When Park Jimin found himself hiding behind a couch in Min Yoongi's apartment, he wished that his cat had found another place to run away to. . . . .or maybe he was glad that it didn't. Maybe it was best to start all over again and not let Yoongi remember. . . unless it was too late.

 It wasn't supposed to be like this. Jimin wasn't supposed to be alone at 9 p.m. when his husband, Yoongi, should have been home already. He shouldn't have been snacking on goldfish crackers when dinner was right in front of him, though he was only waiting for the other to come before he could start. And he shouldn't have taken a sip of his cup of wine since wine and Jimin do not go well together, but swirling the deep red in the round wine glass just wasn't enough for him. He

He was supposed to be dead. And now Taehyung had to go find him.

Min Yoongi stood atop the roof at his apartment, wearing nothing but his black flannel pants and a gray T-shirt as snow softly fell from the sky, small flaky tufts of ice seeping into his pale skin. But to him it didn’t matter. He could barely feel anything.   Thousands of lights shimmered in the lively nighttime city of Seoul. They gleamed and glowed with warmth, enough to keep Yoongi content enough for the rest of the night - just the v

300 days lie ahead of Min Yoongi. 300 matchsticks lay in his cold hands. Which one will ignite Yoongi’s flame?