BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Vinyl Moon✿⁠ (Min Yoongi/Suga)

The record shop didn’t have a name.
It didn’t need one.

Every Thursday night, its windows glowed faint amber in the dark, a soft beacon for anyone wandering through Mapo’s quieter streets. Inside, the world moved slower. The air was thick with dust and music, and time itself seemed to spin in 33⅓ rpm — just like the vinyl records stacked to the ceiling.

She discovered it by accident.

The rain had started suddenly, the kind that poured without warning, soaking her through in seconds. She ducked into the nearest doorway — and found herself face-to-face with a wall of records.

Jazz hummed softly from a turntable in the corner. Louis Armstrong, if her ears were right. The kind of song that made even the rain outside sound in rhythm.

“Closed,” a low voice called from behind the counter.

She froze, water dripping from her coat. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t know. The door wasn’t locked.”

The voice sighed, followed by the sound of a stool scraping.
When he stepped into view, she understood why the word closed sounded more like a whisper than a rule.

He was wearing a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing pale wrists marked with ink — faint music notes, she thought. His hair was black, slightly messy, his eyes shadowed but sharp. He didn’t look annoyed exactly, just… tired. Like someone who’d stayed up too many nights chasing the same thought.

“Since you’re already in,” he said finally, voice calm, “you might as well stay till the rain stops.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

He nodded toward the back. “Towels are in that box by the window. Try not to drip on the vinyls — they’re worth more than I am.”

She laughed despite herself, and for a split second, something warm flickered in his expression.

---

She wandered the aisles, towel draped around her shoulders, fingers tracing old covers — Miles Davis, Etta James, Chet Baker. The kind of music that aged beautifully, no matter how many scratches the vinyl carried.

“Do you run this place?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes it runs me.”

She looked over her shoulder, grinning. “Is that your poetic way of saying yes?”

He didn’t answer right away. “It’s my way of saying I like the quiet.”

There was something in his tone — not defensive, just honest. Like he’d spent years learning how to be comfortable in silence.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly, not looking up from the record he was cleaning. “You don’t seem like someone who wanders into forgotten stores for fun.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I was looking for music that feels like rain.”

That earned her the smallest smile. “Good answer.”

---

He switched records, lowering the needle with care. The room filled with the soft crackle of vinyl before a slow piano began to play — Autumn Leaves.

The rain outside softened to a hush.

“You like jazz?” he asked.

“I like the way it fills space,” she said. “Like it doesn’t demand attention — it just exists.”

“Exactly.” He looked at her then, properly this time. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind. “That’s why I started collecting. It’s the only music that doesn’t ask for applause.”

She watched him move — deliberate, almost tender. The way his fingers brushed dust off a record sleeve, the careful way he handled sound as though it were fragile.

There was something about Yoongi that reminded her of an old song — one you don’t realize you’ve been missing until you hear it again.

“Do you compose?” she asked softly.

His hands paused. “Used to.”

“Why’d you stop?”

He leaned against the counter, eyes distant. “Sometimes when you love something too much, it stops being kind to you. Music… used to be everything. Then it started taking more than it gave.”

The jazz filled the quiet that followed, the trumpet swelling gently between them.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

After a long moment, Yoongi spoke again, almost to himself. “But maybe it’s not music’s fault. Maybe I just forgot how to listen.”

---

An hour passed. The rain slowed, then stopped altogether.
She looked toward the window, reluctant to leave.

“Well,” she said softly, “I guess that’s my cue.”

Yoongi nodded. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay any longer.”

“Right. Can’t have that.”

As she reached for the door, he called after her.

“Wait.”

When she turned, he was holding something small — a cassette tape, the kind you hadn’t seen in years. A piece of masking tape ran across the front, labeled in neat handwriting: For the quiet between our words.

“What’s this?”

He shrugged. “Something I made. You said you liked music that feels like rain.”

Her chest warmed. “You’re giving this to me?”

“It’s just a copy.” He paused, then smiled faintly. “But it’s one of the good ones.”

She slipped it into her coat pocket, feeling oddly reluctant to go. “Thank you, Yoongi.”

He looked surprised. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

She grinned. “You didn’t have to. It’s written on the cassette.”

His laugh was soft, barely there, but real. “Guess I’m getting sloppy.”

She opened the door — and froze.

The rain had cleared completely. The moon hung full and pale above the rooftops, its reflection shimmering in puddles like spilled light.

Behind her, Yoongi changed the record.
The new song began with a quiet piano, then a faint hum — his voice.

She turned. “Is that you?”

He didn’t look up, but the corners of his mouth lifted. “Might be.”

She smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

“Keep listening,” he said. “It gets better once you stop expecting it to.”

---

Outside, the air smelled like renewal. She walked home through the glistening streets, the cassette clutched in her hand.

When she reached her apartment, she found an old player she’d nearly thrown out months ago and slid the tape in.

At first, all she heard was static — then faint piano, then a voice.

> “If you’re listening to this, it means the rain stopped. Good. Keep walking.”
“Not all music needs to be shared. Some just needs to be found.”

The song that followed was simple — just chords, nothing fancy — but it felt alive, like warmth in her chest she hadn’t known she was missing.

She fell asleep to the sound of it looping, her window cracked open so the night could hum along.

---

In the record shop, Yoongi leaned back in his chair, listening to the same track spin on vinyl.
The rain had ended hours ago, but he left the door unlocked.

Just in case someone else ever needed shelter —
or a song that felt like rain.