Chapter Text
The first light crept across their bedroom curtains, soft and golden, spilling onto the sheets tangled around Jimin’s legs. Yoongi was already stirring beside him, hair an endearing mess, eyes still heavy with sleep as he grumbled when Jimin shifted too much.
“Stay five more minutes,” Yoongi muttered, voice low and hoarse from sleep, arm lazily looping around Jimin’s waist to drag him back down when he tried to move.
“You said that yesterday too,” Jimin teased, pressing his face into the pillow but smiling anyway. Still, when Yoongi tugged him close, he melted into the embrace.
Eventually, Yoongi slipped out of bed when Jimin’s stomach grumbled, padding barefoot into the kitchen. The sound of eggs cracking, oil sizzling, and the faint clink of plates filled the apartment. Jimin appeared a few minutes later, freshly showered, shirt buttons half-done, and slipped behind Yoongi to backhug him. He buried his face in his husband’s shoulder.
“Smells amazing,” Jimin murmured against his skin, pressing a soft kiss on the bare skin.
Yoongi gave him a side-eye but didn’t push him off. “You’re going to wrinkle your shirt.”
“Worth it.” Jimin beamed, nipping playfully on his exposed shoulder, earning a jab on his side in return. Soft laughter filled the space as they moved around each other, Jimin setting up plates and silverware as Yoongi finished up cooking.
They ate breakfast with playful banter—Jimin stealing bites from Yoongi’s plate, Yoongi flicking his chopsticks at him in retaliation. He fed him in between too, Yoongi grumbling but opening his mouth nonetheless as Jimin held up another bite. By the time Jimin grabbed his badge and service weapon, pulling on his jacket and strapping the holster in place, Yoongi was leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, watching him tug on his boots.
“Don’t forget dinner tonight again,” Yoongi reminded casually, taking a sip of his coffee.
“As if I’d risk your wrath,” Jimin grinned, leaning in to kiss him. Yoongi’s lips softened under his, eyes fluttering shut as he savored the sweetness of it, lingering just enough before he let Jimin go. Watching him slip out the door with a mumbled farewell.
——
“Be ready by five, I'll pick you up.” Jimin spoke one day when he was getting ready for work. Standing in front of the mirror he adjusted his collar, pulling the tie around his neck. There was only a formal meeting today, so he could leave early from the office.
“For?” Yoongi raised a brow, walking in front of his husband and fixing the tie for him.
Jimin only leaned in to peck him quickly, giving him a sly smirk. “Just dress nicely, I'm taking you out.”
“On a date?” Yoongi fixed the collar when he was done, patting his shoulder off the invisible dust.
“Mhm.” That was the only response he got before Jimin kissed him and slipped out the door for his work.
Later that evening, Jimin pulled up outside the apartment, honking twice until Yoongi finally emerged. He was dressed simply but cleanly, a cream sweater tucked into dark slacks, hair styled just enough to look effortless.
“You’re late,” Yoongi deadpanned as he slid into the passenger seat.
“You look worth the wait,” Jimin shot back, chuckling when Yoongi rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the small tug at his lips.
They went out for dinner, nothing extravagant—a tucked-away restaurant they both liked. Yoongi ordered for them without asking, Jimin just humming in agreement, too used to the elder placing both their orders by now. They lingered over food, teasing each other about who had worse table manners, or who could eat more spice without bursting into tears, it was chaotic but they enjoyed their time before ending the night with a slow walk through the city streets, Jimin’s hand brushing against Yoongi’s until Yoongi finally took it in his own, entwining their fingers together.
Jimin squeezed it gently, a slow smile forming on his lips as they strolled in the peaceful night.
At the car, Jimin leaned in close, voice soft. “You know, I like you better outside the kitchen.”
Yoongi arched his brow. “Because you don’t have to wash the dishes?” He quipped, a smirk on his lips.
“Because I get to kiss you without worrying about burning something.” Jimin said and then he did it too, under the streetlights he kissed him, Yoongi kissing him back with quiet ease. Their lips moving as their hearts beat in sync. Eyes closed as they enjoyed the moment.
——
Jimin sat across from his superior in the precinct, a stack of photographs spread across the table. His captain’s voice was steady, clipped with importance.
“A deal was made, perhaps more than that. High-profile. Underground casino.”
The images were blurry, there was even a shadow of a body splayed across the gaming floor, the sheen of spilled liquor mingling with something darker. One photograph stood out: a grainy still from a nearby convenience store's security footage of a sleek black car leaving the scene.
“This isn’t a regular street crime,” the captain said. “We are assuming the weapon was military-grade from what little we've gathered from the scene. Not something civilians get their hands on easily. There was no other evidence that our team could find for now, but we're looking into it.” His caption said, hands clasped together in front of him on the table.
Jimin nodded, jaw set as he looked up from the pictures. “You think it ties to organized crime?”
“That’s what we need to find out. You’ll be assigned this case. And Jimin—” The older man’s eyes hardened. “Keep your head low. Whoever pulled this off doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire.” He warned.
Jimin took a deep breath, he knew in his field of work, there's danger and when he joined he agreed to risk it. But now, now he has a husband waiting for him at home with a warm meal and so he has to be careful, his captain would only give him reasonable advice. So if he says Jimin needs to be careful, he will keep it in mind.
——
The lock clicked shut in place as the door closed softly behind Jimin. His boots felt heavier than usual as he toed them off, the long day clinging to his shoulders, pulling them down. The apartment smelled like garlic and soy as Jimin stepped away from the door, eyes closing shut to take a deep inhale of the mouth-watering aroma. He walked further into the apartment, stopping at the kitchen threshold, and the sight waiting for him made a tired smile form on his face.
In front of the stove stood his lovely husband. Wearing a loose black apron over a pale blue sweater, slightly slipping off one of his shoulders because of it being a bit too big for his size, his hair slightly mussed and falling like a curtain over his eyes, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he chopped away some vegetables. A small pot simmered quietly on the stove, steam curling upward, and the rhythmic sound of the knife tapping against the cutting board filled the space.
“You’re finally home,” Yoongi said without turning, but there was no actual bite to it. Just the same calm, low voice that always seemed to smooth Jimin’s edges.
“Paperwork,” Jimin sighed, loosening his tie and tossing it onto the kitchen counter top. “And a stop at the station for an update.” He popped the top two buttons of his shirt open, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms.
Yoongi glanced over his shoulder then, eyes taking him in quickly—the faint crease in Jimin’s brow, the way his shoulders were hunched. “You didn’t eat yet, did you?” It was more of an observation than a question.
“Didn’t have time.” Jimin shrugged as he gave him a sheepish smile.
Yoongi made a quiet sound in something akin to disapproval, clicking his tongue, and turned back to the cutting board. The movement was fluid, precise—the way his wrist rolled, the way the knife never hesitated. Years of practice made it a muscle memory, Yoongi had said when Jimin had curiously inquired about his skills with those knives once.
Jimin dropped onto one of the kitchen stools, watching him. “You know, for someone who swears he’s ‘just a home cook,’ you’re suspiciously fast with that knife.” He teased, fingers tapping against the marble counter top in a random rhythm.
Yoongi didn’t look up, just smirked faintly to himself. “Maybe I'm just good at handling my… tools, you can say.” He teased back, stirring the pot once. His smirk widened a fraction when Jimin chuckled.
Then, in the middle of dropping the scallions in the pot, the knife slipped and fell—or would have, if Yoongi’s hand hadn’t darted out to catch it mid-air before it hit the floor.
Jimin blinked. “Wow. Good reflexes.”
“Too many occupational hazards from… years ago,” Yoongi said lightly, setting the knife back as if it was nothing. He slid the rest of the scallions into the pot, moving with that same quiet, controlled grace.
Jimin reached for the water bottle beside him as his eyes followed Yoongi keenly. He took a few gulps as a subconscious thought occurred in his brain about how Yoongi could be fast with other objects—like a gun. He shook his head, chuckling at his own absurd thoughts. Today's meeting has filled his brain with weird ideas. His lovely husband who can't even hurt a fly holding a gun? Ridiculous.
“What's so funny?” Yoongi glanced back at him, lips quirking up in amusement.
“Nothing.” Jimin grinned, getting up to set the table.
——
Dinner was warm and slow, a comfortable silence with their usual teasing banter falling smoothly between them as they ate. It was the kind of quiet Yoongi insisted on after Jimin’s long shifts—no work talk unless Jimin thought he wanted to share something, just soft conversations and the occasional brush of their knees under the table.
Halfway through his meal, Jimin’s phone buzzed against the counter. The ringtone was short and clipped, one he specifically used for the station.
Yoongi’s eyes flicked up as he recognized it as well. “Work?” He mumbled, chewing slowly.
“Yeah.” Jimin sighed, setting his chopsticks down and pushing back his chair. “Might be a late one again.”
“Eat later. You’re useless if you’re running on coffee alone.” Yoongi reached for his plate, casually sliding it closer to cover Jimin’s half eaten food for later.
Jimin gave him a small smile, but the phone kept buzzing, so he picked it up to answer. “Park Jimin.” His tone shifted into the work voice smoothly.
“Triple homicide. Location: Downtown parking structure behind La Rouge Casino. Black Mercedes spotted leaving the scene. The weapon discharge report says… military-grade. You have the lead.” The voice on the other end was all business.
Jimin’s expression hardened. “On my way.”
He hung up, already reaching for his jacket and holster. Yoongi stood at the kitchen doorway, leaning lightly against the frame. “Casino trouble?” He mumbled, catching a few words from the other end, fingers playing with a frayed thread of his sleeve.
“Looks like it. Big mess. One of the victims might’ve been connected to someone from the old days—name’s not confirmed yet.” Jimin explained shortly, slipping on his jacket.
Yoongi’s gaze lingered a second too long before he spoke. “Careful with old ghosts, Jiminie. Sometimes they don’t like being dug up.” It was a bit strange, but Jimin put it to Yoongi being precautionary.
The words were said so simply, so softly, that Jimin didn’t think much of it. Just Yoongi being protective, the way he always was. Jimin came closer and pecked him softly, strapping the holster in place. “I'll be careful.” He reassured Yoongi with a small smile and then he was out the door.
Yoongi stayed in the doorway until the sound of Jimin’s boots faded, then turned back to the sink with a sigh—water running over dishes, head bowed, lips pressed thin as he finished cleaning up.
——
The parking structure was still cordoned off when Jimin arrived, yellow tape snapping faintly in the night breeze. La Rouge Casino’s neon glow pulsed a few streets over, throwing faint reds and golds across the concrete. The metallic scent of blood cut through the smell of exhaust. Three bodies lay near a black SUV riddled with bullet holes. The kill shots were clean—center mass, no hesitation. Whoever did this wasn’t just dangerous, they were trained.
“Surveillance caught a black luxury Mercedes leaving the structure three minutes after the shots. No plates. Weapon casings are military-grade.” One of the forensics officers handed Jimin a folder as he ducked under the tape, snapping a pair of gloves on his hands.
Jimin flipped open the folder, scanning the glossy crime scene photos. He paused at the close-up of the first victim’s forearm. A tattoo snaked up from his wrist, sharp lines forming a stylized, jagged crown wrapped in thorned vines, inked in black so deep it almost gleamed under the camera flash.
It didn’t register as anything important to Jimin yet, but he made a mental note to run it through the database.
“This one have prior arrears?” Jimin asked as he flipped through the rest of the photos.
“Some. Gambling debts. Possible ties to an old name… Agust-D.” The forensics officer told, pausing before speaking the name.
That name had been gathering dust in cold files for nearly a decade, whispered in the same breath as “untouchable” and “ghost”.
Jimin’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from dispatch, so he stepped away, flipping the folder closed.
Hours later when he was home after gathering a bit of information, he didn’t notice Yoongi leaning in the kitchen doorway, glancing at the same photos spread on the counter while Jimin typed up his preliminary report.
Yoongi’s eyes stopped on the tattoo. His shoulders tensed—just for a second before his expression smoothed out into his neutral mask. The ink was burned into his memory, not as a mark on some thug’s skin he sees on the news, but as the insignia carved into the underworld’s inner circle. It brought back some unwanted memories. Without a word, Yoongi reached into the drawer, pocketed his lighter, and stepped out onto the small balcony.
Jimin barely looked up from his laptop as the faint scent of cigarette smoke drifted in—an old habit Yoongi had supposedly quit years ago. He furrowed his brows, fingers flying over keys as he entered all the details he had gathered in his report, not a single thought about why Yoongi was suddenly smoking after quitting years ago.
Outside, Yoongi stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette between two fingers, eyes staring into the distance. The glow of the tip caught the faint tremor in his hand. “Old ghosts,” he murmured under his breath, smoke curling into the night air.
——