Uɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ Lᴏᴠᴇ || ❀ TH×JM ❀

Pᴀʀᴛ-46

Jimin had just stepped out of the bathroom, his skin still tingling from the warm water, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead like the remnants of shame that refused to wash away. The collar of his oversized shirt was slightly soaked, where he had lazily tugged it over his wet body, and his bare feet made soft, hesitant sounds against the floor. He paused, his breath catching as an overwhelming wave of mortification surged through him like a second, colder rinse.

What had he even done?

Dragging both hands through his hair, he let out a low, muffled groan into his palms. “Seriously, what the hell was that tantrum?” he muttered, as if saying it aloud would dilute its absurdity. He wasn’t a child—God, he was in college. Twenty-one years old. Supposedly mature, supposedly composed. And yet, he had acted on the whims of jealousy and impulsiveness like a teenager sulking because his best friend played with someone else at recess. It was so humiliating he could barely breathe.

With a bitter click of his tongue, Jimin slumped down onto the edge of the bed, his eyes narrowing toward the ceiling, as if willing it to open up and swallow him whole. “Come on,” he chastised himself quietly. “Taehyung can have fun. That’s the whole point of this trip. To breathe. To feel human again.”

And Taehyung wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was simply unwinding the way any normal college student would. Just because Jimin didn’t like the fact that someone else had claimed his attention didn’t mean the world had tilted off its axis.

Still, the sting in his chest hadn’t quite dulled. That bitter pang of childish envy. That irrational hurt. He could only hope—fervently—that Taehyung and Baekhyun were still immersed in their games, completely oblivious to the dramatic little performance he had staged, locking himself in like a sulky sibling who didn’t want to share his favorite toy.

There was no logical excuse for what he’d done. Not one. He knew it. He didn’t have the words to explain why he had behaved that way—because no words could possibly justify it without peeling back the vulnerable layers he had tried so hard to protect.

With a sigh heavy enough to sag his shoulders, Jimin collapsed backward onto the bed, arms spread like a defeated actor at curtain fall. His gaze, bored and sluggish, wandered across the room in search of his phone—perhaps he could scroll the shame away.

But then his eyes snagged on something.

And froze.

In the corner of the room—their room, his and Taehyung’s—sat a black duffel bag. Familiar. Unopened. Untouched. Right where it had been left. And beside it, as casually careless as ever, was the shirt Taehyung had worn during the journey, tossed over the armrest of the couch like he always did when he got too warm.

Jimin sat up slowly. A creeping chill slithered up his spine, wrapping around his ribs, tightening.

There was only one possible conclusion.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

He had messed up.

No—he had royally messed up.

His foggy, sleep-starved brain had filled in gaps with insecurities and drawn wild, emotional conclusions with all the flair of a drama queen on her worst day. He had assumed the worst. Assumed that Taehyung had chosen Baekhyun over him. That he had willingly abandoned their room. That he had left Jimin behind.

All of it—fabricated. All of it—a lie Jimin’s mind had spun in the darkest corner of self-doubt.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid Kim Jimin,” he hissed under his breath, smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm in disbelief. What would Taehyung even think? That he was being punished? Locked out of his own room? That Jimin didn’t want him anymore? That their bond was so fragile it could be shattered in one silent night?