half a second. “Something like that.”
She hands them over, and Yoongi takes the bouquet, tucking it under his arm.
7 p.m. is still hours away.
As he starts walking back to his apartment, he glances down at the tulips, pressing his lips together briefly. They’re simple. Maybe too simple. But Yoongi has learned that beauty doesn’t have to be extravagant to mean something. Sometimes, it’s in the things that exist quietly, steady and certain in their own way.
His fingers brush over the paper wrapping, feeling the soft creases where it’s been folded. He exhales, barely audible, and keeps walking.