BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Silent playlist✿⁠ (Min Yoongi/Suga)

The bell over the record shop door has a certain chime to it-soft, almost lazy, the sound of a place where nothing ever happens too fast.

It's the kind of shop where time stretches. The walls are lined with old vinyl records, their covers worn and familiar, the air faintly smelling of dust, cardboard, and coffee from the café next door. I've been working here for nearly two years, long enough to know our regulars by name, or at least by their taste in music.

Which is why I've noticed him.

He comes in every Thursday afternoon. Always Thursday. Always alone.

Min Yoongi.

At least, that's the name on his receipt when he pays with his card. I learned it without asking-without needing to.

He never stays long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. He walks in wearing the same rotation of hoodies, a cap pulled low, and sometimes a mask if it's cold out. He wanders the aisles in no real rush, fingers brushing the spines of vinyls, and he always leaves with exactly one record.

The strange part? I'm pretty sure he never actually opens them.

Today is Thursday, so I'm not surprised when the bell chimes and there he is.

"Afternoon," I say, leaning against the counter.

"Hey," he replies, voice low, warm. He doesn't smile, but there's a faint acknowledgment in the way he nods at me before heading to his usual section-jazz.

I pretend to reorganize a stack of records near the register, but really, I'm watching him. The way he tilts his head to read the spines. The way his fingers tap lightly against the cardboard sleeves, like he's playing a rhythm only he can hear.

When he finally comes up to the counter, he's holding a Chet Baker record. I scan it, slipping it into a paper bag.

"You've got almost all of his albums by now," I say before I can stop myself.

He glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Maybe I like his music."

"Maybe you're building a shrine," I counter, and to my surprise, he lets out a quiet laugh.

"Maybe," he says, handing me his card.

When I give him the bag, our fingers brush-just barely-but it's enough to make me notice how warm his skin is compared to mine.

"See you next week," he says, and I can't tell if it's a question or a promise.

---

The next Thursday, it rains.

The shop is empty except for me, the steady drumming of rain on the windows filling the silence. I'm half-lost in a book when the bell chimes, and there he is again, damp hair curling under his cap.

"Busy day?" he asks, stepping inside.

"You're the busiest part of my day," I admit before I can think better of it.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment, unreadable. Then he wanders toward the jazz section again, but this time, he doesn't pick anything up right away. Instead, he circles back to the counter.

"Do you actually listen to all these?" I ask, gesturing toward the imaginary stack of records I'm convinced he owns by now.

His lips quirk. "No."

I blink. "Then why buy them?"

He hesitates, then shrugs. "Habit. Comfort. I like knowing they're there, even if I don't play them."

It's an oddly intimate answer, and it makes me wonder what else he keeps just to have.

"What about you?" he asks suddenly. "You listen to everything here?"

"Not everything," I say. "But I try. It's kind of my job to know what I'm selling."

"Recommend me something, then," he says, leaning an elbow on the counter.

I grab a vinyl from under the display-Bill Evans, Waltz for Debby. "It's mellow. Piano. Feels like rain."

He studies the cover, then looks back at me. "Play it."

I do. The soft piano fills the shop, mixing with the sound of rain outside. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening, and when he opens them again, his gaze lingers on me a little too long.

"I'll take it," he says.

When he leaves this time, he doesn't just say goodbye-he says my name.

---

Two weeks later, I'm locking up when I hear a knock on the glass. I turn, startled, to see him standing outside, hood up, holding two cups of coffee.

"I saw the lights," he says when I open the door. "Thought you might want one."

It's the first time I've seen him outside of his Thursday ritual.

We end up sitting on the floor behind the counter, sipping coffee from paper cups while a Coltrane record spins quietly in the background.

He tells me he makes music-"just for me," he says, though the way he avoids eye contact makes me wonder if that's entirely true.

I tell him I used to play guitar in high school but never got good enough to do anything with it.

"You should play again," he says simply.

The conversation drifts, and before I realize it, the rain has stopped and it's nearly midnight.

When he leaves, he says, "See you Thursday," but it feels different now-less routine, more like a choice.

---

The next Thursday, he comes in late, right before closing. The shop is empty again, and the only light comes from the warm glow over the counter.

"You're late," I say.

"I was finishing something," he replies. "For you."

He slides a small USB drive across the counter.

I pick it up. "What's this?"

"A playlist," he says. "Songs I thought you'd like. Don't listen to them here. Listen... when you're alone."

His voice dips on the last word, and my stomach flips.

I walk him to the door, and for a moment, we just stand there. He's close-closer than he's ever been. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, warm and musky, mixing with the cool night air.

"You're not going to tell me what's on it?" I ask.

"No," he says, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Some things are better as surprises."

Before I can reply, his hand brushes mine. It's casual, almost accidental-but then his fingers curl slightly, holding.

It's the kind of touch that says everything without saying anything at all.

---

I listen to the playlist that night.

It's not just songs-it's a story. Quiet piano pieces, soft guitar, warm vocals. There's something intimate about it, like he's let me into a part of himself he doesn't show often.

The last track is a recording-just him, playing something on the piano, humming along under his breath.

I fall asleep with it still playing.

---

The next time I see him, I don't wait for him to come to the counter. I meet him halfway down the aisle.

"I listened," I say.

"And?"

I hold his gaze. "It was perfect."

Something shifts in his expression-something softer, warmer.

"Good," he says, and then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

It's not a kiss, not yet-but it's the kind of touch that promises there's more to come.