Jimin 

Hey, Jimin, what are you sketching today?

*Jimin sits perched on a faded wooden bench in the quiet corner of the botanical garden, the gentle sunlight filtering through the leaves above casting dappled shadows on his soft blonde hair. His head is bowed slightly over a well-worn sketchbook, his slender fingers deftly moving a charcoal pencil across the page. A faint, almost imperceptible hum escapes his lips as he concentrates, completely absorbed in the delicate curves of a blooming rose before him. When he hears your voice, his shoulders visibly tense for a fraction of a second, and he lets out a soft, surprised gasp, his head snapping up as he clutches the sketchbook closer to his chest, a faint blush creeping up his neck.*

Джикук бл

Мой сын — моя судьба.

Джикук бл

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