As Long As I Can (Jiminx Reader) [Completed]

Chapter 15: A Quiet Kind of Home

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The sky was a gentle hue of lavender as the car rolled up the familiar driveway.

Y/n leaned her head against the window, her eyes half-lidded. Her body ached—not in the sharp, screaming way it had in the hospital—but in that dull, worn-out way of someone who's been fighting longer than she lets on.

Wrapped in a thick shawl her mother had tucked around her at the hospital gate, she looked too small for the passenger seat. But her eyes, tired as they were, still carried that glimmer—quiet resilience wrapped in silence.

Jimin rode next to her, hand resting near but not quite touching. He hadn’t spoken much on the ride, sensing that she didn’t want to fill the space with noise. Sometimes, silence said more than words.

Her parents talked softly in the front. Her dad mentioned stopping by the pharmacy again. Her mom reminded them to change her bedsheets to the softer ones. Jimin took mental notes like it was a mission.

When they reached the house, everything looked the same… but Y/n could feel it wasn’t. Not anymore.

She walked in slowly, her mother fussing gently, her father holding the door open like he always did.

It was all the same… and yet, it felt borrowed. Like the warmth wasn’t hers to keep.

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The evening settled in with the smell of ginger and garlic.

“Don’t let him add sugar, please,” Y/n whispered with a smile, watching her dad from the table as he tried to sneak a spoonful into the pot.

“Hey,” her dad grinned, “your mom likes it a little sweet.”

Jimin snatched the spoon with a laugh. “We’re cooking for Y/n, not for you!”

Her mom chuckled as she folded warm laundry nearby. “It’s nice, having this noise in the house again.”

Y/n stayed quiet, arms wrapped around herself.

She watched the three of them—Jimin in an apron, stirring with utter seriousness; her mom slicing side dishes; her dad tossing a towel over his shoulder like a chef. They looked like a small kitchen team straight out of a drama.

And for a moment, she let herself believe this was normal. That she wasn’t running out of time. That she wasn’t the girl whose life was secretly ticking down in the corner of every room she walked into.

Jimin walked over and placed a tray in front of her with a flourish. “Soft tofu stew, made with extreme care and love—minus the onions because someone still hates them.”

Y/n raised her brow. “You remembered?”

He leaned in. “I remember everything about you.”

She blinked. The moment hung too long. She looked down, lips twitching. “Still cheesy.”

He smiled, but this time it was softer. Sadder. “Still true.”

They ate together, the four of them. Her mother made sure her bowl stayed filled. Her dad insisted on pouring her tea himself. Jimin snuck little bites from her plate when she wasn’t looking, pretending it was his reward for cooking.

Laughter came easily.

But it didn’t reach all the way inside.

Y/n caught herself staring at them—her parents and Jimin—and something clenched in her chest.

She didn’t want to leave them.

She didn’t want this to be borrowed.

She wanted more days like this. More dinners. More warmth. More arguments about sugar and stew and who gets to wash the dishes.