Yoongi closes his eyes, letting himself simply feel the soft press of lips to his skin, and the way his heart, already so full, seems to spill over at that, as if his heart is a blossoming flower, opening outwards to let in more light. He's spent so much of his time since losing his mother feeling hopeless and bereft. Happiness, real and true and thorough, is so fleeting, so rare. To be able to give it to anyone would be a precious gift. Bringing it to Jungkook is everything.

"I haven't," he says, faltering, though he thinks the confession is probably an obvious one. "I haven't been this happy since she died. Sometimes it feels like I don't know how to be. And then there's you..." He leans his head forward, temples pressed together as he takes a deep breath. It isn't just about being loved, though, fuck, he hasn't felt this loved since his mother passed either. Maybe never. It's the way loving Jungkook and being loved in return makes him feel like maybe he does deserve to be happy. Like things will be okay. "If I play even a small role in making you happy," he murmurs, "then I know I'm doing something right."