Off Limits

1. Morning

Morning sunlight spilled across the long driveway of the Kim family estate, cutting through the tinted windows of the car that rolled to a stop in front of Haneul University. The campus buzzed with students; laughter, motorbike engines, and the soft rustle of fall leaves filled the air.

Yoongi stepped out first—hands in his pockets, a slouch of practiced indifference—and glanced at his younger brother climbing out from the passenger side.

Taehyung adjusted his bag with a grin. “You could at least pretend to like mornings, hyung.”

“I’m pretending,” Yoongi muttered, locking the car.

They walked toward the main gate together. Everyone noticed them; the brothers had a kind of effortless presence—money, looks, and attitude rolled into two contrasting forms. Taehyung’s energy filled every corner he walked into. Yoongi’s silence drew eyes without trying.

Inside the campus, groups split off toward different departments. Yoongi’s class was in the upper building with Namjoon and Hoseok; Taehyung headed for the arts wing where his friends waited.

“Don’t forget you’re supposed to meet Mom’s driver at four,” Yoongi called out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Taehyung waved. “Oh, and Jimin’s coming over later to finish our assignment!”

Yoongi’s brow arched but he didn’t answer. He’d heard that name enough times.

— — —

The literature hall hummed with quiet conversation when Yoongi walked in. Namjoon had already occupied the back row, notebook open but unused. Hoseok leaned against the window, sunlight turning the edge of his blond hair gold.

“You look half dead,” Hoseok said, grinning.

“Still alive enough to top you in the next test,” Yoongi replied, sliding into his seat.

Namjoon chuckled. “You two will never change.”

They talked until the professor entered, a tall woman with glasses balanced precariously on her nose. The chatter died down.

“Today,” she began, “we’ll continue analyzing symbolic contrasts in modern poetry—light and confinement.”

Yoongi’s pen tapped lightly against his notebook. His eyes drifted to the window, past the courtyard where groups of underclassmen crossed the lawn. A familiar figure passed below—small frame, dyed hair that caught the light like copper.

Jimin.

Even from a distance, Yoongi recognized him. Taehyung’s best friend—always polite, always smiling, too bright for someone like him. And yet, lately, Yoongi found his gaze lingering longer than it should.

Hoseok nudged him. “Spacing out already?”

“Shut up,” Yoongi murmured, eyes still on the window.

— — —

In another building, laughter erupted as Taehyung dropped into his seat beside Jimin.

“You’re late,” Jimin said, but his smile gave him away.

“I came with hyung. He drives like a grandpa.”

“Yoongi-hyung doesn’t even talk, how does he drive slow?” Jin asked from behind them, flipping through a music theory book.

Jungkook snorted. “Because he listens to depressing rap songs while driving, obviously.”

Taehyung aimed a pen at him. “Watch it, kid.”

Jimin tried not to laugh, his hand pressed over his mouth. He wasn’t sure when it started—maybe months ago—but every time Taehyung mentioned Yoongi, something shifted in his stomach. The man barely spoke, barely looked at him, and still somehow filled his thoughts when he shouldn’t.