The hallway was quiet when Jimin closed Yoongi's studio door behind him. The faint thump of the bass still leaked through the walls, steady like a heartbeat, but the dorm itself had fallen into silence. Everyone else was asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
Jimin padded down the hall barefoot, the wooden floor cool under his feet. He should have gone back to bed, but something in his chest felt restless, like the conversation with Yoongi had only stirred what he had been trying to ignore.
He stopped by the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. The sound of it echoed louder than it should have, too loud in the stillness of the night. He sipped slowly, leaning against the counter, letting the coolness spread down his throat.
He thought of Jungkook's laugh earlier, the way it had slipped out in the middle of rehearsal when Taehyung had said something only he could hear. He thought of Taehyung's eyes, sharp one moment, soft the next, always lingering a little too long.
Jimin wasn't blind. None of them were.
He carried his glass to the living room, sitting down on the couch. The city lights spilled in through the window, washing the room in a faint glow. He tucked his legs under him and stared out at the skyline.
A part of him wanted to smile. They were young, they were reckless, and maybe they deserved something pure that belonged only to them. But another part of him worried. He had seen how fragile things could be. How fast something beautiful could break under pressure.
The group was everything. Their music, their bond, their future—it was all tied together like one thread. If that thread snapped, everything could unravel.
"Too much thinking," he muttered to himself, pressing the cool glass against his cheek.
A sound pulled him from his thoughts. Footsteps, quiet but not careful. He turned his head, expecting maybe Hoseok, maybe Namjoon. Instead, it was Taehyung.
His hair was messy, his T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. He froze when he saw Jimin on the couch, eyes wide like he hadn't expected anyone else to be awake.
"Hyung," Taehyung whispered, voice rough from sleep. "You scared me."
Jimin smiled faintly. "I could say the same. What are you doing up?"
Taehyung walked closer, scratching the back of his neck. "Bathroom. But then I saw the light." He hesitated, then sat down beside Jimin. Their shoulders brushed, and Jimin felt the warmth of him immediately.
Neither spoke for a moment. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge and the far-off sound of Yoongi's music still looping.
"Hyung," Taehyung said softly, almost reluctantly. "You… noticed, didn't you?"
Jimin didn't answer right away. He stared at the glass in his hand, watching the condensation drip down to his fingers.
"You're not as careful as you think," Jimin finally replied, his tone gentle but steady.
Taehyung's lips pressed together. He didn't deny it. He didn't explain either. His eyes shifted, searching Jimin's face, as if looking for judgment or betrayal.
"I'm not against you," Jimin said quickly, before Taehyung could speak. His voice was firmer now, a quiet promise. "But you have to understand. It's not just about you. It's about all of us."
Taehyung lowered his gaze. His hands fidgeted in his lap, restless, almost trembling. "I know. I… know. But it's not something I can turn off."
Jimin studied him for a long moment. The sincerity in Taehyung's voice wasn't something he could ignore. It wasn't a phase, it wasn't a mistake. It was real.
And real things had consequences.
"You're playing with fire," Jimin murmured, leaning back against the couch. "But if you're going to burn, at least… don't take us all down with you."
Taehyung looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment his eyes were glassy under the dim light. He didn't argue. He didn't make excuses. He simply nodded, slow and deliberate, as if Jimin's words had settled heavy in his chest.
They sat together in silence, the city breathing outside the window, Yoongi's music still thumping faintly in the distance.
For the first time, Jimin felt the weight of what was coming. Not whispers, not stolen glances, not speculation. But a storm. One that none of them were ready for.