I Kept My Love For My Bandmate A Secret For Years, But A Power Outage Forced My Confession

The air in the practice room was thick with a familiar, yet foreign, energy. It smelled of polished wood floors, old sweat, and the faint, clean scent of the industrial humidifiers humming in the corners. It was the scent of home, a place Jimin had ached for with a physical intensity during the long, monotonous months of his service. Yet, standing here now, surrounded by the faces he knew better than his own, a strange sense of displacement settled in his gut.

Namjoon was already directing the flow, his leader-mode clicking back into place as if it had never been switched off. Hoseok was a vibrant sunbeam, his laughter echoing as he pulled Yoongi into a spinning hug. Seokjin was already complaining theatrically about his joints, a comfortable routine that brought a smile to Jimin’s face. Taehyung was a quiet, solid presence at his side, their shoulders bumping in a silent exchange of, we’re really back.

And then there was Jungkook.

He stood near the speakers, fiddling with a playlist on his phone, seemingly oblivious to the whirlwind of reunions happening around him. He looked different. It wasn’t just the shorter hair or the stark lines of his military cut growing out. He was broader across the shoulders, the muscles in his arms and chest thicker, more defined under the simple black t-shirt. The boyish softness that had clung to his features for so long had finally been planed away, leaving behind the sharp, handsome angles of a man. An unfamiliar man.

Jimin’s feet felt rooted to the floor. He watched as Jungkook finally looked up, his dark eyes scanning the room before they landed on Jimin. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away, the noise of the other members fading into a dull roar. This was the moment. The reunion he had replayed in his mind a thousand times—a running leap, a tangle of limbs, the familiar weight of Jungkook wrapped around him, laughing into his neck.

But Jungkook didn’t run. He didn’t even smile. He simply walked toward Jimin with a measured, even pace. The easy grace was still there, but it was heavier now, more deliberate. He stopped a respectable foot away, a distance that felt like a canyon.

“Hyung,” Jungkook said, his voice a note lower than Jimin remembered, the sound vibrating through the space between them.

“Jungkook-ah.” The name felt strange on his tongue.

An awkward beat of silence passed. It was Jungkook who initiated the hug, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Jimin’s shoulders in a stiff, formal embrace. Jimin’s own arms came up automatically, his hands landing on the solid expanse of Jungkook’s back. It was like hugging a stranger. There was no give, no familiar melting into each other. Jungkook’s body was tense, hard. He gave two quick, firm pats to Jimin’s shoulder blades before pulling back, the entire interaction lasting no more than three seconds.

The loss of contact was jarring, leaving the front of Jimin’s body feeling cold and exposed. Jungkook’s gaze flickered to a point just over Jimin’s shoulder, a polite, unreadable mask settling over his features. The easy intimacy they had shared for over a decade, the casual touches and effortless closeness, had vanished. In its place was a stilted courtesy that felt more painful than an outright argument. A chasm had opened up between them in the two years they’d been apart, and for the first time, Jimin was terrified he didn’t know how to cross it.

The awkwardness clung to Jimin like a second skin, a suffocating film that didn't dissipate even as the familiar bass lines of their new title track began to vibrate through the floorboards. Hobeom, their performance director, walked them through the initial counts. The movements were intricate, a rapid-fire sequence of sharp isolations and fluid transitions that demanded absolute precision. For the others, it seemed to come back like breathing. For Jimin, it was a fight.

His body remembered the language of dance, but the dialect had changed. Where there was once effortless grace, there was now a stiff, military-honed rigidity he couldn't shake. A turn was a fraction too slow. A leg extension didn’t hit the exact angle. He could see it in the vast mirror, the tiny imperfections magnified into glaring failures.

“Again,” he muttered under his breath after Hobeom called for a water break. The others collapsed onto the floor, laughing and wiping sweat from their brows. Jimin remained standing in the center of the room, his eyes locked on his own reflection.

He started the count again from the top. One, two, three… his body moved, but his mind screamed that it was wrong. Not sharp enough. Not clean enough. The fluidity he had been famous for felt like a distant memory, replaced by a frustrating, mechanical stiffness.

Hours bled into one another. The rest of the members, sensing his dark focus, eventually packed up their things, offering quiet words of encouragement that Jimin barely registered. “Don’t overdo it, Jiminie.” “See you tomorrow.” The door clicked shut, one by one, until the vast room held only two.

Jimin didn’t stop. He pushed his sweat-damp hair from his forehead and reset, the music a relentless loop in his head. He was so consumed by his own failure that he almost forgot Jungkook was still there.

Across the room, Jungkook had set up a laptop at a small table, headphones over his ears. He appeared to be absorbed in editing vocal takes, his fingers occasionally tapping at the trackpad. But he wasn’t working. His focus was entirely on the figure in the mirror, watching Jimin punish himself.

He saw the brutal self-criticism in the hard set of Jimin’s jaw, the way his shoulders tensed with every reset. Sweat plastered Jimin’s white t-shirt to his torso, making the fabric translucent over the defined planes of his abdomen and the lean muscle of his back. Jungkook’s own hands clenched into fists under the table as he watched Jimin’s thighs bunch and release with punishing repetition. A worried frown creased his brow. This wasn’t the dedicated perfectionism he knew; this was something sharper, more destructive. It was a spiral, and Jimin was right in the center of it.

Jimin missed a transition again, his foot skidding slightly. A low, guttural sound of frustration tore from his throat, and he slammed the flat of his palm against his thigh. The sharp, stinging slap echoed in the cavernous space, a sound of pure self-flagellation.

That was it. Jungkook couldn't just sit there and watch him break himself apart. He pulled the headphones from his ears, the sudden silence of the room rushing in, thick and heavy. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, and stood.

Jimin didn’t move, his head bowed and his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He heard the scrape of the chair, but his mind, trapped in its loop of failure, didn’t process it. He was only vaguely aware of footsteps approaching, the soft padding of sneakers on the polished floor growing closer until they stopped directly in front of him.

He remained still, staring at his own feet, at the dark sweat spots his hands had left on his grey sweatpants. A shadow fell over him.

“Hyung.”

Jungkook’s voice was low, cutting through the haze of Jimin’s self-criticism. It wasn’t a command or a question, just his name. A simple acknowledgment. Slowly, Jimin lifted his head. His eyes felt raw, his vision blurring for a moment before focusing on the solid form of Jungkook standing there. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes—his dark, expressive eyes—were filled with a deep, consuming worry that made Jimin’s stomach clench.

Jimin’s gaze dropped to Jungkook’s hand. He was holding out a bottle of water, condensation dripping from the cold plastic onto the floor. It was a silent offering, a truce. Jimin’s own hand felt heavy as he lifted it, his fingers trembling with exhaustion. He reached to take the bottle.

As his fingers closed around it, they slid against Jungkook’s. The back of his hand brushed over Jungkook’s knuckles, skin against skin.

A jolt, sharp and startling, shot up Jimin’s arm. It was like a live wire had been pressed against his flesh, a potent spark that lit up every nerve ending from his hand to his shoulder, straight to the center of his chest. His breath caught, trapped in his lungs. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It was a shock of warmth, of life, so intense it momentarily obliterated everything else—the exhaustion, the frustration, the ache in his muscles.

His eyes snapped back to Jungkook’s face. Jungkook’s own eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise. He’d felt it, too. There was no doubt. The air between them thickened, crackling with an energy that was suddenly undeniable. The vast, empty room seemed to shrink, the silence pressing in on them until the only sound was the frantic, uneven thrum of Jimin’s own pulse in his ears.

In the dark depths of Jungkook’s gaze, Jimin saw the worry from before, but now it was overshadowed by something else. Something raw and unguarded that mirrored the sudden, desperate ache that had just bloomed in his own chest. It was a look of pure, undiluted longing, a silent question that hung in the charged space between them.

The moment stretched, suspended and fragile. Jungkook’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s. Jimin felt a magnetic pull, a dangerous urge to lean forward, to close the small distance separating them, to find out if the electricity was a fluke or a promise. But the intensity was too much, too revealing under the harsh, unforgiving studio lights. It stripped him bare.

With a will he didn’t know he possessed, Jimin broke the contact. He tore his gaze away, focusing on the bottle clutched in his white-knuckled hand. He felt Jungkook’s eyes on him for another beat before he, too, looked away, clearing his throat and taking a half-step back. The invisible current between them was severed, but the space it left behind vibrated with its memory, the silence now heavier and more complicated than ever before.