The Broken Dancer

The First Shift

The room looked the same, but it didn't feel the same.

Jimin stepped inside the private chamber as he had a hundred times before, his movements precise, automatic. The curtains were still drawn, the faint golden glow of the lamps casting soft shadows against the patterned walls. The table in the corner still held its untouched tray of wine and fruit, always a prop, never consumed. The velvet chair by the window still waited, draped in silence.

But tonight, the silence was different.

It didn't slice through the air like it used to. It pressed, but without the suffocating weight it had carried for weeks. Something had cracked in it the night before, and though Jimin had buried it, shoved it down, he couldn't shake the memory of Yoongi kneeling in front of him, hands steady against his trembling skin, voice low and firm: I'm not like them.

He had told himself all day it meant nothing. That Yoongi would regret it. That tonight, he'd sit back down in his chair and the silence would return to its old, merciless shape. But when Jimin glanced up, quick and wary, he found Yoongi already watching him. Not in pity. Not in demand. Just... present.

Jimin tore his gaze away, his mask snapping back into place.

He didn't want to start this. Didn't want to risk more cracks. But it was Yoongi who broke the pattern first.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" The words were quiet, almost hesitant, like Yoongi wasn't sure how they'd land.

Jimin froze mid-step. Of all the questions - so ordinary, so bare. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, at the audacity of Yoongi speaking as though this were normal. Sleep? Sleep wasn't something Jimin had owned in years.

His jaw tightened. His first instinct was to snap, to wound before he could be wounded. "Why? Are you going to complain if I look tired?" His tone was sharp, bitter, rehearsed.

But the silence that followed wasn't sharp at all. Yoongi didn't recoil, didn't defend. He just let the words hang between them. When Jimin finally, reluctantly, glanced back, Yoongi's expression was unreadable - serious, yes, but not offended. If anything, he looked like he was... listening.

The realisation unsettled him.

"You look like you haven't slept in weeks," Yoongi said finally, softer. Not a complaint. An observation.

Jimin's throat went dry. His instinct was to cut the conversation off - bury it under silence like always - but his body betrayed him. His fingers twitched at his side, tightening into a fist, and before he could stop himself, words slipped out.

"I don't," he muttered. Then, sharper: "Not well. Not that it's any of your business."

The air shifted again.

Yoongi didn't smile, didn't pounce on the opening. He only inclined his head, as if Jimin's words carried more weight than they should. "It is," he said after a moment, his voice steady, deliberate. "It's my business."

Jimin's chest tightened. He wanted to scoff, to accuse, to spit back something bitter. But the words stuck in his throat. His defenses wavered, thin as glass. Instead, he sank down onto the velvet chair, every movement deliberate, mechanical. His body obeyed old patterns even as his mind spun.

Silence stretched again - but now it was different. It wasn't the suffocating void of before, nor the fragile hush of last night. It was... waiting.

Yoongi stayed where he was, leaning back in his chair. His stillness was unnerving. He didn't fill the space with empty words. He didn't look away either. He simply remained steady, an anchor across the room.

Jimin shifted in his seat, the fabric creaking beneath him. He hated how restless he felt, how his heart beat faster in the quiet. He hated that Yoongi's question still echoed in his head, louder than the silence itself.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

When had anyone last asked him such a thing?

His mask slipped for a fraction of a second. He pressed his nails into his palms to steady himself, forcing his expression blank again.

"Don't-" he began, then faltered. He didn't even know what he meant to say. Don't care. Don't ask. Don't see me.

Yoongi's gaze didn't waver. He spoke once more, quiet but unwavering:

"I'm not here to hurt you, Jimin."

The words hit harder than they should have. Jimin swallowed, his throat thick. He hated that part of him wanted to believe it, and hated even more that another part whispered he couldn't afford to.

He turned his face away, voice clipped and cold. "You all say that. At first."

The silence that followed this time wasn't empty at all. It was full - charged, heavy with something neither of them could name yet.

Yoongi didn't push again, and Jimin didn't speak further. But the air had shifted irreversibly.

The silence wasn't the same. It wasn't the old mask, nor the fragile crack. It was something new - something unsettled, uncertain, but alive.

And though Jimin refused to meet Yoongi's eyes for the rest of the night, the echo of those words - Did you sleep? I'm not here to hurt you. - would not leave him.