BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

The Starlit Kitchen✿⁠ (Kim Seokjin/Jin)

Seoul never truly sleeps — it just dims, like a lamp turned low.
At two in the morning, the city hums differently. Softer, slower, full of sighs instead of traffic.

She wasn’t supposed to be awake.
Her deadline was done, her eyes were tired, but her apartment felt too still. The silence pressed against her skin, so she stepped out — hoodie, slippers, and all — and climbed to the rooftop kitchen her landlord had built out of whimsy.

The metal door creaked as she pushed it open.

Warm yellow light glowed under a string of fairy bulbs, and the smell of something delicious — noodles, maybe — drifted through the cold.

She froze. Someone was already there.

A tall man stood by the stove, stirring a pot like it was an art form. The hood of his sweatshirt was down, his hair soft and disheveled. The city skyline framed him perfectly — Seoul Tower in the distance, clouds glowing faintly pink.

He turned at the sound of her steps, eyes wide.

“Oh—hi,” he said, caught mid-noodle-flip. “Didn’t know anyone else came up here this late.”

She hesitated. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone used this place.”

His lips curved into a grin that could have lit the whole roof. “Well, lucky for you, I make enough ramen for two.”

He said it like a promise.

---

They sat on mismatched stools, the pot steaming between them. The fairy lights flickered above, painting the scene in gold.

She took a tentative bite. “Okay, wow. This is dangerously good.”

“Of course,” he said, mock-offended. “You’re eating Jin’s midnight masterpiece.”

“Jin?”

“Kim Seokjin,” he said proudly. “Professional eater, occasional cook, full-time charmer.”

She laughed before she could stop herself. “You talk like you rehearse in the mirror.”

“Every morning,” he admitted. “Confidence is an art.”

They fell into easy conversation — stories about neighbors who always sang in the shower, about bad coffee and good sunsets, about how the city looked lonelier from the ground than it did from above.

Jin was impossible not to like. He listened fully, laughed easily, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. But every now and then, she caught something quiet behind the brightness — a kind of ache he tried to cover with humor.

When she asked what he did for a living, he paused. “I… used to sing.”

“Used to?”

He nodded, stirring his noodles though they were already perfect. “Sometimes, dreams change shape. Sometimes, they just take a break.”

The wind brushed across the roof, carrying faint music from a nearby bar — someone strumming guitar chords into the night.

“Sing something,” she said suddenly.

Jin blinked. “Right now?”

“Unless you’re scared,” she teased.

He gasped dramatically. “Me? Scared? Never.”
But his grin softened as he looked at her, and then — without warning — he began to hum.

It wasn’t a performance. It was smaller, quieter. A tune meant for one listener.
His voice was smooth and low, carrying warmth that didn’t quite fit the cool air.

She forgot to breathe.

When he finished, the city seemed to hold its breath too.

“See?” he said lightly, trying to break the spell. “Still got it.”

“You do,” she whispered.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind tugged at her hair, the fairy lights swayed, and Seoul glittered beneath them like a sea of fallen stars.

“Why do you come up here?” she asked finally.

Jin looked out over the skyline. “Because up here, nothing expects anything from me. I can burn the soup and no one boos. I can sing to the city and no one laughs.”

He turned back to her, smile returning, gentler this time. “What about you?”

“I guess…” she said, searching for words, “I come up here to remember that I’m small, and that it’s okay to be.”

“That’s a good reason,” he said softly. “The stars are proof that small things can still shine.”

---

They talked until the night stretched thin and the first hint of dawn brushed the horizon. At some point, he stood, stretched, and began clearing the dishes.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hey,” he said, wagging a finger, “rule number one of rooftop dinners: whoever didn’t cook, doesn’t clean.”

She smiled. “You just made that up.”

He leaned in, mock-serious. “Rule number two: don’t argue with the chef.”

When everything was packed away, he hesitated as if debating something, then scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to her.

“Payment,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For the best company I’ve had all week.”

She unfolded it when he turned away. A doodle of two steaming bowls sat beside a short line written in neat handwriting:

> “Don’t forget — laughter cooks better than fire.”

When she looked up, Jin was leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the awakening skyline.

“You know,” he said quietly, “everyone’s chasing something in this city. But sometimes, it’s enough to just stop and share a meal.”

She nodded, committing his words to memory.

As the first train rumbled in the distance, Jin turned toward her, smiling that ridiculous, heart-bright smile again. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “The stars will be here. The kitchen too. Might as well add you.”

---

Later, when she descended the stairs back to her apartment, she caught the faintest sound of him humming again — something slow and sweet, floating through the stairwell like a secret.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t mind that morning had arrived too soon.

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