Echo Chamber

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.

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