Chapter Text
♡♡♡
PSSSHHHT.
Outside, a jet of water hisses, loud as a giant soda can cracking open right under Jimin’s window.
It’s disgustingly humid. Sunlight slices through the dusty blinds and nails him in the eyeballs. He groans, kicks a foot free from the blanket sarcophagus he’s swaddled in, and rolls over.
PSSSHHHT.
He groans again and shoves off the covers.
Trudging to the window, he pries open the blinds with two fingers. He blinks through the glare.
And there he is.
Jungkook.
Shirtless Jungkook.
He’s back home from his vile finance job, now in gym shorts and wielding a garden hose.
Jimin has no reason to be watching him. He reminds himself of this as he adjusts the slats.
Next door, Jungkook is in his backyard, misting the manicured patch of green between their houses like they’re delicate bonsai and not, like, hostas. The sun beams off the sweat at his temples, hitting on the shallow dip of his collarbone like it’s being spotlighted by the heavens.
“Oh my God,” Jimin whispers angrily. “You’re not even gardening. You’re just…glistening.”
His gaze latches onto Jungkook’s hand on the nozzle, until it pans higher, straight to the ink that swallows his arm in a full sleeve. It feels both expected and offensive.
Because everyone and their mother is rolling out a sleeve nowadays. Still, on Jungkook, it reads like cultural appropriation. Like seeing a middle-aged government employee with tube socks and skinny hairless legs wear grills.
He scowls. And yet he stays glued to the window.
Jungkook is five years older, a textbook yuppie with a soulless concrete gulag of a house, and—Jimin’s lip curls—a dating portfolio that now includes Jimin’s brother.
What does Jihyun even see in him? Besides the money. And the career track.
And perhaps the physique, which looks like it got installed at the same place they assemble Marvel actors: linebacker shoulders, a waist that never skipped core, and muscles distributed in all the conventionally desirable places.
“Insufferable,” Jimin gripes.
Three years ago, Jungkook moved in next door. Jihyun met him first. He stayed local for school, still sleeping in his childhood bed and eating breakfast with their parents like it was 2010. He was already texting Jimin novella-length bricks about the “handsome new neighbor,” about how their parents adored him, and how Jungkook was “the kind of guy you bring home without starting a war.”
Meanwhile, Jimin was still away at college, and by the time he moved back after graduation, Jihyun had already left for his internship in another city, long-distance with Jungkook, but firmly established.
Still, Jimin never introduced himself. He only ever saw flashes of Jungkook in passing as he jogged shirtless or cut weeds along fence lines (also shirtless). He didn’t see the point. That world—the neat lawns, the polite waves, and those brainless Stepford smiles—wasn’t his. He kept to himself, played his guitar, and stayed out of the frame.
It wasn’t that he was bitter. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, he just figured he’d always be the twin people forgot existed. And he preferred it that way.
He flips Jungkook off. Then he lets the blinds slap shut and turns away, the sun’s lingering heat toying with his cheeks like it knows exactly what he was ogling.
Must be exhausting, being Jihyun. Having to nod along every time Jungkook motormouths at him about interest rates and whatever tax loophole gets him hard.
Jimin’s phone buzzes with a text, and he removes it from his pocket.
Yoongi:
Open up
Before jin starts honking
Jimin grabs a hoodie and tromps downstairs to the garage. He slaps the wall button, and the door clanks upward like a yawning mouth.
Yoongi meets him at the head of the driveway, his palm up for a deadpan high-five. Then he turns without a word to light a cigarette.
Namjoon trundles in the amp. Seokjin is carrying two guitars—one strapped to his back, the other in his hand—and already chewing pink gum obnoxiously loud and looking offended.
“You didn’t sweep in here,” Seokjin says.
Jimin’s parents’ garage is curated squalor: beer cans, blunt guts, potato-chip shrapnel, and dust bunny warrens fat enough to demand their own ZIP Code. The walls are smeared with dingy fingerprints, and there’s a paper towel magnetized to the mini fridge that has a dick scrawled in Sharpie. A lone bulb spotlights a large keyboard, a battered drum kit, and a lineup of half-decent mics and speakers.
Jimin tosses his hoodie onto the faux-leather couch. Next to it squats a beanbag chair matted with carpet fuzz. You don’t want to sit there. “Couldn’t,” he says. “I was being harassed through my own window.”
Yoongi puffs smoke toward the garage door. “Let me guess. Naked hose guy again?”
“I’d rather talk about literally anything else,” Jimin says. “Maggot infestations. Your bong.”
“Alright,” Namjoon chimes in, crouching to plug in cables, “but you’ve talked about your neighbor more times this week than you’ve made actual eye contact with Yoongi.”
“And both have been equally unpleasant experiences.”
Yoongi gives Jimin the finger while pulling on his Camel. Namjoon just grins and stands, repping their band name in white Helvetica across a black T-shirt: “WHERE THE GOTH CHICKS AT?”
He drags it to rehearsal whenever possible, which is often, because the name deserves to haunt them forever, being both unhinged and hyper-specific. It’s a question no one answers. A walking inside joke Jimin is lowkey embarrassed by but would defend with his life.
It started, like most great things, with an offhand complaint from Yoongi.
They couldn’t agree on a name for their first show. The four of them were holed up in one of the music department’s practice rooms. Yoongi was leaning against the wall, Red Bull in one hand and a scowl carved into his face.
“Where the goth chicks at?” Yoongi grumbled, squinting at the padded door like he was expecting some fishnet-wearing angel to kick it open. “We make one good song and not a single hot girl has tried to kiss me about it.”
Seokjin glanced up from a greasy binder of band notes. “‘Where the Goth Chicks At,’” he repeated slowly, rolling the syllables like wine over his tongue. “That’s…actually kind of fire.”
Jimin snorted from where he sat crossed-legged on the linoleum. “Please tell me that’s not your idea of a band name.”
“Dude,” Namjoon said, his drumsticks aloft. “That’s a meme.”
“But also,” Seokjin said with a dangerous glint in his eye, “so iconic.”
Yoongi shrugged. “It’s better than your last idea, which was ‘Spitball Serenade.’”
“Hey, that had whimsy,” Seokjin retaliated.
“Exactly,” Yoongi said blankly.
Jimin laughed, then paused. “Okay, but picture it on merch.”
Namjoon frowned thoughtfully. “On the front of the kick…”
“‘Where the Goth Chicks At,’” Seokjin repeated, now fully enchanted. “It’s cultural commentary.”
“It’s a philosophical inquiry,” Namjoon put in.
“It’s how we summon them,” Yoongi said.
“It’s definitely us,” Jimin said. “Tragically unserious but also somehow better than anything else we’ve come up with.”
Yoongi picked up a dry-erase marker. “You know what they say. Name your band after what you’re lacking.”
So he wrote it on the whiteboard, and that was that.
♡
Yoongi gives his bass one last lazy twist of the tuning peg. “We’re doing ‘Floodlights’ again?”
Seokjin groans as he plugs in his guitar. “Jimin, please. This song is old enough to enroll in preschool. We’ve played it at every dive bar, street fair, and that one kid’s graduation party where the dad tried to crash the set on tambourine.”
Namjoon points a stick from behind the drum kit. “That man was feral.”
“It’s still a banger,” Jimin mutters, checking the amp levels. “People love it.”
“It’s a banger,” Seokjin agrees, “but we can’t live off one song forever. Even Smash Mouth had…two.”
Yoongi shrugs. “I’ve got stuff. ‘Bleach Picnic?’”
“Or…” Namjoon’s already scrolling through Yoongi’s Drive on the shared band laptop. “Ah, yes. ‘I Know What God Tastes Like.’”
“You always have stuff,” Seokjin says. “But there’s only so many times we can sing about OD’ing on a drug cocktail before the crowd starts slipping us Narcan again.”
“That was one time,” Yoongi groans.
Jimin huffs a laugh, but it’s a brittle little thing.
His lyrics are effervescent and shit people can sing drunk. Yoongi’s lyrics, by contrast, are willfully repugnant, designed to nettle cosmopolitan listeners with heinous chronicles of marauding, overdosing, and bleeding out in alleyways.
And yet, writing clever shit plainly comes naturally to Yoongi. It’s not a skill Jimin shares. More often than not, he overwrites, pours too much in, and ends up scrapping whole drafts because the words feel overwhelming.
“Let’s just run ‘Floodlights,’” Jimin says. “Our gig’s next Saturday.”
The room quiets until even the buzz of the cables is deafening.
They’ve had this conversation before, repeatedly. And every time, it circles back to the same truth they don’t mention out loud: They’re waiting on Jimin.
He hasn’t finished a single song since the Great Burnout of Last May, when he trashed everything he was working on. He nuked his hard drive, torched his notebooks, waxed poetic about the ashes being reborn as silence, and then didn’t write a damn thing since.
They’re coasting on lyrics he wrote when he was nineteen and unmedicated. And now at twenty-two, he’s empty.
“From the top?” Namjoon asks cautiously.
“Yeah,” Jimin says, eyeing the garage door draped in drooping blankets. “From the top.”
The Great Burnout of Last May was also when he moved back in with his parents. He had wrapped up all his college classes, and suddenly there was no future after the graduation ceremony. Just this street and a priggish neighbor with perfectly edged hedges. A living reminder of everything Jimin is supposed to be—disciplined, economically serviceable, enviably put together—and isn’t.
He stretches his neck and pulls the mic close.
“Check, check.”
This one’s for Jungkook. May he stub all his toes.
And then he lets it rip.
♡
As the first few notes of “Floodlights” trickle out of the garage speakers, Jimin lets himself get engulfed all at once.
This song isn’t polite. It’s not built for radio play. It’s here to be loud, spill beer, and make some crazy fucker in the front row start a mosh pit.
The tempo’s fast but not frantic. Seokjin’s guitar is fuzzed-out and jagged; Yoongi’s bass snarls underneath; and Namjoon’s drums add an antsy military vibe, nearly jostling the room loose from its rafters. And Jimin owns the mic, singing-shouting the truth scraping the walls of his throat.
Together, they’re the kind of band who can roll into practice looking like it’s both laundry day and Coachella.
Namjoon, rail-thin with a shaved head and the shadow of a pornstache, hammers the snare so hard flecks of ancient paint shake loose from his olive Dickies. His black chucks thunder on the pedals, the dice pendant on his chest bouncing like it’s gambling every beat will land.
Yoongi’s runty frame slouches behind his bass, the sleeves of his cream henley sagging down to his knuckles as he plucks each note like it’s a chore. An ex’s scrunchie yanks back his hair; his duct-taped slides shuffle just enough to keep time; and his cargo shorts bulge with a million pockets and a lighter collection that could outfit a gas station.
Seokjin flips his glossy mullet on a downstroke, the rhinestones on his flared jeans scattering light under the dingy Edison. His tucked Bon Jovi tee slips off one broad shoulder as gum pops between his teeth, his bracelets jangling with every stomp of his faux-snakeskin boot.
Jimin is the opposite kind of spectacle. He doesn’t reach for the spotlight, but it still finds him, snagged by the shock of pink hair on his head. His studded belt flashes white against baggy black denim, and his platform Docs pound the grimy floor until he drops to his knees, a high note busting the room wide open. His cropped mesh football jersey gapes over a shredded tank, every inch of him made to unspool under color, smoke, and noise.
He’s not just a pretty face with killer stage presence (Seokjin’s words), he can hold down a groove too. He’s on vocals and sometimes rhythm guitar. But when Yoongi moves to keys, Jimin slings on the bass, secretly living for the flex of holding the backbone and the limelight simultaneously.
Still, the four of them are tight. They’ve been this way since their first year of college, trusting each other’s musicianship and moving as a unit. Onstage or in the garage, they’re a ragtag family having a blast.
They only get this time between five and seven in the evening. Jimin’s parents don’t get home until late, but the slot also exists because Seokjin and Yoongi are the only two with jobs that aren’t entirely theoretical.
Seokjin has what he calls a “corporate role,” which sounds intentionally vague until you realize that is actually his official title. “Corporate Role (Level II),” like the promotion committee couldn’t quite justify “manager” but felt too guilty to call it “assistant.”
Yoongi, on the other hand, delivers mail. He claims the job keeps him from succumbing to escalated drug use. But he always comes back with lyrics scribbled on the backs of envelopes.
That leaves Namjoon and Jimin, the unemployed ones, though they lie about it in different ways.
Namjoon is in grad school, which seems impressive until you ask what he’s studying. “The ethnography of online roleplay communities,” he said once, dead serious (translation: writing forty pages about people pretending to be werewolves on Discord), while sipping from a mug that read “It is what it is. And it’s autism.” Which somehow explained his entire personality in hindsight.
Jimin, meanwhile, has his music and a dusty Fiverr account he hasn’t updated since The Great Burnout of Last May.
So they get two hours to be ridiculous together, to scream their souls into mics, and pretend this band could be the thing that saves them. Or at least delay the inevitable LinkedIn update.
The snare reverberates a little too hard off the garage walls, and Jimin winces. Okay, maybe they need to tape up another blanket. Or convince Namjoon to actually invest in those egg crate panels he keeps “researching” on YouTube.
And then, right on schedule:
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Jimin flinches as the thumps rattle the garage door on its rollers, like someone pounding a filing cabinet. The band stutters to a halt, guitar feedback and cymbals ringing in the sudden drop.
“Great,” Yoongi mutters. “Our number-one fan.”
Fucking hell.
Jungkook, number-one fan if you mean fan of murdering their momentum.
Jimin already knows what Jungkook’s next complaint will be. It’s always the same: too loud, too long, or too late in the day. He never shows his face, either. Just bangs on the garage door and shouts things like “Knock it off!” or “Do you mind?” or, Jimin’s personal favorite, “For the love of God!” like he’s seventy and shaking a cane Jimin can’t see. Then he vanishes before Jimin can deliver a truly savage barb he’s been workshoping for weeks.
Though, Jimin did yell back once or twice. And they volleyed taunts through steel and drywall for a solid minute, an exchange that left Jimin rattled. But also…roused.
It felt like sharpening a sword and finally finding someone worthy to spar with.
His heart rate jumps a notch. He wonders what it’ll be this time. Another one-sided rant followed by fading footsteps? Or will they be tied in battle again?
Not that he’s hoping for the latter.
“Can you not?” comes Jungkook’s muffled yell through the metal. “Turn it down!”
Jimin cuts the sound on his amp and stalks to the door. He cups his hands around his mouth and hollers back. “Make me!”
“I’m trying to unwind!”
A thrill runs up Jimin’s spine. He rifles through zingers in his head like a deck of cards, waiting for the right one to slap down.
“Try wine, Karen!”
“It’s a weeknight,” Jungkook barks. “Maybe respect it? People have jobs in the morning.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. He yells back, “Cool. Maybe your job can be ‘shutting up about weeknights.’”
“Ever heard of neighbors? Basic decency? Peace?”
“Ever heard of earplugs? Revolutionary concept.”
“Jimin, this isn’t music. You’re punishing the whole street.”
Jimin fires back before he can process that Jungkook said his name like he was laying down the law—and what that did to his right ventricle. “Your whole vibe is punishment!” He lets the jab hang for a second before piling on: “It’s called art. Or are podcasts the only sound you respect?”
There’s a weighted pause, like Jungkook’s holding something back. Rage? A laugh?
“Art,” he repeats. “Is that what this is?”
“Yeah. We’re creating culture.”
Jungkook lets out a derisive laugh. “What kind of culture sounds like a car crash on loop?”
The audacity.
“I wouldn’t expect a finance bro to know taste. You probably think acoustic Ed Sheeran is ‘raw,’” Jimin yells. “Bet you’ve never clutched your chest and screamed the bridge of a power ballad alone in your car at 2 AM.”
Jungkook’s voice comes back, maddeningly calm, perhaps amused. “That’s…oddly specific. Do you practice these in the mirror or something?”
“They’re off the cuff!” Jimin’s chest heaves. He’s fuming with rage. And adrenaline. “God, you’re such a buzzkill. We’re a band. You need a hobby. Preferably one that doesn’t involve interrupting actual musicians.”
“You act like I enjoy this. I’ve been civil longer than most people would. That doesn’t mean I owe you unlimited chances.”
The silence that accumulates is electrifying.
God, why are Jimin’s cheeks hot? And it’s not the leftover steam from practice or the sun beating down on the garage door. It’s the way Jungkook’s words slammed down like a gavel. Jimin has to remind himself who this man actually is, a stiff bro with a Sanskrit tatt cribbed off Pinterest, before his brain starts drafting him as anything else.
“You’re smiling,” Yoongi whispers.
Jimin whips his head toward him. “I’m not.”
Yoongi looks unconvinced. But then again, his eyebrows don’t move and he has sluggish reaction times.
And then Jungkook delivers his final threat like frostbite to Jimin’s very soul.
“Get it together, Jimin. Don’t make me involve someone else.”
The sound of retreating sandals follows.
“‘Get it together,’” Jimin mutters under his breath. “I’ll get it together when you get a personality.”
Jimin will never admit it out loud, but that voice—commanding, unflappable, pickled in arrogance—will be lodged in his dome for hours. And because his brain hates him, he can’t help but picture the face that goes with it: Jungkook, square-jawed and clean-cut, with his brows drawn tight and temple vein on the verge of bursting.
He involuntarily bites into his lower lip, then shakes the thought loose and sulks back to the mic. They’ve got a set to run, and Jungkook can go ahead and file a noise complaint for all Jimin cares.
“This is how we get sued,” Yoongi mutters.
“Or Jimin ends up in his neighbor’s arms instead of a small claims court,” Seokjin says, nodding toward the garage door. “Wouldn’t be the first time you fought your way into a crush.”
“Do you hear yourself right now?” Jimin scoffs. “Gross.”
Seokjin smirks. “Don’t think we don’t see the way you light up when he yells.”
“I hope you choke.”
Namjoon twirls a stick between his fingers. “So…do we stop?”
“Nope,” Jimin says, already cranking the volume. “He’s lucky I’m not putting the speakers on his lawn. Matter of fact, consider this a stress test for our blanket soundproofing.”
He leans toward the mic, crackling with gleeful malice. “Fuck you, neighbor! Hope all your stocks tank!”
And then he launches into the chorus louder than before.
♡
They play the next four songs in their set without interruptions, each one more deafening than the last.
Then the real danger arrives.
The side door opens. It’s Jimin’s mom.
Without warning, she yanks the power strip, and the amps cut like a throat being slit. Namjoon makes the Windows-shutting-down jingle with his mouth. Seokjin’s grin fossilizes. And Yoongi just stares in mute betrayal.
“Mom! What are you doing?” Jimin yelps. He digs his phone out of his pocket, checking the time. “Why are you back so early?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot Jihyun’s back this evening,” she says, unimpressed. She’s got Botox ironed into her smile lines and that Anna Wintour bob that makes her a thousand times scarier.
“That’s…tonight?”
She crosses her arms over her navy blazer, the powersuit nearly swallowing her tiny aerial frame. “I got a phone call. From Jungkook. And what have I told you about the volume?”
“Oh my God, he didn’t seriously tattle again.”
“Correct. He’s got me on speed dial at this point.”
“Mom, seriously, you’re letting him run this street—”
“Oh, so you do remember you live in a neighborhood.”
A laugh hitches in Jimin’s throat, but it dies instantly.
Her glare sharpens on him. “No more excuses. I want this all out of here by the end of the week. Drums, guitars, and whatever else you’ve crammed in here. I’ll make calls if I have to. You’ll find somewhere else to practice.”
“WHAT? No. This garage is ours,” he blurts, floored. “I spent a whole year perfecting it—”
“Perfecting?” she cuts in, disbelief lacing her voice. “That’s what you call rattling the walls? Tormenting half the block?”
She doesn’t let the silence breathe before twisting the knife. “Is that what you want? For Jungkook to think our family is inconsiderate, while he’s dating your brother and deciding what comes next? You think he’ll stick around if he sees this circus? What impression are you leaving him with?”
The words hit like an unpremeditated backhand whack.
But Jimin forces his face into the most stoic mask he can muster. He won’t give her the satisfaction. Not of seeing how much it stung, how much it gutted him to be reminded: Jungkook isn’t just some neighbor.
He’s Jihyun’s boyfriend. The one who’s meant to look at the Parks and see their best side, which is the golden son in pressed shirts and boat shoes, not the knockoff twin their always-working lawyer parents let rot on eyeliner, band tees, and rage.
If Jungkook’s looking at this house and picturing his future, then Jimin’s the wrong impression entirely.
She presses her lips together, then sighs. “You have a degree, Jimin,” she goes on. “You could be in law school right now. You could be building a career. Instead, you’re back here, screaming yourself hoarse in a garage band that doesn’t even have health insurance.”
“Actually, I’m still on my parents’ plan,” Namjoon admits dweebly.
Jimin scowls. He’d sooner gouge out his eyes with a fork than sit for the LSAT. His English Lit degree might be a punchline to some, but at least he can punctuate his own funeral announcement. His mom’s been encouraging (begging) him to apply to law school ever since he moved back home last year, because apparently the only viable paths after a literature degree are: 1) legal martyrdom, or 2) crochet-frog-hat barista with a mushroom stash.
“Mom, this is work,” he protests, gesturing to the garage setup.
“This is noise,” she says.
“Noise that people pay to hear!”
“Noise that ends now,” she says grimly, pointing to the side door. “Out.”
“What? We’re practicing for a gig!”
“And you’re going to march over there and apologize to Jungkook right now.”
Jimin sputters. “He literally exists just to antagonize me.”
Her skinny eyebrows climb. “Well, today you antagonized back. Go.”
“Can I at least grab a snack first?”
“Now, Jimin.”
He grumbles, snatches his hoodie off the couch, then trudges toward the door like he’s headed to the gallows.
“Avenge me if I don’t come back,” he tells the band.
“Not before the gig,” Seokjin says.
♡
The sun is unrelenting, a thick slab of heat pressing down on the neighborhood. Jimin lugs his boots up the path toward Jungkook’s porch, his hoodie dragging him down like a fleece coffin.
Just let me die here. Bury me next to the hose.
The hood shadows his face like he’s trying to sneak into an invite-only orgy dungeon, not gearing up to apologize to the bane of his existence. But it’s the only shield between him and feeling exposed.
At the doorbell, he raises a knuckle.
Then he freezes.
The house leaks faint music, paired with indistinct footsteps too close for comfort. Jungkook. Probably in a loose tank top. Maybe less. Jimin’s whole body goes taut like one long held breath.
Just press the button. Say sorry. Peace out. Easy.
Wait a minute. What is he, some spineless earthworm? He should be giving Jungkook a piece of his mind. Maybe that’ll pull the pin on another grenade and let round two out swinging. No, stop. Don’t think like that.
He unfurls his finger.
Tires hiss on the asphalt drive. And he whirls to see a sleek hybrid car roll into the Park driveway across the lawn.
“Hey, loser,” Jihyun calls, grinning as he climbs out. His brows knit in amused confusion. “Oh my God. Please tell me you weren’t about to ding-dong-ditch Jungkook.”
“Holy shit,” Jimin blurts. Divine intervention is real. “Thank you.”
He bolts off Jungkook’s porch like he’s escaping a hostage situation, hood flapping as he sprints across the lawn. He collides with his twin and death-grips Jihyun’s wrist.
“Garage. Now.”
“What the hell?” Jihyun laughs, stumbling after him. He fumbles with his crossbody bag, still in his internship drag: white linen pants, a pale blue button-down, and sunglasses shoved up into his shiny-ass comma hair.
“No time,” Jimin pants. “Parental sabotage. Neighbor drama. You’re literally my miracle. Let’s move before either of them respawns.”
Jihyun scoffs. “So…normal stuff?”
They slip into the garage through the side door. The air still thrums faintly with leftover distortion from rehearsal. Seokjin’s cracking open a Diet Coke from the mini fridge. Namjoon and Yoongi are stretched out on the couch, Yoongi packing a joint with the aglet of Namjoon’s shoelace.
“Look who crawled home,” Jimin announces, shoving Jihyun forward like some smug handler parading his pedigreed spaniel. “He lives!”
Namjoon’s eyes widen. “No way.”
“Park Squared graces us with his presence,” Yoongi deadpans, setting down the shoelace.
Jihyun lifts his hand in a half-wave. “Hey. Nice to see the infamous garage in the flesh.” He takes it in with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s like…a yard sale after a tornado.”
Jimin studies him. He hasn’t seen his brother in months, and somehow he looks more grown, more self-assured. And Jimin feels like kind of a dork to admit it, but he misses seeing him every day.
Seokjin up-nods Jihyun. “Well, enjoy it while you can. Last time you’ll see the place looking like this. Your mom kicked us out.”
“Really?” Jihyun says, doing this little brow-knitting concerned thing.
Jimin swallows down the urge to add “it’s your boyfriend’s fault” and pouts instead. “Our gig’s next week. We don’t even have time to scout a new place.”
“What about renting a studio downtown?” Jihyun suggests.
Jimin scoffs. Of course that’s his first thought. No matter how worldly Jihyun gets, he’s still out of touch. Like money’s oxygen and everyone breathes it for free. Even the band orders their drinks separately. They’re too broke to split bills at the table. Back in January, Jimin’s last look at his brother’s IG was Jihyun in a Comme heart cardigan at a moody hotspot, flanked by his monochromatic clout-chaser friends, three espresso martinis, and appetizers so microscopic they looked like garnish. It stressed Jimin out so much he muted him.
“Some of us don’t have a sugar daddy, Jihyun,” Jimin says pointedly.
“Fuck, I’d take one,” Yoongi mutters. “Beats selling organs.”
“And it’d still barely cover parking,” Seokjin says, grinning forlornly.
Jihyun’s palms lift in defense. “Okay, relax. It was just an idea.”
Namjoon scratches his head. “I dunno…Kieran’s basement? Haven’t talked to him in forever, though. Or maybe that old rec center, if they don’t care we blow the power again.”
Yoongi licks the seam of his joint, twists the end, and tucks it behind his ear. “Cool. Can’t wait to practice in the void.”
The room sinks into frustrated silence, Seokjin slurping his Coke in place of answers. Everyone’s chewing on the same problem, but no one’s got a fix.
Jihyun turns toward Jimin, his expression softening. “Come on, it’s not the end of the world. Things have a way of working out.” His hand lands on Jimin’s shoulder in that paternal clap that makes Jimin want to poke his eyes out.
Namjoon’s gaze darts between the twins.
“Damn,” he says at last. “I forgot how much you two actually look alike.”
“It’s creepy,” Yoongi says. “Not gonna lie, if you ever match hair, I’m blocking both of you.”
“Maybe we should dye Jimin’s hair blond for the bit,” Seokjin jokes, taking a sip from his can.
Jimin shoots him a look. “I’d rather be set on fire.”
Jihyun just smiles politely, brushing nonexistent dust off his shirt. Then he glances at Jimin. “Actually, Jimin…can we talk? In private.”
There’s a pause, followed by a very synchronized round of “ooooh” from the peanut gallery.
“Guess that’s our cue,” Namjoon says, hauling himself up. “I could go for pad thai.”
“Don’t wait up,” Yoongi says, already halfway out the door.
“Jimin,” Seokjin says before ducking out after them, “you want anything that’s not deep-fried?”
“Impossible request!” Jimin shouts.
Yoongi’s voice drifts back. “He means no. Let’s go.”
The door swings shut, leaving just the twins and a silence strung so tight it might snap like a guitar string.
Jimin stays rooted, confusion entangling with dread.
“Fuck. It’s cancer. You have cancer,” he says, his chest already tightening. He’s so convinced of it. It’s the only thing that would make his brother get all grave like this.
My brother died, he imagines himself intoning to the band. He sees the viewing: Jihyun laid out dashingly in a mahogany casket, Jimin turning stiffly to their parents, their unseeing faces contorted in operatic grief as Korean hymns peal through the chapel.
“No?” Jihyun says, his expression shifting to mild horror. “Jesus, no. But we have to talk.”
“So talk, fuck.”
He just shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Not here. Maybe your room?”
Jimin exhales and jerks his chin toward the narrow staircase. He leads the way up to the loft above. Posters peel slightly from the slanted walls, milk crates overflow with powdery vinyls, and a ratty armchair sags in the corner.
He never meant to end up back here. Not in this town, not above his parents’ garage like some cryptid cousin no one talks about. But after graduation—diploma in hand and zero job prospects in sight—home was the only fallback. Not the main house, though. That was Jihyun’s pristine, company-ready domain. Jimin claimed the loft and stuffed it with secondhand furniture and the privacy he spent all four years of college chasing.
Hoodie peeled off at last, Jimin collapses on his bed, fanning himself with a lyric sheet. His top clings to his skin as he sprawls out, his socked feet braced against the rumpled blanket pile at the foot. “Alright,” he says, “what’s so important you’re dragging me out of rehearsal?”
Jihyun doesn’t answer immediately. He drifts toward the kitchenette window, dropping his bag on the island, and stares at his car in the driveway. He’s startlingly pretty in his anorexic gold accessories.
Then he pivots, his gaze sweeping over the room, the condensation bubble warping the charcoal paint under the window. The blackish stain on the plum velvet armchair. It’s in the shape of Australia.
“Wow,” Jihyun says, his nose wrinkling slightly. “You really live like this.”
“At least my room has personality,” Jimin shoots back.
“Yeah, maybe a personality disorder.”
Jimin arches an eyebrow. “You didn’t drive all this way to roast my aesthetic. What’s up?”
Jihyun’s smile fades. He smooths a hand down his sleeve, his tone suddenly serious. “Okay, don’t freak out.”
“Famous last words.”
“I have to tell you something.”
Jimin groans, rolling onto his side and propping his cheek in his hand. “If this is about your boyfriend being a buzzkill neighbor narc, trust me, I know. He’s the HOA’s final boss.”
“What?” Jihyun says, confused.
“Long story. Involves me almost ringing his doorbell to apologize for having joy.”
“Okay, focus. This is serious.”
“Yeah, well, you picked a terrible time. My blood sugar’s tanking and I’m probably dehydrated.”
Jihyun looks him dead in the eye and then, like it’s a seismic event, says,
“I’m getting married.”
Jimin blinks.
Blink-blinks.
“What?”
♡
“I’m eloping with Taehyung. Next weekend.”
Jimin shoots upright. “You’re—eloping? As in, secret vows, getaway car, family betrayal, no open bar?”
Jihyun gives a rueful smile. “Exactly like that.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Holy actual shit.”
Jihyun nods. “I know.”
Jimin pauses. “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You…you didn’t say Jungkook. You’re not eloping with him?”
“No.”
“Hold the fuck on. What happened to Jungkook?”
Jihyun wrings his hands. “What happens to anyone when they’re not the one you love,” he says simply, though his shoulders deflate half an inch.
Jimin looks to him for any indication of a joke. There isn’t one. “You—you’re telling me you’re ditching him for someone else?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He makes a strangled noise. “What the—” He stops and drags a hand down his face. “Okay. Wait. Taehyung? The contortionist?”
Jihyun makes a face. “No, that’s Taemin. Taehyung’s the one who sculpts with molten glass and runs a midnight pottery circle on the weekends.”
Jimin stares at him. “You have egregious taste in men.”
“Well,” Jihyun says pointedly, “I did bag Jungkook, technically.”
Jimin tries to ignore that, still processing.
It clicks, belatedly: He’s seen Taehyung in Jihyun’s Stories, orbiting in the background at a board game café, or lingering in a gallery shot, always dressed in burlap with artfully disheveled hair, like a brooding figure out of a Rembrandt painting. Jihyun never mentioned him beyond a passing, utilitarian name-drop, and Jimin never thought twice about it. Why would he? His sweet, straight-laced twin wasn’t exactly built for intrigue.
“Does Jungkook know?” he asks.
Jihyun’s response is a wry half smile with a clear enough translation, but Jimin presses on. “Don’t give me that look. Does Jungkook know?”
A beat, then Jihyun exhales through his mouth. “It’s not like Jungkook and I ever put a label on us.”
Jimin thought his twin was incapable of secrecy. And yet, here Jihyun is, confessing an affair that must’ve been going on during the internship. Maybe longer.
What crookedness. What jugglery.
“Excuse me?” Jimin balks. “You had him as your lockscreen. I’ve seen it. You posted couple photos. Our aunt comments with heart emojis. What the hell do you mean ‘no label?’”
Jihyun tilts his chin defensively. “It wasn’t official.”
Jimin stares at him, incredulous and furious at the same time. “You don’t get to soft launch a man for two years and then pretend it wasn’t a relationship. Mom literally calls him your boyfriend. She’s out here talking about Jungkook like he’s practically family.”
“Jimin,” Jihyun says, almost pleading, “I’m not here to fight with you. I just need you to understand. I really love Taehyung. And he loves me. When we’re together, it feels like the world finally makes sense. Like, I’ve found the person I was always supposed to be waiting for.” He giggles, glowing in that abhorrent way people in love do. “We’re meant to be.”
Jimin lets out a partially hysterical laugh, burying his face in his hands before snapping back up. “Right, okay. Except you just dropped that you’re eloping like it’s your Starbucks order.”
“Well, you know how I like to keep things light.”
“Jihyun. You’re blowing up your entire life.”
“Only the parts our parents wanted.” Jihyun’s smile falters slightly.
“I just don’t get it,” Jimin says, flopping back onto his mattress. “You and Jungkook were perfect together. I thought you liked him.”
“Our parents like him.” Jihyun mumbles it like he doesn’t even want to hear himself. “He’s good-looking, has a stable career, generational wealth. I’d be very comfortable. Well taken care of.”
Jimin turns his head to squint at him. “So what’s the problem?”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Jihyun drops to his knees at Jimin’s bedside and clutches his hand like a penitent Victorian orphan. “He’s the boring but respectable duke. The one the heiress is supposed to marry instead of running off with the revolutionary soldier who dies heroically in the third act. I’m the tragic heroine, Jimin. I fall in love with passion. With purpose and change and art.”
“You’re in love with a guy who glazes mugs,” Jimin deadpans.
Jihyun ignores him. “Taehyung challenges me. He sees me. He thinks my hyperfixation on nineteenth-century French ballet is interesting. He asked me to be free with him, and I said yes.”
Jimin groans. “How am I related to this.”
“You’re worse than me,” Jihyun says. “You pretend you’re grounded, but your whole life is basically a cry for help.”
“I do not cry for help.”
“Garage band vocalist,” he says, ticking off on his fingers. “Dyes hair every other month. Turns mood swings into stationery shopping trips. Cries when dogs get adopted in commercials.”
“Okay, first of all—”
“Second of all,” he interrupts, squeezing Jimin’s hand tighter, “I’m trusting you with this because deep down, you get it. You’re chaotic too. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Jimin huffs, chewing on that. “Still think you’re nuts.” He pauses. “So, am I the best man?”
“Funny you should say that,” Jihyun says, springing back to his feet and pacing the floor. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m supposed to spend the long weekend with Jungkook and his family at their country club. Very old-money. Very curated AD lawn. He’s planning to propose. It’s a whole thing.”
Jimin’s head jerks up. “Propose-propose?”
“Yeah. Except it’s not gonna happen, because we—Tae and I—will be halfway to a mountain cabin exchanging vows while Jungkook is being gently repulsed.” Jihyun stops and flashes his white teeth. “By you.”
“I’m sorry, by me?”
Jihyun’s smile only widens. “You’re gonna pretend to be me. Just for a few days. Long enough for Jungkook to get fed up and walk away.”
Jimin gapes at him. He didn’t know his brother, the Park family’s crown jewel, is also clinically insane. “You want me to masquerade as my khaki-wearing twin while stuck in a country club with your almost-fiancé and his terrifyingly wealthy parents?”
“Yes,” Jihyun says in all seriousness.
Jimin blinks. “So that’s a yes to the lobotomy.”
“We’re identical twins for a reason. This is literally the one perk.”
“You’re crazy if you think I can fake being you.”
“You look exactly like me.”
“Not with pink hair and an attitude problem!”
“Jimin,” Jihyun says, continuing to pace back and forth. “It’s seriously not as impossible as you think. You said Jungkook’s never actually seen you, and I’ve never told him I have a twin, just that I have a brother. As far as he knows, you could look completely different. So if you show up in my clothes, no one will suspect a thing. You think anyone at a country club is paying close enough attention to spot the difference?”
“That’s—” Jimin sputters. “That’s insane logic.”
“You’re forgetting,” Jihyun says, “I trained you for this. Every family photo where you stole my pose? That was practice. And you owe me for every time I let Mom think I was the one who came home drunk instead of you. So congratulations, you’re the perfect alibi.”
Jimin flops back against the bed, kicking at the air in disbelief, while Jihyun is already scrolling absently through his phone like the scheme’s a done deal.
“You’re insane,” Jimin says. “Why don’t you just grow a pair and tell Jungkook you don’t want to marry him?”
Jihyun pauses. His shoulders draw up, then drop slowly. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Jihyun faces him, quieter now. “Because he’s…nice. Like, genuinely nice. And kind. And polite to waiters. And he smells like clementines and clean linen. I can’t look him in the eye and say, ‘Hey, thanks for being perfect, but I’m running away with someone who welds his own cutlery and lives in a converted warehouse.”
Jimin raises his eyebrows. “So instead, you want me to do it for you?”
“Not break up with him. Just…let your natural disasters speak for themselves.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“It’s a compliment.”
Jimin stares at him blankly. “Remind me to never reincarnate with you again.”
“But I’m your twin,” Jihyun says sweetly. “And you owe me, for all those times I covered for you when you were out sneaking into basements with your guitar instead of taking your math tests.” His smile slips into something more pointed. “You always expect me to cover for you. Why is this different? If our places were reversed, I’d do it for you in a heartbeat. And you know it.”
All the air in Jimin’s lungs escapes. As different as they are, he’s never doubted that Jihyun meant it when he said he’d have his back. Even when they were tearing into each other in high school, Jimin knew, somewhere beneath the side-eyes at his ripped jeans, his music, his friends—Jihyun loved him.
“That was art,” Jimin mumbles. “This is fraud.”
“I’m desperate,” Jihyun pleads. “Our parents are going on their getaway next Friday. That’s when Tae and I are eloping. I already booked the train. But I’m supposed to be at Jungkook’s country club. His parents invited me personally.”
“So tell them you’re sick.”
“I already RSVP’d ‘yes.’ And you know how Mom gets when we cancel on events that involve country clubs or potential in-laws.”
Jimin groans. Jihyun has a point. It wasn’t until they turned eighteen that they were finally excused from the endless rotation of galas and fundraisers their parents dragged them to, and even now their mom can get feral about maintaining appearances. Having a mother who’ll roundhouse-kick you for bad posture is garbage.
“It’s basically four days, give or take,” Jihyun says quickly. “I already prepared what you’ll need. My clothes, the spray I use for my middle part, a voice memo of how I talk—”
“Oh my God.”
“You just have to show up, smile, and look decently moisturized.”
“That’s already too many steps.”
Jihyun flops onto the bed next to Jimin. “It’s not like Jungkook and I have some grand romance. We’re…convenient. We look good together. It makes Mom’s friends jealous. That’s all it is. I doubt he’ll even notice if anything’s…off.”
Jimin stares at the ceiling, swallowing something thick in his throat. “You’re sure about that?”
“He’s comfortable, not emotionally invested. If he were, I’d…I’d feel worse.”
Jimin doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure why his chest feels tight all of a sudden.
“Think of it this way,” Jihyun says, “you already hate Jungkook, right?”
“Loathe.”
“So you get to be yourself, but in my clothes, and he ends up single and confused. Everybody wins.”
Jimin bristles at Jihyun’s nonchalant delivery. Like this is just some silly prank he’ll laugh about later instead of Jimin being the one gutted if it blows up.
Their mother always cushioned Jihyun from consequences, and was probably the only Asian mom in the late 2000s to beta-test that “validate everything your kid does” parenting gimmick. It all went straight to Jihyun’s blond head. Meanwhile, Jimin’s buttocks grew up on intimate terms with every wooden spoon, belt, and slipper in the house.
Finally, Jimin says softly, “What if he finds out?”
“He won’t.”
“Okay, but let’s say it backfires. Let’s say he actually falls for it. And he—God, proposes or something.” He gestures wildly, like the word itself tastes bitter in his mouth. “Then what?”
“Then you have the pleasure of turning him down yourself. Imagine the look on his face.”
The ceiling swims as Jimin imagines Jungkook on one knee, velvet box open, eyes all gooey and wet and doing that twinkle shit. And just before Jungkook can drop the fatal “will you marry me,” he croons, “Fuck Jihyun and all these other Ken dolls who are hot, incapable of a bad angle, and are Olympians when it comes to flirting. I choose you, Jimin Park. You have the uncanny gift of making instant ramen toppings feel like haute cuisine, and your vocabulary is badass.”
Jimin’s stomach betrays him with a sickening swoop, the kind you get on roller coasters or when your crush texts back. He clamps down on it immediately, punting the butterflies into a mental trash compactor.
“Right. The ultimate fuck-you. How romantic.” He snorts, rolling his head to glare at his brother. “You’re so manipulative.”
“Runs in the family.” Jihyun smirks, but there’s a glimmer of rawness in his eyes. “And for once, I need mine on my side.”
In that moment, Jimin swears the bed tilts. He wants to brush it off with a quip, but it’s true: Jihyun’s always bent farther than anyone asked him to, taking the hit for Jimin when their parents had their claws out. Like the night he stood between Jimin and their dad’s fury, claiming he’d hidden the cigs even though they’d been in Jimin’s pocket.
If Jimin were ever an actor forced to cry on cue, this would be the memory he’d conjure up. That, and the time he was thirteen, when he kicked his brother across a room and ran away for two days, because Jihyun tried to reason with Jimin after their mom threatened to ground him. For the record: Jimin has no idea why people have kids.
And maybe it’s Jimin’s turn to do the bending, even if this plan is mad.
He just hopes the universe tallies this as a noble sacrifice. Like, fine, make him a legendary virtuoso in the next life. Though with this deceit, he’s probably cemented his fate as a shifty alley cat with IBS.
Jimin gets up, pulling the blinds open to glance down at Jungkook’s backyard like it holds the answers to his moral crisis. Meanwhile, Jihyun is making himself at home like they’re at a sleepover instead of orchestrating a romantic coup.
“What’s on your mind?” Jihyun asks.
“I’m thinking about the many ways this could go horribly, irreparably wrong.”
“You’re overthinking. It’s not like you have to win Jungkook’s heart. You just have to exist.” He perks up suddenly. “The country club has a pool. A huge one. Plus staff that bring you drinks with those little paper umbrellas.”
Jimin side-eyes him. “You think I get seduced by cabana service?”
“Also, Jungkook mentioned truffle fries on the lunch menu.”
He falters. “Okay, that’s one point.”
Jihyun grins wider, and the wideness makes dimples at the corners of his mouth. “There’s tennis courts, a pickleball league, sunrise yoga by the lake, and the entire grounds apparently smell like a Jo Malone counter.”
“I don’t know anything about pickleball. Or other cultish suburban outdoor rituals,” Jimin says, scrunching his nose. “I have no polish. You know that, right? I’m not elegant. I don’t wear loafers. I curse when I drop things and I make faces when I eat olives.”
“See?” Jihyun says, sitting up. “You’re already sabotaging without trying. The less you know, the faster they’ll write me off as a mismatch. It’s a gift.”
Jimin rests his head against the wall with a hard exhale. “You really think I can pull this off?”
“Jimin,” Jihyun tuts, with a sympathetic little frown. “You’ve survived five years of Yoongi’s critiques, Seokjin’s wardrobe interventions, and Namjoon’s existential rants about…the soul of a metronome, or whatever. You can survive one country club weekend with a bougie man who hates your band.” A beat. “Besides, this whole thing only works because you’re not me. You’ll throw him off balance.”
Jimin frowns, rubbing at his neck. “Yeah, but…I don’t know. Something about turning him down when he’s not even in love with the right person? Feels dirty.”
“You’re not actually doing anything wrong,” Jihyun says gently. “You’re just…being me. For a weekend.”
Jimin sighs and shuts his eyes. He thinks about Jungkook’s maliciously well-developed musculature, the way he waters his petunias, and how he barely acknowledges Jimin’s existence unless it’s to complain.
But then he thinks of Jungkook’s imperious voice booming through the garage door. And is it fucked up that the thought of catching him off guard, stunning him into silence, makes Jimin’s pulse skip?
Yeah. That’s satisfying enough to tip the scale.
What better way to stick it to a guy like that than by pretending to be the perfect partner he’s promised, only to turn out to be a walking migraine in designer shoes?
If I can wipe that smug look off his face even once, it’ll be worth shaving years off my life expectancy.
His eyes snap open.
“Fine,” he says. He feels his fingers rake through his hair. He really did just agree to this. Out loud. “But if this tanks, I’m blaming you in my obituary. And I want our next three birthdays catered.”
“I can do better,” Jihyun says. “Your band can use Tae’s warehouse. He’s got more space than he knows what to do with. I’ll get him to open it up for you.”
Jimin blinks, pushing off the wall. “You’re serious?” A beat, then relief floods his arteries. “Holy shit. Yes. Why didn’t you say that sooner?”
Jihyun shrugs, disgustingly pleased with himself. “Didn’t cross my mind till now. See? I always come through.”
Jimin huffs, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, you owe me. Big time.”
A smile blooms across Jihyun’s face. “Fair,” he says blithely, already thumbing through his phone. He lifts it to his ear with a flourish. “I’m calling him now. And no gagging.”
♡
The band is spread out across Jihyun’s bedroom, colonizing the bed and carpet like it’s a slumber party from hell. And now, since Jihyun’s officially the patron saint of rescuing their asses with a place to rehearse, they’ve claimed front-row seats to Jimin’s “metamorphosis.” Which is just real-time humiliation with no intermission.
Jihyun flings open the walk-in closet doors. Inside waits a buffet of button-downs, starchy slacks, collared sweaters, and cashmere cardigans, all arranged in a pastel color gradient, like some anemic rainbow of preppy respectability.
Jimin grimaces. “Is this a wardrobe or a gender reveal?”
“Don’t frown,” Jihyun says. “You’re not supposed to like it. Jungkook is.”
Jimin shudders. “Kill me now.”
Cue montage:
Jimin emerges from the closet in a white shirt, pale yellow cardigan, white chinos, and brown loafers. He stands before the full-length mirror like a man in mourning, the cardigan draped over him like a shroud.
“Are you okay?” Namjoon asks.
“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by Vineyard Vines,” Yoongi says.
Jimin’s face crumples. “I look like I run a non-profit for rich people’s dogs.”
“I’d donate,” Seokjin says, his eyes landing judgily on the clothes. “But only to make you burn that outfit.”
Jihyun shoves Jimin back into the closet and drags him out again in a short-sleeve shirt patterned with tiny seahorses and a pair of mint-green shorts. Jimin does one stiff spin, his arms frozen at his sides.
Namjoon winces. “You look like you own three yachts and zero opinions.”
“I feel like a warm ham sandwich,” Jimin says.
“Tragic,” Seokjin announces. “Next.”
Minutes later, Jimin stomps out of the closet in a pale pink button-down tucked into beige trousers. He motions at himself with dead-eyed incredulity.
“So you’re telling me Jungkook actually looks at this and thinks, ‘Yeah, smash?’”
“Clearly,” Jihyun says flippantly. “It’s the clean-cut, boy-next-door fantasy. Catnip for men in finance.”
Revulsion curls Seokjin’s mouth. “It’s giving…’mid-level manager who buys motivational mugs.’”
Yoongi thumbs the wheel of his lighter. “Or divorced dad about to grill hot dogs in socks and sandals.”
Namjoon rifles through the closet and holds up a salmon-colored polo. “It’s giving ‘my parents named me after a tree.’”
Jimin throws his hands up. “Cool. Love that for me. Can’t wait to change my LinkedIn bio to ‘aspiring mortgage broker.’”
Then he disappears, only to reemerge in a lilac gingham shirt hanging over stark white shorts, boat shoes dragging across the carpet. The room instantly falls silent.
“Well?” Jimin says flatly.
“You’re him,” Namjoon declares.
Yoongi nods. “Jihyun, but with rage.”
“It’s unsettling,” Seokjin says. “I love it.”
Jihyun beams, ignoring them all. “You’ll kill this. Or at least confuse the hell out of Jungkook. Either way, success.”
Jimin examines himself in the mirror. The prep-school palette blanches his already pale golden skin, his pink hair like vandalism on a blank wall. What stares back isn’t him so much as a caricature, and part of him thrills at the thought of weaponizing that. “Can I emotionally damage Jungkook?” he says.
“Please do,” Jihyun says from behind him, his lissome limbs materializing in the mirror’s reflection. Now in his brother’s uniform, Jimin sees the same limbs on himself. Even without their matching faces and rhyme-scheme names—Jihyun and Jimin—you’d know they were cut from the same cloth. Dressed alike, they’re interchangeable.
Except for the glaring pink elephant in the room. “Okay,” Jimin groans, turning. “Big problem.”
Jihyun raises his brows. “Hm?”
Jimin jabs a finger at his neon-bright hair, mussed from the constant outfit changes. “This. My hair. I can’t wear a wig. One strong breeze and it’s over. They’ll know I’m not you.”
“Who said anything about a wig?”
Suspicion narrows his eyes. “What are you talking about—” His stomach drops into his asshole. “No.”
“Yes,” Jihyun says.
Jimin’s tempted to smack him. “Absolutely not. I’m not dyeing my hair. My ends just recovered. You don’t understand—this shade is called ‘Divorcecore Barbie.’ It took me three tries and an existential spiral to get right.” For a second they’re back in high school. His adrenaline spikes. He slides his left foot back for stability.
Jihyun clasps his hands in mock prayer, his bottom lip stuck out and puppy-dog eyes blazing at full wattage. “Please? For me? Come on. Imagine humiliating Jungkook. He’ll never pop the question.”
Jimin’s throat tightens.
“Think of all the rehearsals he ruined,” Namjoon says suddenly.
Jimin whips his head around, pinching his brows. “Why are you taking his side?”
“Think of vengeance,” Yoongi says, punching a palm for emphasis.
Jimin stops himself from rolling his eyes. He wants to say no. He really does. But he can already taste the payoff—Jungkook blindsided, finally face-to-face, forced to take him head-on with no garage door between them. And Jimin finally offloading the backlog of…of…of pent-up…
Rage.
God, that would be so satisfying. Combined with the fact that his band now owes Jihyun, suddenly his obstinacy feels flimsy.
He exhales like he’s trying to fumigate the room with hot, sour air.
“Fine. But I’m not Venmo-ing you a cent. You do it.”
Jihyun pumps a fist. “Yesss,” he crows. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
First-borns are the fucking worst. Eight lousy minutes and Jihyun’ll lord shit like this over him forever.
Jimin stares at his reflection once more, threading his fingers mournfully through the pink strands one last time.
Sorry, Divorcecore Barbie. You were too punk for this world.
♡
The warehouse’s wide door groans open.
In the same second, the band—mid-argument over which unreleased demo slaps harder—swivels toward the entrance.
“Is that—?” Namjoon blurts.
The room freezes as Jimin walks in.
This is his Joker origin story: sandy blond hair, parted with his bangs curled inward. It sits in brutal contrast to his shapeless black garb and lace-up boots winding up his calves like barbed wire. An ensemble suited for all occasions, provided every occasion involves being ignored by everyone.
“Don’t say it. I already hate myself,” Jimin says.
Yoongi squints like Jimin might blind him. “You’re…glowing.”
“Is this what selling out looks like? Because I’d do it too,” Namjoon whispers in awe.
Jimin grimaces. “Yeah, and it’s contagious.”
Seokjin snorts. “Don’t worry. We’re vaccinated against basic.”
The next moment, Jihyun glides in with Taehyung at his side, their fingers laced together.
Taehyung looks like Jihyun logged him off a tree root, his outfit veering hobo-adjacent with a hodgepodge of thrift-store layers and gnarly grooming. And yet his mug is princely. Jimin can’t tell if Taehyung’s tiger-like eyes are of the bedroom or weed variety; his eyelids are perpetually at half-mast and take forever to blink.
But the couple practically goes unnoticed. The band is still circling Jimin like vultures.
“You look like the evil version of your brother,” Yoongi says.
“Or the hot one,” Seokjin says, his eyes flitting to Jihyun’s. “No offense.”
“Honestly,” Namjoon says, tilting his head, “you’re pulling it off.”
Jimin cracks a faint grin, the corners of his mouth betraying him. “You’re all disgusting.”
“And now you pass. Don’t waste it.” Jihyun crosses his arms, looking decidedly proud. “Remember everything I told you. Be yourself. Well, not too much like yourself. Don’t bring up body shots or revolution.” A beat. “And maybe hold back on insulting his mom. I still need her to like me. Could come in handy for future job recs, brunch invites, who knows.”
Jimin rolls his eyes so hard it’s practically audible. “I thought love made people generous. You sound like a scheming heiress about to poison the family wine cellar.”
“Thank you.” Jihyun dips his chin in a little bow.
Taehyung scratches his admittedly spectacular jawline. “Scheming heiresses make the best muses.”
Jimin sighs. “Whatever,” he says, flicking his hand. “Wish me luck. Or don’t. Funeral’s already scheduled.”
“Respect,” Seokjin deadpans. “But we have a gig this weekend, remember? We need your lungs.”
Jimin’s head jerks up. “Shit.”
“At least die after Saturday,” Yoongi mutters. “Don’t screw us.”
“The concert hall’s thirty minutes from the club,” Namjoon cuts in. “I already checked. Just don’t forget.”
“I’ll sneak out,” Jimin says quickly. “It’ll be fine.”
Yoongi stares at him. “You’ve met yourself, right? Nothing you do is fine.”
Before Jimin can snap back, Taehyung clears his throat like he’s been waiting for his cue. Then he immediately swoops in to kiss Jihyun on the cheek, then the other, before pulling him close by the belt loops.
His mouth hovers near Jihyun’s ear as the velvet night of his voice pours into it. “You missed a button, babe.” He fastens it before smoothing Jihyun’s collar flat, then kisses his face off like he’s trying to eat something.
The band gags in unison.
“Oh my God,” Jimin grouses. “Get a room.”
“Not this room,” Yoongi clarifies.
Jihyun pushes Taehyung away and smirks, tugging him toward the exit by the collar. “We’ll leave you. Try not to burn the place down.” The door slams shut behind them, punctuated by the crack of palm to ass and Jihyun’s startled giggle. Jimin shivers.
Namjoon drops back behind the drum kit, spinning a stick as he settles in. “Are we running through again?”
Seokjin slides the strap of his electric guitar over his head. “Yep. Kicking things off with ‘Floodlights,’ obviously.”
“Like we ever play anything else,” Yoongi says, plucking a sour note on his bass.
The subtle disdain in their tones makes Jimin’s stomach clench.
Maybe a whiff of rarified country-club air and infinity-pool chlorine will finally shock his brain into coughing up something new. But with Jungkook and the whole deranged charade looming, he knows inspiration isn’t coming.
So he shakes the funk off before it can settle, and drags himself behind the mic stand.
♡
♫ “Jennifer’s Body” - Julia Wolf
Jimin stands in Jihyun’s pristine bedroom, pulling on one of his brother’s polo shirts for a test fit. Soft fabric, gentle scent, muted fern color. It fits. Of course it does. They’re the same size, same build. Same face.
And yet.
The mirror startles him. He barely recognizes himself. His face is oily, denuded of eyeliner and dignity. His pale blond hair is glossy and alien under the overhead light, like someone else’s reflection entirely.
Jimin stares, trying to remind himself this is his body, because the mirror swears he’s Jihyun.
He has a snub nose and humongous lips. Norman, his last ex, called them DSLs, so Jimin likes them too. Which made it extra hilarious when Norman cheated with a guy whose lips were thinner than printer paper. It was a bold move from someone whose dick size gave Jimin an ego boost and whose name he couldn’t exactly shout in bed.
Jimin sighs and yanks the shirt off, tossing it across Jihyun’s showroom bed. He pulls on his hoodie instead. Black, oversized, and slightly paint-splattered from one of Namjoon’s “experimental” set design phases.
It feels like him. His own private thing that belongs to no one else, that is no part of the world of his brother or his parents or even his friends.
That’s better.
For all the performance Jimin’s about to put on, hasn’t Jihyun been acting this whole time?
Since Jihyun came back, Jimin caught glimpses of him and Jungkook looping the block on their evening “fart walks,” shoes scuffing in sync under the streetlights. From his window, Jimin watched their quiet silhouettes trail past, and wondered what was spinning in Jihyun’s head each time. Was he already saying goodbye in increments, carving out one last round of ordinary before leaving? Or was it guilt, drawing out the inevitable because endings are never clean?
They swapped phones that morning. That’s the level of method acting Jihyun thinks this needs. “I will eat you if you open my Notes app,” Jimin hissed, shoving his cracked screen into Jihyun’s palm. Jihyun only rolled his eyes, rattling off his passcode like it was nothing. “Whatever. Just don’t answer my emails.”
Jihyun’s off at Taehyung’s place, no doubt draped in itchy quilts and candlelight, pretending they’re starving artists when Jihyun interns for free and Taehyung’s got a trust fund.
Meanwhile, Jimin is “staying over at Seokjin’s for the week to be closer to the venue.” His parents bought the lie easily enough. Not like they usually cared where he was, anyway.
He crawls under the white covers and throws an arm over his eyes. He can barely breathe from the weight on his chest.
Four days. Just four. Then it’s back to being loud, prickly, and forgettable.
And maybe Jungkook won’t know who he hates more: Jihyun, or the knockoff wearing his skin.
♡
It’s Thursday morning. Everything is obnoxiously idyllic: a blue sky without a cloud, birds chirping, flowering perennial borders gleaming amidst the green background of Jungkook’s front lawn.
Jimin is dying.
His blond hair is parted neatly in the middle. He’s dressed in a lavender polo tucked into white shorts and loafers that squeak because they’re too clean. He even reeks faintly of Jihyun’s cologne. Lightly floral with a hint of ylang-ylang and clean musk. The olfactory equivalent of an Ivy League acceptance letter.
And then there’s Jungkook, waiting by his sleek black car at the curb. He leans against the door in a white short-sleeve shirt and slate-blue shorts, his sunglasses hooked on his collar.
Jimin stands between his parents on their porch, his arms ramrod straight at his sides. Tingles run down the back of his neck. His stomach somersaults inside him.
Mom swoops in for a hug, teary-eyed. “Have fun, sweetie. Don’t forget to send photos!” Jimin blinks, thrown by the sudden affection apparently reserved for Jihyun. It’s a hug that would make a teddy bear feel loved. This is probably why Jihyun grew up even-keeled and charming, while Jimin’s former therapist would audibly sigh at the start of every session.
Then his dad follows with a rare smile and an even rarer hug. “And thank Jungkook’s family for hosting you. Very generous.”
Jimin’s voice cracks two octaves too high. “Yup! So grateful! So blessed!”
In his twenty-two and a half years, Jimin’s seen his dad smile maybe five times total (they’re not a demonstrative household). Still, between the occasional firm shoulder shake and the rare thumbs-up emoji, the man does say “I love you” to his kids: Jihyun, (baffingly) Jimin, and Clarence, their late Afghan Hound, who absolutely shouldered his share of the family trauma.
His mom squeezes his cheeks. “And don’t forget your sunscreen!”
“Yes, yes, got it, love you, bye—” Jimin wheezes as they smoosh him, then he seizes Jihyun’s monogrammed suitcase and bolts down the walk before anyone can ask about his skincare routine.
Immediately Jungkook’s focus homes in on him. He straightens, stepping away from the car.
His scent arrives on the breeze first. Warm, faintly citrusy. Jimin nearly chokes on his spit. His heart races as Jungkook erases the distance between them.
“Morning,” Jungkook says, his perfect teeth gleaming in a stunning smile.
Jimin stands in mute surprise.
Oh my God. This is real. Jungkook is real. Not a hallucination.
His lungs forget their job as he takes him in properly: the carved jawline and high cheekbones; the doe eyes even darker up close; and lips that retain that full, pouty look even with his wide grin. He has pretty hair. Dark, neatly parted, and clearly fussed over at some overpriced salon. It matches his strong brows, which lend an air of gravitas to his face.
And now, standing this close, Jimin finally sees Jungkook how Jihyun might. He’s handsome. The kind of handsome that makes you doubt your eyesight. Partly because he’s tall. Not just tall-because-Jimin’s-a-gnome tall but objectively tall. At least six feet.
His collared, mini sailboat-print shirt has the diamond of his neck and chest exposed. It’s strangely sexy. A lobster-luncheon sneaky-link fit.
“Uh, morning,” Jimin stammers, raising his voice slightly.
Jungkook’s gaze roams over Jimin’s face, drops to the costume, then returns with a flare of interest Jimin does not want to unpack right now.
“You ready?” Jungkook asks.
Something stronger than awareness flows through Jimin. An electric charge that unhinges his jaw before he can think.
“So ready,” he blurts. “I love golf. And salad.”
Jungkook stares at him.
He lets Jimin’s outburst hang in the air like a stench.
“It’s really nice of you to drive,” Jimin recovers with a pasted-on smile. “Can’t wait.”
A smile breaks through Jungkook’s lips. “My pleasure,” he says, his eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement. “And I’ll keep that in mind.”
He opens the passenger side door like a chivalrous gentleman, but before Jimin can jump into his seat, Jungkook angles closer, the tilt of his head giving Jimin advance warning: He’s going in for a kiss.
Jimin flinches like someone aimed a blowtorch at his eye.
Jungkook draws back, confused. Jimin’s whole body goes stiff.
“Sorry,” Jimin squeaks, already scrambling for an explanation (“Sorry I forgot I’m supposed to be my brother, and also I haven’t been kissed in like fifteen months”). But Jungkook leans in again, only to murmur in his ear.
“It’s all good. We’ll save that for later. When we don’t have an audience.”
From the porch, Jimin’s parents wave, cheerfully clueless.
Then Jungkook leans back to look at him and winks.
Winks.
And Jimin bolts for the passenger seat. The second the door clicks shut, he exhales like he’s just surfaced from being plunged underwater. He clutches the handle like it’s a flotation device.
Jungkook just held open a door, almost kissed him, and winked at him—and suddenly Jimin’s wilted. Like some Regency ingénue who just had her gloved hand brushed at a garden party. This is so bad. So embarrassing.
Jimin can feel Jungkook’s presence circling the car, the slide of a bag being stowed, the thunk of the back door, and the driver’s seat shifting under new weight. His heart convulses in unnatural ways. Fluttering and imploding, fluttering and imploding.
Beside him, Jungkook buckles in and starts the car, sliding his sunglasses onto his nose like nothing happened.
It’s almost funny how easily Jungkook doesn’t notice. His parents, even. They look at the surface, take in what they expect to see, and move on. And it confirms a horrible suspicion: that no one’s ever looking at Jimin. Really looking.
Jungkook thought he was looking at Jihyun.
And it’s not just perception; it’s attraction.
Jungkook sees Jihyun and thinks: kissable. He sees Jihyun and thinks: mine. He sees Jimin, cosplaying his brother, and smiles like daylight came early, just for him.
Jimin’s spine presses flat against the seatback as the car rolls forward. His hands clamp together as if he’s bracing for turbulence. He stares straight ahead. Except for the occasional tapping of Jungkook’s fingers on the steering wheel, silence fills the car.
In Jimin’s peripheral vision, Jungkook’s shoulders angle toward him.
“Should I stop for your drink?” Jungkook asks casually. “Same order as always?”
Jimin stalls. Jihyun’s drink? He doesn’t know what that means. Iced coffee, probably. Please let it be coffee. He could really use caffeine to survive this masquerade.
“Yeah, iced coffee’s good.”
“I meant your smoothie. Kale, mango, spirulina, no sweetener. Right?”
Jimin feels the back of his throat twitch as he fights down an attack of nausea. Why does his brother voluntarily ingest lawn clippings? But right. He’s supposed to be Jihyun. “Oh, yeah. Smoothie. Gotta get my greens.”
“But I can grab you a coffee too, if you want.”
“No, no. Smoothie’s great. Nothing like drinking your salad.”
The corner of Jungkook’s mouth lifts as he taps the console, the navigation starting. “Glad we’re getting you to your salad.”
Jimin would rather crumple atop the hood of a swerving SUV.
The silence returns, tenser now. And the waistband of Jimin’s shorts digs into his gut flesh, stanching circulation in his lower belly and thighs. He can feel his heartbeat in his wedgie.
“Can we play something?” Jimin asks, needing a solid distraction from this experience. “Like, music?”
Jungkook picks his phone up from the cup holder. “Of course. I can put on that artist you like. Uh…Sylvia June*?”
He taps the screen, and gentle acoustic guitar-strumming seeps into the car. A breathy avocado-girl voice croons about heartbreak and moonlight.
Jimin recoils. “Ew. God, no. Gimme your phone.”
Startled, Jungkook hands it over. “Okay…?”
Jimin stabs in his own playlist. The first track starts deceptively quiet before exploding. Then the distorted guitar riff slams in, and a punky scream makes a passing jogger flinch.
Jungkook raises his voice over the noise. “I didn’t know you were into this kind of music.”
Jimin’s mouth falls open. “I-I’m not! I hate this!” He fumbles with the phone and switches back to Sylvia June, grimacing. “I just…heard my brother blasting it nonstop, and I wanted to see what the hype was. He thinks he’s so edgy or whatever.”
Jungkook snorts. “Right. The mysterious brother. I still haven’t seen him up close, but I hear him loud and clear.”
Jimin slumps a little lower in the seat. “Yeah. He’s…kind of a lot.”
“He’s interesting. I don’t think he knows I can hear everything through the walls.”
He examines Jungkook, his pulse increasing. Interesting how? Like porn with a storyline, or the way a bug in your soup is interesting?
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
Jungkook’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping when his band shakes the house two blocks over.”
Jimin scoffs. “You could always wear noise-canceling headphones. Or, I don’t know. Move.”
An eyebrow rises above the frames of Jungkook’s sunglasses. “You want me to move?”
Yes. God, yes. I want my garage back. I want my sanity back.
“I just meant…why chain yourself to suburbia?” Jimin says, trying to sound casual. “Don’t you work downtown? That commute’s gotta eat your soul.”
“It’s quiet. That’s worth the drive,” Jungkook says, facing the windshield. “Out here, I can hear myself think. Well, until your brother started running garage band rehearsals every week.”
Jimin scowls. He slumps deeper into his chair, wracking his brain for the perfect comeback. But Sylvia June’s wheezing vocals swell through the speakers, turning his brain into a homogeneous liquid.
Jungkook shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “What was that song you played earlier?”
Jimin gives him a sidelong glance. “‘Dreamboat?’”
Jungkook shakes his head. “No, the other one. The…loud one.” A sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. “Weirdly, I could see myself lifting to that. It had good workout energy.”
For a second, Jimin blanks, his throat going dry. His mind unhelpfully supplies a vision of Jungkook flipping a tire in a CrossFit gym, sweaty and grunting. “Uh. That was ‘New Noise.’ Refused.”
Jungkook thumbs the title into his phone, saving it to a playlist. “Great. Thanks, Jihyun.”
The name reawakens Jimin to the reality of the world. A lump forms in his throat. He swallows it down, feeling stupid for how deflated he feels.
Would Jungkook even look at me if I wasn’t wearing Jihyun’s clothes? If our hair didn’t match? If I weren’t borrowing his likeness?
If we stood side by side, me and Jihyun, stripped of the act, he’d never choose me.
The thought is poisonous. It shouldn’t matter. He doesn’t want Jungkook. The man’s just attractive, and Jimin has a pathological need to win arguments against hypotheticals that could never physically occur. It’s a biological scam.
He vows not to make eye contact for the rest of the day.