Jimin wakes slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. For a moment, he doesn't know where he is. The ceiling above him is plain, whitewashed, unfamiliar. The sheets are soft but not the expensive silk he grew up with. And the warmth around him - solid, steady, human - is something he hasn't woken up to in months.
Then Yoongi shifts against him, tightening his arm around Jimin's waist even in sleep, breath brushing the back of Jimin's neck.
The realisation hits all at once.
Safehouse. Busan. Morning.
Yoongi.
The world is too quiet. No footsteps outside the door. No locks clicking. No voices ordering him to get up.
Just sunlight creeping through thin curtains and the faint hum of city traffic far outside.
He lies for a moment, eyes closed, memorising the feel of Yoongi holding him as if his body has finally allowed itself to rest - as if letting go in sleep was the first time Yoongi trusted the quiet.
Carefully, Jimin turns in his arms. Yoongi's face is slack with exhaustion, hair mussed, mouth slightly parted. He looks younger like this. Softer. Almost fragile.
Jimin traces the line of his jaw with his eyes, not touch - he isn't sure he trusts his hands yet. They still remember what hands were allowed to touch and what they weren't.
Eventually he eases free, slipping gently from the bed.
The room is cool. Still. It feels like the entire house is holding its breath.
He pads into the living room, and that's when he sees it: Yoongi's laptop left open on the table, screen still glowing from the night before.
Corporate news sites. Private investor forums. Legal bulletins. Headlines blurred but unmistakably about him.
One article features a grainy profile photo - Jimin walking into a building months ago, the image warped and zoomed too far, his expression unreadable.
"Missing Heir Unwell, Sources Claim."
"Concern for Stability as Corporate Family Remains Silent."
"Unverified Reports Suggest Manipulation by Outside Party."
The last one makes his stomach twist.
He clicks it. Reads a few lines. Stops. His fingertips tremble.
When Yoongi appears in the doorway, still half-asleep, he follows Jimin's gaze to the screen. Instantly, Yoongi's entire body tenses. He crosses the space quickly, hand already reaching to shut the laptop.
Jimin places a hand on his wrist. Soft. Firm.
"Don't," he says.
Yoongi freezes, startled. "You don't need to see any of this."
Jimin shakes his head. His voice is quiet, steady in a way he hasn't managed in weeks. "If I'm going to tell the truth... I need to know the lie."
There's a subtle shift in Yoongi's expression - pride and fear clashing under his skin. He hesitates, then lowers his hand and lets the laptop stay open. "...Okay," he says softly. "But not alone."
Jimin nods.
A beat passes - long, charged, fragile.
Then Yoongi's hand finds the small of Jimin's back, warm and grounding. "Come on," he murmurs. "If we're facing hell today, you need food."
Jimin allows himself to be guided toward the kitchenette.
And somehow, the world shrinks from legal threats and twisted narratives to something small, warm, and absurdly normal:
YOU ARE READING
The Broken Dancer
FanfictionJimin has been owned all his life. Growing up under the watchful eye of his strict and abusive father, he has always done what he was told and never stepped out of line. Until the day Min Yoongi walks into his club and shows him what freedom truly...
