OLD PROMISES VS NEW VOWS

The view above Seokjin was no less than spectacular—everyone would agree. Of course, that only held true if they could tear their eyes away from Namjoon in Seokjin’s presence. Being the possessive person he was, Seokjin had made it clear years ago that Kim Namjoon, in all his eye-catching glory, was his to ogle. The glint in Seokjin’s gaze whenever Namjoon moaned during a workout at the city gym said everything that words didn’t.

Namjoon’s existence was, without a doubt, a thirst trap—especially in his iconic black gym vest and shorts. The toned, sweaty muscles and thick thighs were enough to command attention. It was no surprise the gym’s membership soared after Namjoon moved from Ilsan to Seoul, drawing in a wave of admirers hoping for even a glimpse of the “hot hunk who could turn heads anywhere.”

But Seokjin wasn’t about to let anyone else have a chance. He seized the first opportunity to sweep Namjoon off his feet and asked him out before anyone else could. Now, Namjoon was no longer single, and Seokjin had every intention of making sure everyone remembered it. After all, he had sealed the deal by proposing just a month ago.

Seokjin sighed, drawing a sharp breath as his gaze lingered on the flex of Namjoon’s arms. They rose and fell with the rhythm of the weights that were more in his hands than Seokjin's, each movement rippling through his muscles—a private display of strength Seokjin could barely handle.

“Yeah, that’s right. Keep breathing, babe. You’re doing great,” Namjoon said, his voice steady as he leaned in, gripping the barbell beside Seokjin’s hand more firmly. Namjoon’s chest hovered in front of his fiancé’s face, the outline of his toned pecs clearly visible through the sweat-dampened vest clinging to his golden skin.

Seokjin let out a strained grunt, trying—and failing—to ignore the electric jolt that surged through his core at the intoxicating mix of Namjoon’s view and deep voice. His pulse hammered wildly in his chest, and he feared it might burst if he spent another moment contemplating just how Namjoon’s new haircut enhanced his sharp, sexy features.

Namjoon pulled off the mullet look like no other man on Earth could. Seokjin might miss the feel of long strands between his fingers or the way he could tug playfully at them, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to run his hands over Namjoon’s freshly cropped hair, savoring the spiky texture beneath his fingertips. He imagined how irresistible it would feel to pull Namjoon between his legs, letting him ease the tension currently straining against his shorts.

"Alright, stop," Seokjin said, more to himself than anyone else, as he tapped Namjoon's hand. He was clearly struggling, and Namjoon, despite his best intentions, wasn't exactly being helpful. Lifting weights was uncharted territory for Seokjin, but he'd willed himself to give it a try in hopes of one day having arms as impressive as his beau's. However, he hadn't anticipated that his efforts would leave him with a perpetual ache—and not the kind that promised future muscles. "I think that's enough for today," he muttered, setting the weights aside.

Namjoon released the barbell and grabbed the towel draped carelessly over the treadmill handle, which now served as a convenient makeshift hook. He slung one towel around his neck and walked back toward Seokjin, offering him the other just as Seokjin sat up slowly, his breath deep and steady.

Seokjin muttered a quiet “thanks” and buried his face in the soft towel. The end of January was freezing, with snow falling most nights and a biting chill wrapping the country. But inside the gym in Seokjin's mansion, the air was blazing hot. He blamed it entirely on Namjoon and his goddamn big body. He wondered how someone so detached from the entertainment world had managed to bulk up over the years, growing more handsome and sexier while still being irresistibly cute and sweet.

He peeked out from behind the towel, his gaze drawn to Namjoon, who was sipping his daily protein shake. Namjoon’s cheeks hollowed as he drank, his dimples faintly appearing when his lips relaxed. He blinked absentmindedly, fingers idly playing with the end of the towel.

Seokjin’s heart skipped a beat. Was he falling for Kim Namjoon all over again?

“You alright, babe?” Namjoon asked. His voice was tinged with concern as he glanced at Seokjin staring blankly in his direction.

Seokjin shook his head quickly. “Yeah, just dealing with the heat. It’s unbelievably hot in here.” He fanned his face with the towel, exaggerating the motion to prove his point.

Namjoon eyed him carefully. The skin on Seokjin's neck was flushed pink—a clear sign of nerves or embarrassment. He stood still for a moment, contemplating the cause. Had he done something wrong? Or was Seokjin feeling unwell? His gaze drifted downward, noticing the goosebumps spreading across Seokjin’s arms. Then, his eyes traveled lower, landing on the unmistakable bulge pressing against the bright orange fabric of Seokjin's shorts.

Namjoon froze, his throat catching mid-sip. He choked on his protein shake, spluttering as heat rushed to his face.

Was this man for real? Hadn't he just spent the entire weekend tangled up with Namjoon, utterly spent and satisfied? How insatiable could his libido really be?

“Fuck—” Namjoon swore, clutching his chest as a wild cough wracked his body. If Seokjin asked him to fuck him one more time, Namjoon might actually explode. He’d need to ice his aching pelvis afterward. Or worse, end up hospitalized before his own wedding.

“You!” Namjoon pointed a trembling finger at Seokjin, still coughing between breaths. “Monster! How many times do I have to blow you? My jaw is about to fall off!”

Seokjin’s face flushed deeper as he sank to his knees, hands awkwardly covering the so-called “monster” in his pants. “I’m sorry! I can’t control it!”

“Then you’d better learn how to!” Namjoon scolded, gently caressing his chest. Thankfully, his coughing fit had subsided by now. “We’re not having sex until we consummate our wedding night.”

At the mention of abstinence, a pout immediately tugged at Seokjin’s lips. The thought of waiting two whole weeks—until the first Tuesday of February—felt unbearable. Two weeks without Namjoon between his legs might as well be an eternity. Seokjin could barely last 36 hours without it, let alone an eternity like fourteen days. The thought alone was torture. He was certain he’d die from the unbearable buildup of blue balls before the wedding even arrived.

Seokjin hadn’t agreed to this. He certainly didn’t sign up for celibacy when they finalized the wedding date.

“I don’t get it, Namjoon. Why is this even necessary? Why are you torturing me like this? Two weeks is way too long for me. Can't you shorten it?” Seokjin whined, exasperation evident in his voice. His thick eyebrows furrowed, and his pouty lips pulled into a deep frown. To Namjoon, he looked like a toddler throwing a tantrum over his favorite toy.

Namjoon pressed his lips together, trying hard to suppress a laugh at Seokjin’s antics.

“It is, Seokjin! How else is it supposed to feel special? Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘the long wait is worth it’?” Namjoon said with a teasing smile.

Seokjin grumbled, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not if it kills me first.”

A soft, free laugh rumbled from Namjoon’s chest. “You’re so cute.” He leaned down, bringing his face closer to Seokjin’s, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. Namjoon gently pinched Seokjin’s cheeks, his touch warm and affectionate, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “My baby,” he murmured, low and tender.

Seokjin’s heart skipped another beat at the touch. He tilted his head up, eyes fluttering shut, eagerly awaiting the kiss that was always followed. His body tingled with anticipation, thick with longing, the softening hard-on pressing painfully against his hands as he waited. But despite the closeness, despite how he had prepared himself, the kiss never came.

Seokjin's frown deepened as he opened his eyes, his thick brows knitting in confusion when he spotted Namjoon staring off into the distance, a sheepish expression on his pretty face. He followed Namjoon’s gaze, his eyes widening as he recognized the familiar figure leaning against the gym entrance. A smug smile played on their lips as they raised their arms, filming the scene through the lens of their phone camera.

The next moment happened in the blink of an eye. Yoongi, caught off guard, quickly ducked just as the protein shake bottle was thrown in his direction, the plastic container sailing past his head with a soft whoosh.

“How long have you been standing there filming us, you baboon?!” Seokjin raged, his voice sharp with irritation. He whipped around, now aiming to throw the towel that had been draped lazily around Namjoon’s neck until then, his movements fast and angry.

The towel sliced through the air in a perfect arc, and Yoongi caught it with a swift swing of his hand. However, he had little time to react as the next towel came barreling toward him, slamming right into Yoongi's face.

“What the fuck?!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the room. Laughter erupted around him as Yoongi yanked the towel from his face, scrunching his nose at the pungent smell of sweat and muttering curses under his breath before tossing it aside.

“That's what you get for interrupting and filming our moment, you asshole,” Seokjin shot back without missing a beat.

Yoongi scoffed. “I'd rather die than watch you two screw each other's brains out in under five minutes. But I figured it'd be fun to embarrass you by playing this video at the most inappropriate moments.” He tapped on his phone screen, deliberately replaying the part where Seokjin shamelessly begged Namjoon to revoke the two-week abstinence. As the video played, Seokjin cringed, realizing he did sound like a toddler whining for his favorite toy. His face turned a fiery shade of pink.

“You. Wouldn't. Dare.” Seokjin's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and threatening.

"Holy Grail, I would," Yoongi threatened, raising his thin eyebrows with an impish smirk tugging at his lips. "By the way, nice haircut, Namjoon. It suits your face," he added.

Before Seokjin could hurl the nearest object—a barbell—at Yoongi, Namjoon decided it was best to intervene. “Well, thanks and good morning to you, Yoongi. What brings you here so early?” he asked, smoothly redirecting the conversation with a calm smile.

"Your fiancé called me this morning to discuss something urgent. I told him I'd be around his place by ten, and here I am." Yoongi gestured theatrically, punctuating his words with exaggerated movements.

“Why don’t you join us for lunch and talk about whatever urgent matter you two need to discuss? I’ll ask Mrs. Baek to set three plates.” Namjoon raised his eyebrows, his expression a blend of generosity and mild curiosity as his gaze flicked between Seokjin and Yoongi, who exchanged a knowing glance.

Something about the unresolved matters caused a gradual shift in Seokjin’s demeanor. The playfulness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a quiet but unmistakable seriousness. The exchange between him and Yoongi promised to be more significant than it seemed, and for that, they needed privacy. Seokjin wanted to ensure there were no extra ears to overhear them, even if it meant asking Namjoon to step away, despite trusting him with his life.

“That’s a good idea, Namjoon, but Yoongi will pass,” Seokjin said firmly, speaking on Yoongi’s behalf and catching both him and Namjoon off-guard. Whatever this was about, it had to be serious—Seokjin rarely declined a meal unless it was urgent. “We’ll be in my studio. You can take a shower; I’ll join you at the table later.”

“Oh, okay,” Namjoon replied, a hint of confusion in his words as he left the room. Once he was gone, Seokjin stood and gently steered Yoongi toward his studio, his expression leaving no room for argument. The studio was just around the corner and down the hall, yet the short walk felt unnervingly long to Yoongi. He had dismissed Seokjin’s tone on the phone earlier that morning, but now, as unease crept in, he found himself silently hoping it wasn’t as grave as it seemed.

“All right, what is it?” Yoongi asked, impatience spilling into his question as they stepped into Seokjin’s studio.

“Take a seat first,” Seokjin said, his voice sharp and uncompromising, even in his gym wear.

Yoongi sighed but complied, sinking into the rotating chair across from Seokjin, the mahogany desk between them feeling like a deliberate barrier.

Without a word, Seokjin leaned forward, opened a drawer, and retrieved a tablet. He unlocked it quickly, tapped a few times, and slid it across the desk toward Yoongi. Yoongi grabbed the tablet, his forehead creasing as he saw the lit-up screen and processed the content and the photo attached to it. It showed the ruins of a collapsed building, with police tape surrounding the area.

“What? Why are you showing me a crime scene?”

Seokjin kissed his teeth, then looked at Yoongi. “Because you're somehow involved and responsible for it.”

Yoongi scowled. “What? How the hell am I involved in a building collapse caused by a fucking earthquake?”

“Not the building, you fool. Swipe the screen.”

Yoongi swiped the screen, and his eyes froze at the second picture. Suddenly, a memory flashed in his mind—of the building still standing strong, him holding a shovel beside a bound figure lying on the ground, the same figure now dead on the stretcher. A large splotch of blood stained the lower part of the body, and Yoongi quickly gathered what this was about. He exhaled slowly. “How would anyone know if I was behind this?”

“Nobody would, but I’m closely acquainted with the owner of a limited edition Beretta 92, number 3, whose bullet was found inside the brutally shot woman’s body,” Seokjin explained, his gaze locking onto Yoongi with a strict, accusatory stare.

A scoff escaped Yoongi’s mouth. “So what, are you going to turn me in to the police now? I’m sorry, Seokjin. I killed the woman you thought I could fall in love with,” he said, his eyes darkening with every word. “She was a fucking maniac. She would’ve destroyed me if I hadn’t killed her first.”

"You’re pathetic," Seokjin sneered, contempt twisting his features. "How did we ever become friends?"

"Trust me, I ask myself that every day."

The silence that followed was heavy, crackling with unspoken resentment. Neither of them looked away, their gazes locked in a battle of defiance and pride. Seokjin had his doubts when he first heard the news of a woman shot in her genitalia. The police were never able to trace the bullet, leaving the case shrouded in mystery. But the memory of Yoongi calmly cleaning a bloodied handgun in the confines of Seokjin's office came rushing back. The pieces fell into place, and with chilling certainty, Seokjin realized what no one else dared to imagine.

He had hoped Yoongi would find something meaningful with the woman he was seeing almost every day, settle down, and maybe even start a family. And perhaps Yoongi had—just not in a way anyone would call ideal. But as his “business” grew increasingly gruesome, Seokjin couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. Yoongi was ruthless when he killed others and merciless in his revenge. Just yesterday, one of his rivals had called for a truce over their illegal weapons deals. In response, they received a grisly gift: their messenger's severed middle finger, neatly wrapped like a Thanksgiving present.

Seokjin feared the darkness of the cruel world would consume Yoongi. Even their earlier lighthearted exchange felt like a fragile respite. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing him either—not just a friend, but a brother.

When the silence stretched on and no one visibly relented, Yoongi heaved a sigh, lifting his arms as if to cast away his defensive exterior. To him, Seokjin was closer than family—someone who would genuinely worry about him. The mere thought of cutting ties with him agitated Yoongi as much as the dread of losing his life.

“Listen, I get that you're a highly emotional and attached person, but I can guarantee my safety. I've erased every possible trace that could connect her to me. You don't have to worry—I know how to take care of myself,” Yoongi said. His steady voice seemed to comfort Seokjin more than it did himself, the one who had committed the crime.

Taking a deep breath, Seokjin let down his guard, relaxing his tense shoulders as he came to terms with the harsh reality. He realized that dealing with people burdened by a tragic past was as impossible as reaching the sky. “I don’t know what to say, honestly,” he murmured, exhaling. “It seems like when it comes to things like this, you and Jungkook are the same. You both always find a way to make my resolve dwindle with your words.”

Yoongi's brow furrowed, confusion etched across his face. “What do you mean?”

Seokjin inhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “You remember how I’ve kept Jungkook from uncovering his past all these years?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi replied with a knowing nod. “You didn’t want him to spiral like he did when you first met him.” His gaze flickered with understanding as he recalled Seokjin’s repeated warnings about the dangers of Jungkook revisiting his trauma. Like Yoongi, Jungkook had a tenuous grip on his temper—Mr. Yeong’s severed tongue was proof enough of that. But while Yoongi was consumed by a desire to make his stepmother’s life a living hell, Jungkook was fixated on uncovering the truth about the night his world fell apart. Perhaps Seokjin was right when he said Yoongi and Jungkook shared more similarities than either cared to admit.

“Well, he made me promise to do the exact opposite,” Seokjin said, not meeting Yoongi's gaze.

The quiet that settled was jarring—eerie and unexpected, entirely unlike what Seokjin had anticipated. When he looked up to gauge Yoongi's reaction, he saw him lost in thought, his mind clearly at work. Though relieved that their conversation had shifted away from him, Yoongi couldn’t help but wonder. If Seokjin had truly given in to Jungkook, there had to be a compelling reason behind it. The long years of waiting must have been for something meaningful, right?

“I trust you, Seokjin. You don’t make tough decisions lightly,” Yoongi said reassuringly, offering Seokjin a brief sense of relief. But his next words lingered, cutting deeper than they should. “Besides, we’re all fucked-up psychopaths, especially him. What could possibly go wrong?”

None of them truly considered just how wrong it could all go.