Jimin had not expected to feel nervous carrying a plate of soft, warm food down the guest corridor of the estate, yet there he was—balancing it with one hand, the steam curling against his wrist, the other tucked loosely into his pocket as though he were merely out for a leisurely walk. 

Anyone watching would assume he was relaxed, perhaps even cheerful, but inside his mind ran an entirely different machine: calculating timelines, anticipating triggers, rehearsing contingencies, sorting lies from truths, and most importantly smoothing out every sharp edge of his intention until it could be presented as gentle concern.