The first thing Min Yoongi noticed wasn’t the perfume.

It was the sound of heels.

Click. Click. Click.

He didn’t even turn around. He just groaned internally and kept his eyes on the screen in front of him, pretending to focus on leveling out the drums for the new track. The file had been done for two hours. He was just buying time.

Click. Pause. Click.

Then a voice—smug, sugary, a little breathy—cut through the air like a song already charting at number one.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic. And, you know, existing.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, finally swiveling around in his chair. He opened his mouth to say something scathing—and then closed it again.

Because what the hell was Park Jimin wearing?

It was black. Tight. Silky. The dress hugged every curve of his body like it had been stitched there by sin itself. Sleeveless, with a dipped neckline that clung to the soft swell of his chest and barely touched his waist before wrapping around wide hips. His legs, long and toned, gleamed under the low studio lights, ending in lace-up heels that could probably kill a man.

His face, as always, was flawless—shimmering makeup with just enough highlight to catch Yoongi’s eye every time he moved. Lips full and glossy. Eyes framed by sharp liner. He looked like a dream and a warning all at once.

And he was an omega.

Yoongi hated that his body reacted to that fact before his brain did.

“Nice outfit,” Yoongi muttered, turning back to his laptop. “Who died?”

“Your manners, maybe,” Jimin replied, walking in like he owned the place. His voice was low and warm, threaded with amusement. “Don’t pretend you weren’t checking me out.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. His jaw twitched.

He heard Jimin drop something soft onto the couch behind him—a jacket, probably. The scent hit him next. Warm. Sweet. Not overwhelming, but there. Like Jimin wanted to remind Yoongi of what he was without saying a word.

Omega.

And dangerous.

“So,” Jimin said, stretching lazily. “Where’s this genius track you begged me to sing on?”

“I didn’t beg.”

“You didn’t say no, either.”

Yoongi finally looked up again. Jimin was leaning against the wall now, arms crossed over his chest, smirking slightly. The light caught the shimmer on his skin again, making it impossible to ignore.

“I agreed to this because your label wouldn’t shut up,” Yoongi muttered. “They think your solo comeback needs something ‘gritty.’ Something ‘real.’”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “And you think I’m fake?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“I see,” Jimin said, nodding slowly. “You think I’m just a pretty face in a pretty dress who can’t write or feel anything worth recording.”

Yoongi finally snapped, standing up. “I think you’re a brand, not a voice. I think you’re manufactured, packaged, and sold to alphas who don’t even care what you’re singing as long as they can drool over you.”

That hurt more than Jimin expected.

He blinked, the smirk dropping for just a second. But only a second.

He took a step forward, heels echoing in the silence between them.

“You don’t know anything about me, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s throat bobbed. He hadn’t moved back, but he wasn’t meeting Jimin’s eyes anymore either. That pissed Jimin off more than the insult.

“You think because I wear a dress and I know I’m beautiful, I’m not serious? That I can’t feel the music?”

Yoongi still didn’t speak.

Jimin leaned in, close enough to smell the faint trace of coffee and musk on Yoongi’s hoodie.

“You think I came here to seduce you?” he whispered, lips near his ear. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

That got a reaction.

Yoongi turned sharply, hand clenching into a fist at his side. His eyes burned—but not with anger.

“Get in the booth.”

Jimin smiled again, slower this time. “Gladly.”

He slipped past Yoongi, hips swaying, and stepped into the recording booth like he was walking onto a stage. He adjusted the headphones and let the mic kiss his lips.

“Track ready?” he asked through the intercom.

Yoongi didn’t respond. Just clicked play and watched.

And when Jimin started to sing—soft and breathy at first, then fierce and aching—Yoongi’s heart thudded painfully against his chest.

He’d been wrong.

So, so wrong.

This wasn’t some empty idol.

This was a storm with glitter in its veins.

And for the first time in a long time, Yoongi didn’t know whether he wanted to run—or beg to be caught in it.

The song was still echoing in Yoongi’s ears, long after the final note faded.

He sat back in the studio chair, arms crossed tightly, pretending to analyze the waveform on his screen—but he hadn’t touched the keyboard in almost five minutes.

Inside the booth, Jimin was humming quietly to himself, head tilted, lips slightly parted as he watched Yoongi through the glass.

Yoongi knew he should say something. Offer notes. Ask for a retake. Do something.

Instead, he just stared.

How could someone sound like heartbreak and look like sex in the same breath?

Jimin finally pushed the door open and stepped back into the room. The air shifted with him—warmth, perfume, presence. He moved like he knew eyes followed him wherever he went. Like he was used to being wanted and liked reminding people they couldn’t have him.

Yoongi swallowed hard.

“Well?” Jimin asked, resting one hand on his hip, the dress clinging to every line of his body. “Is the ‘brand’ good enough for your gritty track?”

Yoongi looked away. “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“Technically accurate. Emotionally... acceptable.”

Jimin blinked. “You are so exhausting.”

Yoongi scoffed. “I’m not here to fluff your ego, omega.”

Jimin stepped closer. “No, you’re just here to undress me with your eyes and pretend you don’t care.”

Yoongi stood up too fast.

They were face-to-face now, tension thick in the room like fog. Jimin didn’t back down—he leaned in.

“Tell me I didn’t just make that song better,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.

Yoongi stared at him, lips pressed into a tight line. His breathing had changed, chest rising and falling just a little faster.

Jimin tilted his head. “Tell me you weren’t staring at my legs the whole time I sang.”

Yoongi’s jaw flexed. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing how far I can push you,” Jimin whispered.

He wasn’t smiling now. His eyes were dark, unreadable, lashes fluttering like a dare. “Do you hate me, Yoongi? Or do you just hate that you want me?”

Yoongi grabbed his wrist before he could say anything else. Not rough, but firm—like he was trying to anchor himself to something real.

His voice was quiet. Rough. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

Jimin didn’t pull away.

“Try me.”

Yoongi dropped his hand like it burned. He turned his back and walked toward the soundboard, fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the mic input—though there was no need.

“I’m not here for games,” he said.

Jimin stared at him. “You think this is a game?”

“You’re not the first omega who’s tried to make me fall apart in this room.”

“But I might be the first one who could,” Jimin replied softly.

That silenced Yoongi. The air between them buzzed with things unsaid.

“Let’s take five,” Yoongi muttered, walking to the small fridge in the corner and pulling out a bottle of water like it was some kind of shield.

Jimin didn’t move. Just watched him quietly, like he was seeing something Yoongi didn’t know he was showing.

“Why do you hate me?” Jimin asked suddenly, voice more serious now.

Yoongi turned slightly. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Jimin said, stepping closer again. “You decided who I was the second you saw me. Tight dress, glossy lips, pretty face—must be empty. Useless.”

Yoongi looked down. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” Jimin cut in. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. But you want to hate me so bad it’s practically coming off your skin.”

Yoongi stayed quiet.

Jimin’s voice dropped. “You know what I hate?”

Yoongi looked up.

“I hate that even though I should walk out of this room and tell them to find me another producer, I don’t want to.”

Yoongi blinked.

Jimin stepped even closer, now standing toe-to-toe with him. “Because you’re good. Annoying, rude, emotionally constipated—but good. And when I sang just now, you looked at me like you finally saw me.”

Yoongi couldn’t breathe.

Jimin tilted his head, voice like silk. “So what is it, Yoongi? Do you want me? Or do you just hate yourself for wanting me?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Yoongi stared at him like he was unraveling in front of his eyes. His lips parted slightly. No words came.

Jimin let the silence linger a second longer—then he turned, heels clicking again, and grabbed his jacket from the couch.

“Send me the track,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll find someone who doesn’t flinch every time I look at him.”

And with that, he walked out, perfume trailing behind him like smoke from a fire that hadn’t finished burning.

Yoongi stood there in the quiet studio, chest tight, fists clenched, eyes on the empty doorway.

He’d been around a lot of voices.

But this one?

This one was going to ruin him.

---

The studio was too quiet.

Yoongi sat with his headphones around his neck, one hand resting on the keyboard, the other tapping anxiously against his thigh.

The track Jimin recorded yesterday was still open on the screen. He hadn’t touched it. Not really. He’d listened to it on loop. Picked apart every note, every breath, every run. Told himself it needed adjusting. That it wasn’t perfect.

But truthfully?

It was already perfect.

Jimin hadn’t shown up today.

No call. No message. Not even a passive-aggressive emoji through the company group chat. And Yoongi hated how many times he’d checked his phone. Hated the unfamiliar feeling that was coiling tighter in his chest.

It was fine. Maybe Jimin had a shoot. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was trying to prove a point.

Or maybe you pushed him too far.

Yoongi groaned, dragging both hands through his hair and leaning back in the chair. “Shit.”

He wasn’t supposed to care. That was the whole point. Don’t get involved with idols. Don’t get involved with pretty, high-maintenance omegas who know they can ruin you with a look. Don’t get involved with anyone.

But now the damn studio smelled like him.

Sweet. Warm. Complicated.

Yoongi swore the scent still lingered in the corners of the room, like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.

He’d told himself Jimin was trouble from the start. That those full lips and mocking smiles were a mask. That no real artist could look that good and be taken seriously.

Then Jimin opened his mouth to sing, and everything Yoongi thought he knew cracked.

And last night? Last night had been dangerous.

That voice whispering in his ear. That body stepping too close. That stupid question that was still echoing in his head like a cursed melody:

Do you want me? Or do you just hate yourself for wanting me?

He hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Because the truth was too loud.

He wanted him.

And he hated it.

Hated the way his hands had twitched when Jimin leaned in. Hated the fire pooling low in his stomach when Jimin licked his lips and whispered like they were sharing a secret. Hated the way he almost kissed him. Just to see if Jimin tasted as smug as he looked.

Yoongi opened the file again. Played the track. Closed his eyes.

Jimin’s voice wrapped around him, smooth and slow, every lyric dripping with something unsaid. He didn’t just sing the words—he felt them. Poured them out like confession. Like temptation.

Halfway through, Yoongi paused the playback.

And whispered: “Where the hell are you, Park Jimin?”

---

Meanwhile...

Jimin stood in front of his mirror, phone turned off, lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

He hadn’t been to the studio. Hadn’t even looked at the messages piling up on his phone from his manager, the label, the assistant producer.

Not because he was angry.

Because he was afraid.

Afraid of how close he came to letting Min Yoongi see him. Really see him.

His body, his duality, the way people looked at him like they couldn’t figure out what he was—beautiful or strange. Male or female. Both. Neither. Some exotic mixture that never quite belonged anywhere.

But Yoongi… looked at him like a storm. Like Jimin was dangerous. Like he wanted him.

That scared Jimin more than hate ever could.

Because wanting? Wanting could hurt.

He turned toward the window, one arm wrapped around his waist, bare shoulder catching the golden afternoon light.

He whispered to himself: “He thinks I’m a game. I’ll make him beg to play.”

---

Later that night, back in the studio…

Yoongi stayed late. Past midnight. Still waiting.

He didn’t even know what for. An apology? A text? A door opening with that smug omega strutting in like he owned the room?

But no one came.

And Yoongi—sitting alone in a room built for sound—had never heard silence this loud.

---