The white penthouse looked like something out of a magazine.

Clean lines, soft light, vanilla and jasmine floating in the air like whispers. Elegant flower arrangements stood tall in crystal vases. Everything gleamed - the marble floors, the towering windows, the silence.

Jimin stepped out of the car, breath caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. Of course she lives here. His boots crunched lightly on the driveway dusted with melting snow. Then he saw her - standing at the front door, holding her five-year-old on one hip, waving with her free hand.

She looked older. Softer in some places, tired in others, but still radiant. She had always been radiant.

Beside him, Jungkook walked ahead, eyes fixed on her. His expression softened as he approached, and without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed her - a slow, familiar peck on the lips.

Jimin blinked, face twitching slightly.

The ick. Gross.
He forced a smile and followed.

"Halla-," he called, and her eyes lit up as she passed the child to her hip and wrapped her arms around him.

"Jiminie," she whispered into his shoulder. "You're finally here."

She smelled like white musk and baby powder. Safe. Too safe. Almost suffocating.

Inside, the house was even more perfect. A mix of modern minimalism and warmth - family photos tucked between bookshelves, baby toys scattered neatly in corners, and sunlight bouncing off pristine countertops.

"I made lunch," she said, showing him to his room. "You can rest for a bit first - it's upstairs."

The guest room was immaculate. Neutral tones. Thick blankets. A view of the city that glowed under the winter sun.

Jimin collapsed onto the bed and let out a breath. The soft buzz of his phone broke the stillness.

He answered without checking the name.

"How's paradise?" his best friend teased from the other end.

"Smells like vanilla and money," Jimin replied, arm draped over his face. "Also, I think I've already committed emotional incest by watching my brother-in-law kiss my sister, so that's cool."

"Still dramatic, I see."

"Still dating your ex," Jimin snapped back.

Seojun groaned. "Come on, not today-"

"You're a foolA proper clown. You're like the circus but without the snacks."

They both laughed.

"Hey," Seojun added more seriously. "Try not to let that loud mouth of yours get you into trouble, alright?"

Jimin smirked into the phone. "Please. I'm a changed man."

"Liar."

"Goodbye." He hung up, grinning to himself.

A moment later, Halla called from the hallway. "Lunch!"
...

Korean food lined the table - doenjang jjigae steaming, plates of bulgogi, fresh rice, and kimchi made to perfection. Jimin sat with his sister while the kids played in the next room. The seat across from him - Jungkook's - remained empty.

"Where's Mr. Perfect?" Jimin asked casually, picking up a piece of japchae.

Halla smiled gently as she served him some kimchi. "He doesn't usually eat lunch with us. Too busy during the day. Always has meetings or calls."

Jimin blinked. "Seriously?"

She nodded, brushing her hair back with one hand. "But he makes time at night. We always have dinner together. And when he's less busy, he lets me sleep in or go out - he takes care of the kids, really."

Jimin hummed in response, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

He doesn't even come out for lunch? He scanned his sister's face. She didn't look exhausted. But still, something about Jungkook always being "busy" rubbed him the wrong way.

He chewed slowly, forcing a nod. "That's... nice of him."

The conversation drifted after that. Jimin tried to keep up, but his interest waned fast. He nodded, smiled in the right places, said what he was supposed to say. The food was good, but it felt like eating in a glass house - clean, cold, breakable.

When he was finished, he quietly excused himself for some air.

⸻

Snowflakes drifted lazily as Jimin walked along the edge of the property, hands buried in his coat pockets. The cold helped him think.

The penthouse garden overlooked the city. Behind him, tall windows lined the house - he could see shadows moving inside, soft lights flickering. One window in particular caught his attention.

Jungkook's work studio.

He didn't mean to stare. His feet stopped on their own. He looked in through the frosted glass, trying to see more than he should - maybe out of boredom, maybe curiosity, or maybe something else entirely.

The silhouette behind the glass turned.

Jimin froze.

Jungkook was looking right at him - sharp gaze, unmoving.

Their eyes locked.

For a second, it felt like Jimin had been caught doing something wrong. He didn't flinch, but he didn't smile either. The intensity of it held him there, caught in the middle of the falling snow.

Then, without a word, Jungkook closed the curtain.
X
Jimin blinked, and the world returned to its normal hush.

He exhaled through his nose and turned back toward the house.

The snow had begun to fall heavier, dusting Jimin's shoulders as he stood in the garden. After that strange, locked-eyes moment with Jungkook through the window, he turned back toward the penthouse, jaw tight.

He stepped inside, warmth wrapping around him immediately. The soft scent of vanilla returned like a sigh.

He quietly took off his shoes, padded up the stairs, and slipped back into his room.

The city glimmered outside the wide window, but Jimin didn't care. He shut the curtains and flopped down on the bed.

His phone buzzed.

A name he hadn't seen in a while lit up the screen: Soyoung.

He stared at it, thumb hovering for a moment before he exhaled sharply through his nose and answered.

"Still got that attitude, huh?"
The voice was low, bitter. Slurred, maybe. The kind of tone that said this wasn't a just checking in call.

Jimin rolled his eyes. "Still drunk before 3 p.m.? Some things really don't change."

"You left like a coward."

"Coward?" Jimin barked a dry laugh. "No, baby. A coward stays. I had the guts to walk away when you started throwing punches at the wall."

"I told you that was one time."

"Yeah, and you told me you loved me right after - like that magically fixed the shattered glass and bruised wrists."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"You think you're better than me now? Living in some fancy house with your sister, huh? Pretending you're someone?"

Jimin's eyes narrowed. His chest was tight, but his voice was cool. Steady. A blade wrapped in silk.

"No," he said. "I am better than you. And don't call this pretending - I'd rather sleep in a stranger's guest room than share a bed with someone who only knows how to love with threats."

"You little-"

"You done?" Jimin snapped. "Because I got a schedule now, and surprise: it doesn't include feeding your delusional ego."

The voice on the other end grew sharper, angrier - half curses, half pleading, all too familiar. But Jimin didn't flinch. Not this time.

"I'm not scared of you anymore," he said quietly. "You can scream. You can threaten. Hell, write a song about it. But you don't own a single piece of me anymore."

And with that, he hung up.

The silence afterward was heavy, but not unbearable. His hands shook slightly - not from fear, but adrenaline. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, chest rising and falling quickly.

Then, with a bitter little smile, he tossed the phone across the bed, laid back, and stared at the ceiling.

"Loud mouth might get me in trouble..."
"Yeah, well-someone's gotta say the things no one else will."
...
The guest room was warm, the blankets thick, but sleep didn't come easy.

When it finally did, it was broken.

Jimin twisted under the covers, breath shallow. His dream was full of flickering images - an old hospital hallway, a violin string snapping, blood on fingers that weren't his. And in the middle of it all was his older brother.

The one who never made it past nineteen.
The one who smiled through gritted teeth.
The one who didn't come home.

Jimin jolted awake, damp with sweat, breathing like he'd just run a mile. He sat up, rubbing his face, heart hammering.

He hated those dreams. Not just because they scared him, but because they left him with questions that never got answered. Guilt he couldn't explain.

Slipping out of bed, he pulled on a hoodie and padded out of the room, barefoot and quiet. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the pale walls. The scent of vanilla still lingered faintly, but it was colder now, emptier.

He glanced at the family photos as he passed them - perfect smiles frozen in golden frames. Then stopped at one: Jungkook in a tuxedo, stiff and serious.

Jimin scoffed under his breath.

"You looked stupid even back then," he muttered, clicking his tongue.

He moved on.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water, leaning against the counter as he drank. The silence was almost soothing - until it wasn't.

As he turned to head back, a shadow moved at the end of the hallway.

Jimin jumped, the glass nearly slipping from his fingers.

"What the f-"
A hand clamped over his mouth.

He thrashed, eyes wide-until he saw who it was.

Jungkook.

The man stood half in the dark, dressed in black sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, hair tousled, glasses gone. His eyes were unreadable. Calm. Distant.

Jimin pulled away roughly, voice rising. "Are you out of your mind?! Who the hell walks around like some ghost in the middle of the night? What, you got a hobby scaring people now, Mr. Jeon?"

Jungkook didn't respond immediately. He just looked at him for a moment, eyes steady. Then said, in that maddeningly even voice:

"My wife will be up soon. She's tired. You're being loud."

Jimin blinked.

That was it?

No apology, no explanation - just a calm reminder, like Jimin was a barking dog.

His lips curled into a sneer. "You really don't feel a damn thing, do you?" he snapped. "You walk around like some robot on wife-duty. What, too busy keeping your schedule perfect to act like a human being?"

Jungkook just stared at him. Not angry. Not surprised.

Indifferent.

Jimin scoffed, raised his middle finger slowly, then turned on his heel.

"Go to hell," he muttered over his shoulder.

Jungkook watched him walk away. His fingers twitched against the hem of his sleeve.

As the bedroom door closed down the hall, he let out a quiet, hot chuckle. It was short, bitter, almost amused.

Then he stepped into the kitchen and began making coffee.