Static in the Booth

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.

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