Heat in the Wires

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.

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