Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are midway through your flight, almost getting back to Seoul after so long apart. You are going back to live there for your internship, which you got very last minute as one your best friends, and the one who was supposed to come, had a family emergency which didn’t allow her to come. You are Korean, spoke solely at home too with your parents as you imigrated to Europe when you were young, but this is the first time actually visiting the coutnry you heard so much about. You were a mere baby the last time you were in your home country, so you had to live your whole life through the telling of others.

The seats on this plane are set weird for business class. You definetly wouldn’t be able to afford to sit here normally, that’s for sure. So you are very thankfull the misterius company that works with your school is paying for everything during this internship.

You unfortunetly didn’t get a window seat and had to settle to following the plane in the small map screen as you are sure that is the best enterteinment on a flight anyway. The man sitting next you arrived late almost as the doors where closing to sit down and sink into his chair.

Suddently the plane starts shaking and you grasp your seat tighter. The signs in the cabin together with the annoucement of the pilot of “fastening seatbelts and put your chairs in upright position” make you more anxious as this means more is to come. You are not a terrible flyer but you definetly cannot handle turbulances very well.

You whine as brace again as the airplane shakes and your tension only rises.

The guy in nexy to you looked up and into your seat “You don’t have to worry about it. It always happens around this time of the flight”

“Yeah, I try to tell myself that but it’s a bit hard” you close your eyes again whining more “when the plane feels like this” I look at him as he takes his mask. his face is familiar but cannot quite place it. He feels bad for you, and understands your situation.

“I am arriving in seoul for the first time in a long timeand I really dont know where to go haha do you have any tips? I am a nervous flyer I talk a lot when im nervous sorry you seemed approachable”I blurt out fast as I try to look at him with a nervous smile forming on my lips

He is suprised that you didn't recognized him and as he thinks about how to answer, he finds it cute how nervous you are

"Oh, okay. Don't worry about it, I don't mind. To which area of Seoul do you go? There are many good hotels around."

“Uhh.. I’m not sure yet? I’m going there for an internship and I’m not familiar with the areas yet, not really had a lot of time to research it either.” I tell him. He nods and thinks for a moment*

"I see. Well, if you are looking for a good location, I would recommend Hongdae. It's a trendy district and is surrounded by many hip restaurants, bars, shops and all. The clubs there are actually quite nice.”

“Cool! I heard its full of fuckboys though” You immediately want to cover your mouth with your hand for speaking maybe too much but they are rather busy with you holding for your life

He laughs a little which surprises you and he shakes his head. "Yeah, you're not wrong. Hongdae are full of boys who love to flirt." He couldn't help but smile, he could tell that you were a nervous but he thought it’s cute.  “But, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll be popular there.” He’s smiling now, clearly entertained by your bluntness. "But I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ll probably be popular there."

You raise an eyebrow. "Thanks?" You’re not entirely sure if he means popular in Hongdae or just in Korea in general, but you chuckle anyway. For Jungkook, It’s rare for him to meet someone who talks to him so naturally, without hesitation. He finds it refreshing.

"I hope to make friends soon," you add, realizing you’ve been oversharing but unable to stop yourself. "It feels weird moving across the world, but I’m happy I did it."

"That’s a good mindset. It can be hard, but it’ll be worth it. You’re brave. I like that."

You smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sorry—I won’t interrupt your flight anymore."

He shakes his head. "It’s okay. Talking to you was… nice. If you need anything, you can text me." He pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to you.

You blink down at it. That was smooth.

"You’re not one of those Hongdae boys, are you?" You narrow your eyes playfully, waving the paper slightly. "Because this? This was a pro move."

He laughed again and shakes his head no, clearly amused. “No, I’m not.” He answered and found it funny that you questioned that. He was used to have girls swarming around him but he found you different and interesting.

“Good because I dont save number of” I do air quotes as I say this “boys who love to flirt with anything that moves”

He laughs at your behaviour since he thinks it’s adorable. “Is that so? Well, I’m glad I passed your test then.” He said jokingly and tilted his head.

I smirk “well see about that….?” I say with a tone waiting for his name at the end of the sentence.

He smirks as he realized what you’re trying to do, he couldn’t deny that it’s making him a little excited. You really didn’t know him?

He said in a low voice, making sure no one else could hear them “Well, my name is Jungkook.”

I smile and raise an eyebrow. Also whispering in reply “Nice to meet you Jungkook. Why are we whispering?”

“Nice to meet you too.” He said softly before he answered your question “Well, you see, if other people found out I’m giving my private number to someone… I’m going to get a lot of questions.”

“why would it matter?” Suddenly the plane goes through a rough patch of turbulence again and I shriek grasping the seat once more.

He couldn’t help but chuckle before gently putting a hand on your hand “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s just turbulence, it’s harmless.”

“Its like jelly right?” I try to laugh it off with a joke I saw on a video before boarding

He smiled as he heard your joke, clearly amused. “Yeah, that’s right.” He replied and chuckled before continuing “The plane is made to endure the turbulence as it's completely harmless. Although it can be scary at first, but you will get used to it.”

“Thanks Mr Aviation. Are you a pilot or something?” I sit back on my seat as the seat belt sign turns off and smile at him.

“No I just travel a lot” Jungkook says brushing it off.

“wow I wish I traveled a lot. I dont think I could ever get used to turbulence even if I flew every week”  you smile but get a bit shy. I wonder what he does to travel a lot

He nods and smiles at you, understanding your feelings, “It’s okay, not everyone enjoys flying and I understand, turbulence can still be intimidating even after you get used to it.” He notices that you seemed a bit shy, and he found that adorable.

“So, you said that you’re going to Seoul for an internship? What kind of internship is it, if I may ask?”

“Well I study management and” you lean closer to also make it sound like a secret like he did before “I will work for a big music label, don’t know which one yet cause they said we will get to know where we are assigned once we arrive. So I cannot give you any free concert tickets or anything” I say it whispering trying to sound nonchalant

He chuckled and shook his head at your attempt of sounding nonchalant. Also, he was a bit surprised that you don’t know which label you’re going to be assigned yet, since it was pretty unusual for companies to let the people they hire to work with them in the dark “Oh, you’re a management student? That’s great! But, I’ve never heard of labels hiring people before telling them what label they will be working for.”

I lean closer to say it in a low voice again “You see, the nature of my job will require top secrecy, and since I havent signed any documents yet as I need my korean IDs and all…so they haven’t said which one exactly I’m going to”  you shrug “I am sure they have it all arranged but we just dont know it yet”

He leans in as well, his curiosity piqued by your answer. He found it intriguing and even a bit exciting, his expression showing interest “Top secrecy? That sounds pretty interesting. I take it that it has to do with a big Kpop label then huh?”

“Uhum … but as I say no free concerts mister”  I laugh and lean back

He laughs and shakes his head, clearly amused by your response “Oh, come on, not even one ticket? Not even a single concert?” His big eyes sparkle, and pouting a little, making a show of being disappointed as he asks for a concert ticket and even though you know he is only playing your game your heart skips a beat for the beautiful man sitting next to you.

You am about to reply as a man approaches him and whispers something in his ear which I cannot understand. You take it as my cue to be silent again and stop bothering.

He nodded at the man who approached him and whispered something in his ear. His smile dropping and he looks a bit annoyed as the man was clearly informing him about something, he shook his head but said nothing to him. He then looked back at you and notices that you just went back to playing solitaire on your phone. He watches you for a second before continuing.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to be quiet, you weren’t bothering me.” He says, his eyes glued on you

“Oh no its ok! I mean you must be tired as well since you travel so much. I dont wanna interrupt anymore.”  You smile but I also know when its my turn to stop talking

“No, really, it’s fine. Traveling a lot can be exhausting, but honestly, talking to you has been a pleasant break for me. I feel more relaxed” Jungkook reassures you, his expression soft and his eyes never leaving your face

You smile and give a small reverence with your head “I’m glad I could be of service”

He laughed softly at your little bow, enjoying the casual conversation he has been able to enjoy with you. No photos or autographs or nervous chat.

“Thank you for your service.” *he replies jokingly and smirks at you, his gaze locked on you, he was beginning to feel drawn to you, something he didn’t often feel, specially to people he just meet.

You keep smiling. Also enjoying the way Jungkook has been sharp on his tongue when replying and playing it off with you. Also, doesn’t hurt that he is gorgeous.  “So, if you dont mind me asking what was james bond on about?” I ask again pointing for the few rows back where the man who came to talk to Jungkook came from

He laughs at your comment of the “james bond” nickname for the man who approached him, finding it witty. His bodyguard would probably laugh knowing that someone called him James Bond.

He leans a bit closer and replies in a low voice so only you could hear him “Well, it’s nothing really, just some management stuff about my job…” he shrugged, downplaying the issue, not wanting the conversation to take a more serious turn. Also hoping that you would not catch on to the fact that he is in Fact an Idol and suddently change.

“hmm I see… I hope everything is alright” You offer a small supportive smile  “When you are back in Seoul what do you normally do?”

*he can’t help but return your smile, appreciating your concern. He thinks for a moment before answering your question, trying hard not to give away his job. “When I’m back in Seoul, I just do normal things like anyone else. Hang out with friends, explore the city, visit the clubs…” he replied and instantly cringing for his reply, but he also couldn’t help but be curious about you as well

I didn’t take you as I a party animal, jungkook” You say raising an eyebrow in a playfull way, teasing him for“visiting the clubs”

He feigns an offended look and places a hand on his chest, pretending to be hurt, but still with the cheakiest grin playing on his lips as he looks your way unable to hide the amusement in his eyes  “Oh really? And why is that? Don’t I look like a party animal to you?”

You laugh “hmm no you dont really… something about “Im not like the other hongdae boys” really stuck with me”

He couldn’t help but laugh as well, clearly amused by your banter. He raised an eyebrow at your comment and leaned back in his seat, a playful glint in his eyes “Well, I stand by my words, I’m not like those Hongdae boys.” he says matter-of-factly, his smile still present as he looked at you, his gaze a little intense.

“I’m glad you are not because otherwise there would be a minus chance of me adding your phone number” You also say matter-of-factly. It feels like shameless flirting and Evi, your friend who could not come, would be kicking her feet if she would be here seeing this interaction.

He couldn't help but burst into laughter at your response, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. There was something undeniably charming about the way you said it—equal parts witty and endearing, making it impossible for him to resist a smile.

“Oh, I see, so my chances would have gone down the drain if I were one of those ‘players,’ huh?” he said, his voice filled with humor, he was surprised how easy it was for him to banter back and forth with you

“yup. but I also only know you for an hour so you can still -unfortunately- prove me wrong.” we lock eyes and we both smile. before he can reply the pilot asking the cabin crew to take their seats as we are landing soon

Both of you couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment, wishing the conversation could last just a little longer.

As he buckled his seatbelt, he glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting forward. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

"Looks like we’ll have to put our chat on hold for now. But don’t worry, I’ll try not to prove you wrong." he adds, still amused and clearly enjoying your company.  Jungkook couldn’t shake off the feeling of wanting to know more about you

You smile at his comment but stay quiet as the plane begins its descent, the familiar weightless sensation making my stomach twist. The turbulence doesn’t help.  Your fingers tighten around the armrest, knuckles turning white as you stare out the window, willing myself to focus on the glittering city lights below rather than the way the plane shudders.

Jungkook notices. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something reassuring about his presence beside you, like an unspoken understanding.

The moment the wheels touch the ground, he shifts. Gone is the relaxed, playful man you’d spent the flight talking to. Instead, he moves with quiet efficiency, reaching for his facemask just as a sharp-suited man—the one I’d mentally dubbed the James Bond type—steps into the aisle. Without a word, Jungkook nods, rises from his seat, and follows him.

No one else has even unbuckled yet.

And just like that, he’s gone.

A strange emptiness settles in my chest as you watch his retreating figure. It’s ridiculous—you only just met, barely spoke beyond a few hours, and yet… you already miss his company? There was something easy about talking to him, something warm. It would’ve been nice to have a friend in Seoul.

As you sit there, still processing the abruptness of it all, you feel it.

A fleeting moment.

Just before disappearing down the jet bridge, Jungkook glances back.

His dark eyes find yours across the cabin, unreadable yet lingering, like he wants to say something but knows he can’t.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he turns and walks away, shoulders squared, slipping effortlessly into whatever world he belongs to—one that, I suspect, is very different from yours.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time our paths will cross.

Chapter Text

The day passed on, and the only thing you could think about was jungkook and how nice he was to talk to. You two had a instant connection that you havent felt even with most of your friends back home. Its true you had his phone number but it felt weird to just send a random hi. You thought it would be better if you texted him with actual question or something important. So you were waiting for that to happen, but soon you came to notice that, it would be more difficult to just come up with something and left the napkin with the handwritten note on a drawer in your new house.

Even though you were jet lagged like there was no tomorrow you still had a couple of days before you started your new job and wanted to explore a bit of the city.

You went around, did some shopping, mainly for the new appartment, and was just enjoying a nice day out. You found a coffee place not too far from your house that you will definetly be coming back again. You were reading your book when suddently you see movement from the outside and raise your eyes to catch what it was… You saw a slight crowd forming outside, curiosity piqued, you closed your book and leaned slightly forward to get a better look. The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, a mix of excited chatter and hushed speculation. A tall figure in a black hoodie and mask stood at the center of the commotion, their presence clearly the reason for all the attention.

You furrowed your brows, trying to place them. Something about their stance, the way they moved—almost too effortlessly—felt familiar. But before you could think too much about it, someone else stepped in front of your view, blocking the figure from sight.

The small crowd shifted, laughter and whispers mixing in the air, and by the time you had a clear view again, the person in the hoodie was already walking away, disappearing around the corner. You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to get up and see what the fuss was about, but ultimately decided against it.

The lady sitting next you leans in slightly and says in your direction, she probably noticed the confused look on your face.

“It’s probably an Idol. They show up at the most random places with the fanbase behind”  

“Ahh I see” I nood to hear and with a small shrug, you went back to your book, not giving to much though about it.

Reaching home you decide to create a game plan for what the few days off you have before starting should look like. Pullling your computer you start researching what are nice things to do in Seoul, and the thought of that piece of paper Jungkook just feels to burn on the drawer of your dresser. But still think its silly to text him over this. So you settle against it.  You decide that maybe going to a museum is a nice idea, and since its still during the week you plan then to do that in the afternoon and just explore the area afterwards.

Friday the plan should be, go out. Or that’s what Evi had been tormenting you to do. You even though like to party, don’t feel comfortable to do so in a city that you don’t know yet, something about the fact seems weird, and during the phone call with your Friend you decide – or she does for that matter – that you should still take yourself out and get some nice korean food.

“I am telling you, I had so many spots saved already, you can log into my account and see what you like the most” Evi says from the other side of the phone. “Theres this korean barbecue place that apparently is loved by celebrities and supposed to be the it place to eat. So if you are going somewhere you should go there”

“Sounds nice Evi” I kinda shrug back not feeling li

“What is it? I know that face” she says back

“ I don’t know, I just find it weird to not have any one here. I hope to make some friends at some point”

“Didn’t you say you met someone at the plane? Why not text him?”

“Evi, besides the point that he also has a life, what if he is a total creep?  I rather not get kidnaped in Korea… Have you never seen Taken?”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously Dude, just go out! That’s how you meet people and make new friends.”

The morning unfolded in that slow, unhurried way that made everything feel softer, like the world itself had decided to take a breath. Sunlight filtered lazily through your curtains, casting long streaks of gold across your sheets. There was no alarm blaring, no urgent schedule pulling you out of bed. At least not yet. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, the occasional distant honk of a car, or the siren of an ambulance rushing.

You stretched, savoring the weightlessness of the morning before finally pulling yourself up and after a long shower and a moment spent deciding what to wear, which eventually resulted in you picking the same as you always wear, a pair of jeans, sneakers and a light jacket, you finally stepped outside. The air carried a crispness, not quite cold but fresh, like the perfect balance between the lingering warmth of summer and the early whispers of autumn. It made you inhale just a little deeper than usual. You thought long after the call with Evi yesterday, and you decided it was good that you could start fresh even for just a bit, and even if it was just for a short time. And who knows what could come out of this opportunity.

You walked without much of a plan, letting your feet decide your destination in the morning. The streets were alive, but not in an overwhelming way, just enough movement to remind you that the city was awake, that life was happening all around you, and you welcomed it.

You decided to stop for coffee which was necessary, not only because you didn’t have a machine yet but whithout caffeine you don’t think you could function past this point. Slipping into a seat by the window, the world outside felt like a moving painting—people weaving through crosswalks, a couple laughing over something only they could hear, older ladies walking side by side carriying a bag of fresh vegetables. You sipped slowly, flipping through your book, losing yourself in the quiet comfort of the moment.

From there, the day unfolded in small, gentle moments. Until you found yourself in front of the Museum you have been wanting to visit more then you showed.

So, with your book tucked under your arm and the city humming around you, you started walking toward the Museum which was quieter than you expected for a weekday afternoon. The high ceilings and marble floors create a certain stillness, making every footstep sound deliberate. You’ve spent the last hour wandering through the exhibits, taking your time with each display. You always enjoyed visiting the museum not only to learn a new thing or two, but to also reflect on what the artists tried to express through their art.

Deciding to check out the rooftop terrace, you find the elevator tucked into the corner of the main hall. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and you step inside alone. The faint hum of movement fills the space as you watch the floor numbers light up one by one.

When the doors finally open, you step out, greeted by a soft breeze and the wide-open view of the rooftop terrace. Your focus is already shifting to the skyline stretching beyond the museum walls, so you don’t notice the person waiting just a few steps away.

Dressed in a dark hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets, he steps into the elevator just as you exit. The doors slide shut behind him without a sound, enclosing him in the same space you occupied only seconds ago.

You never turn around. Never glance back.

The moment passes, unnoticed. You too focused on getting to the railing and enjoying the new view.

The weekend arrives, and a quiet sense of anticipation fills the air. You’ve spent the last few days thinking about what Evi suggested—Korean BBQ. She made sure to remind you, several times, that you deserve it before the hectic pace of your new life sets in on Monday. And, in her usual manner, she promised that you could definitely meet new people if you went alone, giving you that much-needed push.

You chuckle at the thought of it. It’s just like her to be so optimistic about everything. The idea of diving into a night out with strangers, in a city that still feels unfamiliar, is daunting. But you don’t let yourself linger on the hesitation for too long. The thought of spending another evening alone in your apartment doesn’t seem appealing, and Korean BBQ was something you always loved back home. It could be the perfect distraction from the quiet corners of your mind, the ones still dwelling on the uncertainty of this move, and, of course, the odd, lingering presence of Jungkook in your thoughts.

Evi’s voice echoes in your mind as you get ready: “Go! Meet people! Who knows? Maybe you'll make a couple of friends!” Her enthusiasm is infectious, even if you're still not entirely sure how meeting new people is supposed to work here and you doubt that a random restaurant it will be it. It’s not the same as back home, where you could rely on shared connections, on friends you’ve known for years. Here, you’re starting fresh. Alone. But you try not to overthink it.

The restaurant is bustling when you arrive, the scent of grilling meat and spices filling the air, making your stomach growl in anticipation. You settle into a booth by yourself, the atmosphere lively but welcoming. You’re here, and that’s enough for now.

As the waiter brings over the first round of meat and sides, you pull out your phone, feeling the familiar nudge of homesickness. The screen lights up with Evi’s message, as usual, a series of excited exclamations. 

[My one and only true love] : I bet you’re going to have fun! And you will eat well! And send me all the updates later! I’m rooting for you!

You smile, trying to ignore the pang of missing her. It’s hard, being on opposite sides of the world, but you remind yourself that you’re still connected, even if it’s just through text and video calls. You send her a quick message back: 

 [you] : It’s just me tonight, but I’m doing it! Korean BBQ for the win.

The night feels like a blur of flavors and sounds—laughter, chatter, the clink of metal chopsticks, and sizzling meats on the grill. You catch snippets of conversations around you, but you stay within your own world, finding comfort in the familiarity of the food. It’s not the same as being with Evi or friends back home, but it’s enough for now.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Jungkook’s name lingers, Evi not helping by mentioning him every given chance. Making you decide his morning to add his phone number, on Kakao Talk, which resulted in you doubting if it was really him.

The profile picture seem a capture of a peacefull and private moment, where a figure, dressed in dark clothing with a beanie pulled low, kneels in the grass, his face partially obscured by a mask. He leans in close, his forehead gently pressed against the head of a large dog, their silhouettes blending into the golden light. There’s something unspoken in the image - something tender yet distant, as if caught in a world of its own.

The name on display doesn’t say a lot either but at least it can help you assume its him by the ‘JK’ letters displayed on the place of his name.

But as you take another bite, your eyes hovers over your phone once again which was resting on the table. You glance at the bubble for Jungkook, knowing that at some point, you’ll have to make a decision.

You don’t know if its one of the 4 beers you had already or just pure restlessness but you decide that you will in fact text him. And you should do it right now. I mean what could go wrong. The worst that can happen is that he doesn’t reply, right? Or worse, maybe it’ll be awkward, but you’ll live.

You type and then delete, type and then delete again. The words feel too loaded, too significant. Do you start with something casual? A simple "Hey"?
Stop overthinking this you think to yourself.

[you] : Hey! “

[you] : It’s Y/N! We met on the plane! How is it going?

You cringe the second you hit sent immediately regreting this and you decide to lock your phone. Not wanting to deal with it anymore you leaning back in your seat as if that somehow makes the moment less real. The seconds drag on, your phone still and silent. Your heart beats louder in your ears. What if he doesn’t answer at all?

Then, the screen lights up.

You grab your phone so quickly that it almost slips from your hand. Your thumb hovers over the notification, the weight of his response still registering in your mind. You swipe it open.

[JK] : Oh hey, you actually texted.

The words are short, casual. It’s not the enthusiastic response you might’ve expected, but it’s enough. He’s seen it. He’s acknowledged it.

You sit back, tugging at your lips, even though you're not entirely sure what comes next. You didn’t plan this ahead.

[you] : Yeah, I wasn’t sure if it was actually you or just a random number.Your picture doesn’t give a lot

You wait. The moments stretch. You glance around the room, feeling the warmth of the grill and the hum of the conversation around you, but this time, it’s different. You’re waiting for something else, something that might make this night feel less like a solo mission and more like an unexpected start to something.

Your phone buzzes again.

[JK] : It’s definitely me. 😆  Nice to hear from you, though. How’s the new job?

And just like that, the nerves you hadn’t even noticed fade a little. He’s actually talking to you. Like a normal person. Your heart flutters, but as it was on the plane, it feels easy.

You lean forward, tapping out your reply, wondering where this will go, but for now, the night is unfolding in a way that feels right.

[you] : Haven’t really started yet, officially starting on Monday 😅

As you wait for his response, the restaurant doesn’t seem as loud anymore. You can’t help but feel like you’ve just made a little bridge to something unknown, and maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you needed tonight.

[JK] : I hope everything goes well!

[JK] : And how is Seoul treating you?

[you] : Great, honestly! Been to a few cute coffee shops, read a bit of some books, went to a museum! Just feels weird to not have any friends in this time zone lol

[JK] : I get that

[JK] : But I am glad that you texted me, so at least we can chat, and you don’t have to feel so alone in the city!

[you] : thanks! I was actually wondering what were you doing on such a Saturday night?

Oh god, you actually feel like dying. You close your eyes. And when you open it again you see the message bubble coming and going multiple times and it honestly feels like absolute torture. Such a smooth way, smartass you scold yourself. .

You try to shake off the feeling of discomfort as you sit there, phone now laying on the table, screen off, for you to feel your shame through your reflection. You can feel the weight of it, hanging between you and the phone, almost like it’s daring you to check it. But you don’t. At least, not right away. Instead, you try to focus on the food, the gentle hiss of the grill, the savory scents swirling around you, trying to ground yourself.

But the quiet hum of conversation around you grows louder, and without meaning to, your eyes drift toward the door.

That’s when you notice them—three figures stepping out of the restaurant, laughing quietly amongst themselves. They’re not loud, not drawing attention, but the soft murmur from the nearby tables makes it clear that something’s happening. You catch snippets of conversation, voices dropped low, but not enough to hide their excitement.

"Is that really them?"

"Yeah, I think it is… they just left."

“Isn’t that—?”

You can’t help but glance over, even though you’re trying not to. The momentary curiosity gets the best of you. The group of three is calm, collected—so much so that it almost feels like they’re just regular people, out for a night out with friends. But something about the way others are talking, the hushed tones, the recognition in their eyes, tells you that they’re far from ordinary.

For a split second, you almost catch their eyes, a fleeting connection across the room. You look down quickly, pretending to focus on your meal again, but it’s impossible not to acknowledge it. They're probably idols, the thought flits through your mind, but you don’t give it much weight. It’s not like you’re here to fawn over strangers, no matter who they are.

Still, your heart beats a little faster. You tell yourself it’s just the excitement of new faces, but deep down, you know that the pull is something more. You wonder if they ever get tired of people whispering about them, watching them so closely.

You hear the soft shuffle of their footsteps as they move closer to the exit, and for a brief second, your curiosity gets the better of you again. You sneak a quick glance. The person leading the group—he looks a little familiar. His features are sharper, a little more defined. But you shake it off quickly. It could be anyone.

The group exits, and as the door closes behind them, the soft murmurs in the restaurant continue. You see a few people reaching for their phones, probably already uploading photos or trying to find out if it was them.

Your fingers hover over the phone screen, the silence between you and Jungkook’s unread message now feeling like an unbearable weight. You suddently don’t feel hungry anymore and just want to go back home and call Evi and tell her that it was just all a stupid idea. You ask for the bill and make your way back home. Maybe you did have too much too drink and its time to call it a night.

You take a deep breath, trying to clear your thoughts. And just as you finally start to refocus, your phone buzzes. It feels like you’re being pulled into some kind of emotional spiral, like a magnet drawing you in too fast. You wait a beat, then tap it open.

[JK] : Sorry, I was in the middle of something. What are you up to tonight?

For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the message, the light from your phone flashing against your face. And then it hits you—he’s replying. Finally.

But before you can get too comfortable with the relief, the anxiety from earlier surges back.

Your finger hovers over the keyboard again. You have no idea how to respond. The words feel like they’ll come out wrong, like they always do when you overthink them.  You should play it cool. Safest option.

[you] : I was just having some food 😋

[you] : going back home, so I have all the time to stress about work until Monday

[you] : Back to your Spy stuff?

Again, you don’t know what it gets to you but you decide to joke again about his mysteriousness like you did on the plane. It must be the beer. You decide to leave messaging away for a moment. As this could only lead to further embarassement.

You reach home searching for your keys. Even though the door had one of those fancy keypads to put a password you haven’t really memorized it the 6 digits yet.

Everything is dark and you decide to just slump on the couch and text Evi on how bad of an idea it actually was to text him.

You are in the middle of the rant to Evi when his initials pop up again. You stare at the screen for a moment, wondering if you should even reply. Your thumb hovers the message, but before you can do anything, your phone buzzes again, startling you a little.

You quickly check, hoping for something that’ll make this situation feel a little less ridiculous.

[JK] : Haha, not quite.

[JK] : But yeah, always on the move 😉

[JK]: Anyway, what’s stressing you out about work? Maybe I can help take your mind off it a bit.

His offer is unexpected, but not unwelcome. You weren't sure what to expect when you decided to text him, but this? It feels genuine. Like he's trying to keep the conversation going, trying to connect.

You pause, finger hovering over the screen again. You could tell him about the usual work anxiety—about starting this new chapter in a different country, feeling like everything’s up in the air. Or you could brush it off and keep the tone light.

After a brief moment of hesitation, you type your response:

[you]: It’s just the usual. New job, new place... lots of things to figure out, I guess.

You pause, thinking for a moment, then add:

[you]: But it’s not all bad. Just the nerves. You know how it is. 😅

You hit send, and for some reason, this message feels like the one that matters most. It’s the first time you’ve been this open with him, and part of you feels a little vulnerable. But it also feels... right. Like this is the way things are supposed to be, like this conversation might actually lead somewhere.

The phone buzzes again, and your heart skips a beat as you check his reply.

[JK] : I get it. Starting fresh can be intimidating, especially when you’re not sure where to start. But you seem pretty cool, so I’m sure you’ll find your way.

He adds a simple smiley face at the end, but it’s enough to make you smile too. His words are comforting, and for a moment, the weight of the day lifts.

[JK] : Plus, you already nailed the whole "spy" thing by texting me. So... looks like you're ahead of the game. 😉

Your smile widens at his playful tone. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You bite your lip, pondering for a moment.

[you] : Yeah, I guess we all need a little break from the chaos. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your spy work now. 😅

You hit send and lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly. It’s probably nothing, just one of those random conversations you’ll look back on and laugh about later. But right now, in this moment, it feels... easy.

It feels a little less lonely.

Monday comes and the weight of it presses down on you almost immediately. You jolt out of bed before your alarm even goes off, a rush of stress shooting through you. Jet lag is no longer an issue today, even though it had been a constant companion for the past week, dragging your body through foggy mornings and restless nights. You’re up now, heart pounding in anticipation of what’s ahead.

The plan for the day is clear: head to the office, sign a mountain of paperwork, and begin your new role. A role you have no idea how to actually do but are pretending you can manage. You grab the address you’d received over the weekend, fold it carefully, and tuck it into your pocket as if somehow that will make things easier.

The morning is a blur of names and numbers, meeting after meeting, all taking place in a small office tucked away on the farthest corner of a massive building. The hum of printers and the low murmur of employees on their calls almost blend into the background as you sign paper after paper - your hand cramping as you try to keep up. It feels like you’re signing your name on an endless stack, each one blending into the next until it feels like you’re signing away your very soul. At some point, you even stop paying attention to what you're actually agreeing to.

There’s a part of your brain that’s still processing all the information that’s been thrown at you today - the company rules, the regulations, the non-disclosure agreements, the reminders about the confidentiality of everything. The word "confidential" seems to echo in your head, louder than anything else. If you say the wrong thing, if you spill a single piece of information, even by accident, you might as well be signing your own resignation papers and basically a prison sentence. The paperwork is ridiculous, and half of it feels like it was written in a code you’ll never fully understand, yet you nod, smile, and keep signing.

By the time it’s over, you’ve got your new employee badge clipped to your lanyard, the weight of it suddenly making everything feel official. It feels like a strange kind of milestone, but also like a reminder of just how little you know about this new life you’ve stepped into. Your brain is overwhelmed, buzzing like a bee trapped in a glass jar, leaking information at the edges, none of which you can process.

As you walk out of the office, the weight of it all sinks in. You feel like your head is about to explode, not from stress, but from all the things you’re now supposed to know but can never actually talk about. You picture the list of things you're not allowed to share—trade secrets, proprietary information, and apparently, even talking to the wrong person in an elevator could end your time in Korea before it starts. They might as well have written “creature” in bold letters in the fine print - like you’d casually spill everything you’ve learned to someone’s cat who would then spill all the tea on their trade secrets.

You shake your head at the absurdity of it all, but the fact remains: you’re in. You're now a part of something you don’t fully understand yet. As you make your way out of the building, you glance at your new employee ID one more time, your name written beneath a logo that feels far too official for your taste. It’s real now. You’re in it. And somehow, you survived the first step. But there’s so much more to come, and you can’t help but wonder just how long it will take before you start drowning in all of it.

In the afternoon, after a quick but surprisingly pleasant lunch with the other new interns, you find yourself back in the lobby, making your way toward the elevator. The lunch had been a mix of awkward introductions and tentative smiles, each of you trying to find common ground while also silently acknowledging that, despite being in the same boat, you’re all heading in different directions. Some of the interns will be working on projects you’re sure you’ll never hear about, others will be in departments you’ll likely never cross paths with. The thought leaves you feeling a little deflated. You had imagined forming some tight-knit group, but it’s clear that’s not going to happen. Not here. Not yet, anyway.

You press the button for the 7th floor, the elevator’s chime ringing in your ears as you watch the numbers light up one by one. Your heart beats a little faster with each passing floor. You don’t know what to expect when you meet your assigned supervisor, Mr. Kim. You’ve heard his name mentioned in passing, but that’s about it. Everyone has been warning you that each department operates differently, and you have no idea what “different” might look like here.

The doors finally open with a soft ding, and you step out into a hallway that feels both familiar and foreign. The carpet beneath your feet is plush, and the walls are adorned with sleek, minimalist artwork—nothing too extravagant, just modern and clean. It almost feels like a waiting room, even though it’s not. You walk down the hall, looking for the office number you were given earlier.

When you finally reach the door with Mr. Kim’s nameplate on it, you knock softly before stepping inside.

"Come in," a voice calls from the other side.

You push the door open and step in. Mr. Kim is sitting behind a desk, his eyes lifting from a stack of papers as you enter. He’s a man in his early forties, dressed in a well-tailored suit that looks almost effortless. He looks at you with a polite, but not overly warm smile—professional, yet distant. His eyes seem to take in every detail of you in an instant, though he doesn’t make you feel judged. He’s the kind of person who probably has a thousand things going on at once, but knows how to make you feel like you’re the only one in the room.

“Ah, you must be Beatrice. I’m Mr. Kim,” he says, his voice smooth and calm, though there’s an undertone of authority there. “Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” you reply, stepping toward the desk and offering a small smile of your own. You try not to let the nerves show, but they’re there, just beneath the surface.

“Please, take a seat,” he gestures to the chair opposite him, and you sit down, your hands folding nervously in your lap.

“We’re just going to go over a few things today, and then I’ll give you a rundown of what to expect for your first project,” he says, opening a file on his desk and flipping through the papers.

You nod, trying to focus on his words, but your mind is still partially occupied with the interns from lunch. You hadn’t expected to feel a pang of sadness, but there it is—realizing that these people you’d shared a meal with would be working elsewhere, on their own paths, while you’re here, standing in front of a man you barely know, in a position that still feels so new and uncertain.

Mr. Kim continues to talk, explaining the details of your role, the expectations for the upcoming weeks, and the types of projects you'll be involved with. You nod along, absorbing what you can, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that you’re still trying to catch up to this world.

As he finishes talking, he directs you to go meet the group you will be working with. The door to the conference room slides open smoothly as Mr. Kim gestures for you to enter. You follow him into the room, your heart pounding in your chest, though you try to keep your steps steady. This is it - the real start of your role. This is where it all begins.

The room is spacious, with a large oval table in the center. Several people are already seated around it, engaged in quiet conversations or shuffling papers in front of them. You can’t help but feel a little out of place as you step into the room. You’re still adjusting to everything - your new surroundings, your role, and now, a team you’re about to become part of.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Mr. Kim announces as you enter, his voice steady and authoritative. “She’ll be working with us directly, helping with scheduling and various tasks. Y/N, this is BTS. I trust you’ll all help her feel welcomed”

You nod politely, offering a small smile, but your eyes are already scanning the room, trying to take everything in. You can’t help but notice the two people sitting next to each other on the far side of the table - one is a tall, sharply dressed man with glasses, who looks professional and composed, while the other is… him. Jungkook.

Your heart skips a beat.

His gaze lifts from the papers in front of him, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Time seems to slow, the air between you thickening. His expression is unreadable, but you notice the slightest shift in his posture, a barely noticeable stiffening. He blinks and looks away quickly, but not before you see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

You don’t allow yourself to linger on the moment. You turn your attention back to Mr. Kim, keeping your expression neutral, though you can feel the weight of that moment still hanging between you and Jungkook. 

Oh shit. 

Chapter Text

You shift your focus to the rest of the room, trying to regain some sense of control. Everyone else seems oblivious to the tension settling uncomfortably in your chest. Mr. Kim motions for you to take a seat at the table, and you do—choosing the spot farthest from Jungkook that still feels natural. You can feel him there, just out of your direct line of sight, but you keep your eyes forward. You’re here for work, you remind yourself.

“This is where we’ll start. You’ll be working with me directly, Ms. Y/L/N,” Mr. Kim says, his voice smooth and professional as he moves into the briefing. “Mostly scheduling, helping with day-to-day tasks, and organizing some of our meetings. You’ll be working closely with me, but that means that you’ll also be working directly with them.” He gestures toward the seven guys seated around the table.

You nod, doing your best to keep your expression neutral, but your thoughts are anything but steady. Jungkook hasn’t looked your way once. He sits relaxed, focused on the screen in front of him, reacting to Mr. Kim’s words with quiet nods and the occasional thoughtful hum. If he recognized you, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending otherwise.

You watch him from the corner of your eye. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. And maybe he didn’t recognize you. Maybe it’s been long enough, or maybe you just remember it more vividly than he does. You talked like 3 times? Maybe that is even a stretch. The conversations that stuck with you more than they ever might have stuck with him.

Still… there’s something in the way his jaw tenses for a split second. The smallest shift in his posture when you first entered. You could be imagining it. You probably are.

Focus. You pull yourself back into the moment, scribbling down notes like your life depends on it. The conversation flows around you—project timelines, scheduling conflicts, goals for the next quarter—but your mind keeps drifting. Jungkook remains quiet, engaged, but distant. Like every other guy at the table. Like a stranger.

And maybe that’s all he is.

The meeting finally winds down. Chairs shuffle, voices rise in casual chatter as the group starts packing up. You keep your movements slow and measured, trying not to seem flustered even though your heart’s still pounding.

Then, as you reach for your folder, you feel it—that subtle shift again. Jungkook walks past your chair, and for a moment, it feels like the air stills between you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t stop. But he nods once in your direction. Polite. Distant. Just enough to acknowledge your presence, like he would with anyone else new on the team.

You don’t know what to make of it. Maybe that’s just how he is. Maybe it was recognition. Maybe it wasn’t.

Mr. Kim claps his hands once, drawing your attention. “All right, that’s it for today. Y/N, stay behind for a few minutes. Everyone else, you’re free to go.”

You stay in your seat, pretending the knot in your chest isn’t growing tighter. The room clears. Jungkook doesn’t look back.

Mr. Kim gestures for you to come over. “Y/N, I just wanted to go over a few more things. We’ll start your tasks tomorrow, but for now, any questions?”

You shake your head, managing a small smile. “No questions, Mr. Kim. I’m ready to get started.”

“Good,” he says, handing you a folder. “I’ll send you some more details over email, and we’ll catch up tomorrow morning to go over your tasks.”

You thank him and leave, folder tucked under your arm, nerves still buzzing beneath your skin. You try not to think too hard about Jungkook. About whether he recognized you and chose not to say anything—or if he really didn’t remember you at all.

Either way, one thing’s clear: this isn’t going to be as easy as you thought.

Your second day starts with your heart pounding and your breath catching in your throat as you clock in. You do your best to steady yourself, rolling your shoulders back, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your shirt. . You do your best to steady it as you swipe your ID and clock in.

You’re here to work, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

The morning drifts by in a rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar. A few members pass by your desk to say hello—short, polite greetings that are more routine than personal. Everyone’s friendly, sure, but busy. No one lingers.

By lunchtime, you’re halfway through your onboarding when you finally push away from your desk, blinking away screen fatigue. You’re scrolling through your phone as you head down the hallway, half-distracted, when you turn a corner and bump into someone.

A surprised breath escapes you as your phone wobbles in your hand—but before it can fall, a hand reaches out to steady you by the elbow.

“Whoa—careful,” a smooth voice says, laced with laughter. “You always move this fast, or am I just lucky today?”

You look up and find Jimin standing close, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He’s holding a half-peeled tangerine in one hand, but it’s not the fruit that catches your attention—it’s him.

His scent hits you first: something unexpectedly soft and warm, like vanilla or sugar, but layered with something darker underneath—subtle, smooth, almost like whiskey left to settle in old wood. It clings to him in the way perfume never quite could. Like it belongs to him, like it is him.

You blink, trying to regain your footing. “Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

His smile widens just slightly. “I noticed.”

You step back, embarrassed, but he doesn’t move

“Not that I’m complaining,” he adds, biting into a slice of fruit. “Most people take a few days before they crash into me in the hallway. You’re ahead of schedule.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Guess I like to make an impression.”

“Oh, you’re doing great,” he says, voice light but eyes steady. “Top-tier hallway collision.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for something to pass between you—something amused, curious, maybe a little interested. He leans casually against the wall, unhurried, like this is just where he felt like being today.

“You settling in okay?” he asks, tone still easy, but more sincere now.

You nod. “Yeah. Everyone’s been really kind so far.”

“Good.” He pops the last slice of tangerine into his mouth, then tilts his head slightly. “Still smiling on day two—that’s a good sign.”

You smile, maybe a bit softer than before. “It’s good. Trying my best.”

“Good,” he echoes, popping a piece of tangerine into his mouth. “If it ever stops being good, or just gets too… much, you can always find me by the snacks. Or near a window dramatically staring into the distance, depending on the mood.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, your voice quieter now, but still amused.

He tosses the peel into a nearby bin without looking and gives you a lazy little wave as he starts walking backward. “Don’t be a stranger.”

And just like that, he turns the corner and disappears.

But even after he’s gone, his scent lingers in the air—sweet, soft, and just a little dangerous. Like something you might dream about and wake up still tasting.

By mid-afternoon, the office is buzzing in that post-lunch lull where people are either too energized or too sleepy to stay quiet. You’re organizing a stack of papers for Mr. Kim when your email dings with a calendar update. You glance at the subject line:

"Recording Session - Studio A. Please attend."

Your eyebrows knit together. This wasn’t on your schedule earlier.

A quick message from Mr. Kim pops up in your inbox seconds later:

Y/N, I want you to start shadowing some of the production-side logistics. Head to Studio A, take notes, get familiar with how sessions are run. Don’t worry, you’re not expected to do anything yet—just observe for now.

You grab your tablet and notebook, heart picking up again as you make your way through the maze of halls. You’ve only passed Studio A once during your tour—it was quiet then, doors shut, lights dim. Now, music seeps into the hallway before you even reach the door. Bass low and steady.

You knock lightly before pushing the door open.

The space is larger than you expected. Dark walls, ambient lighting, and a glass panel separating the control room from the recording booth. Inside the booth, someone’s already in the middle of a take—voice rich and smooth, floating effortlessly over the track.

You freeze for a second when you realize it’s Jungkook.

He’s standing in front of the mic, sleeves rolled up, headphones on, head slightly tilted as he sings with his eyes closed. The track behind him is unfamiliar—low, sultry, almost haunting—but it fits him too well.

You weren’t expecting this.

He looks… different here. Less polished, more raw. Focused in a way you haven’t seen yet. And for a moment, you forget you’re supposed to be invisible in the room.

You feel someone step beside you, and Jimin appears with a quiet nod. “Didn’t think they’d throw you into the deep end this early.”

You blink, trying to look casual. “I’m just observing.”

“Mm. Good place to start,” he says, leaning his arms on the back of one of the chairs, watching the booth through the glass. “He’s recording something new. No one’s heard it yet, except maybe Namjoon and the sound engineer.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, letting yourself sit down beside him.

Another take starts. Jungkook’s voice dips into a deeper register, laced with something unfamiliar—emotion, maybe. Or memory.

Suddenly, halfway through the verse, he stumbles. Not vocally—his tone is fine—but he falters just slightly. Opens his eyes. Looks through the glass.

And his gaze lands right on you.

Your breath catches.

It only lasts a second—maybe less—but it feels longer. His expression doesn’t change, not really. No shock. No flicker of recognition. Just… that same calm, unreadable focus. And then he looks away, gesturing for the track to start again.

The session continues, and you scribble down notes to distract yourself, but that one moment stays burned into your mind—unexpected, quiet, and somehow louder than anything else you’ve heard all day.

Not much later, the session winds down slowly.

Jungkook removes his headphones, murmuring something to the engineer, his voice low and muffled through the glass. The room starts to shift back into motion—buttons clicked, files saved, people standing and stretching. You pretend to be preoccupied with your notes, scribbling more than necessary, anything to avoid making eye contact.

Jimin stretches beside you with a soft sigh. “Not bad for your first backstage experience, huh?”

You hum in response, still staring down at your page. “He’s… talented.”

“Mm,” Jimin says, amused. “That’s one way to put it.”

Before you can ask what he means by that, the door to the booth opens and Jungkook steps out. His hair’s a little tousled, his sleeves still rolled up, a water bottle tucked under his arm. He walks straight past you both to speak briefly with the producer—but you feel it. That quiet awareness of someone being near. The slight shift in the air.

Jimin notices it too, judging by the way his head tilts slightly as he watches Jungkook from the corner of his eye. But he doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Mr. Kim arrives a few minutes later, clapping his hands together. “Great work, everyone. Y/N, you can wrap up your notes and send me the summary later. Thanks for sitting in.”

You nod, standing and gathering your things quickly. You’re about to head out when Jimin gently bumps his shoulder into yours.

“Careful walking down those hallways,” he says softly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Never know who you might crash into.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head, and step into the hall. It’s empty now, quiet in a way that feels like a breath finally released.

You’re halfway down the corridor when you hear footsteps behind you.

You turn, and there he is—Jungkook.

He’s walking slower than you expected, expression unreadable but calm. Not intense. Not distant. Just... quiet.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stops a few steps away, looking at you like he’s still trying to decide something.

You grip your tablet a little tighter, not sure if you should speak first.

Then he nods—barely—and says, “Thanks for sitting in.”

His voice is smooth, low, and polite. Nothing more. Nothing less.

You swallow. “Of course. You sounded... really good.”

A beat. Then a soft, almost imperceptible lift at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks.”

And that’s it. No lingering stare, no knowing glance. He turns and walks past you, one hand slipping into his pocket like this was just another normal end of afternoon.

But as you stand there, heart tapping quietly against your ribs, you realize something:

You still don’t know if he recognized you.

But he’s really, really good at making you question it.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the edge of your bed, hair piled messily on top of your head, laptop open as you review the notes from the day. The studio session still replays in your mind in flashes—Jungkook’s voice, that glance through the glass, the moment in the hallway.

You sigh, stretching your arms overhead before pulling up your inbox to send the session summary to Mr. Kim.

But that’s when you notice it.

A new email. No subject. Sent just a few minutes ago.

You almost skip it, assuming it’s junk—until you notice the sender.

It’s from a private company address you don’t recognize. But what catches your eye is the name:
JK_ProdTeam

Your heart skips.

You click.

Inside, there’s no text. No greeting. No explanation. Just a single audio file attached, titled:

“Alt_Take_03_mixdown.mp3”

You hesitate, hovering your finger over the trackpad.

It could be an accident—maybe someone from the production team mistook you for a staff contact. But you’ve only been here two days. You’re not even on the official production list yet.

Still, curiosity wins.

You click play.

The audio file is short. Raw. No polished mix, no harmonies — just Jungkook’s voice and a quiet, looping piano.

You listen with your heart in your throat.

The first verse is familiar, close to what you heard in the studio earlier. But the second verse… shifts.

He sings softer now, like it’s just for him.

And then you hear it:

“Didn’t expect your shadow to pass me again / I thought the silence would be forever.”

The words land like a dropped pin in your chest. You sit frozen, barely breathing.

You’re almost sure this wasn’t in the original version. At least… not the one you were meant to hear.

But you can’t be sure. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe it means nothing.

Your stomach flips.

You pause the track, heart racing now.

Was this... meant for you?

Or is it just a coincidence? Accidentally forwarded?

You glance at the sender again, debating whether to reply. Ask. Pretend you never saw it. Or maybe… listen one more time, just to be sure.

But you don’t press play again.

Instead, you close the lid of your laptop slowly, pulse still fluttering in your throat.

You’re not sure what this means. Or if it means anything.

But that line?
That line sounded like a memory—one he didn’t think anyone else would hear.

The next three days passes like any other. You try to focus on your tasks - organizing schedules, setting up meetings, helping wherever you’re needed - but something about Jimin’s presence lingers.

It starts innocently enough. He stops by your desk every so often, offering a smile and a quick comment here and there. Sometimes he just lounges on his phone next to you. But nothing out of the ordinary.

But then, during lunch, as you’re sitting at a table near the window, you feel the weight of his gaze on you again.

Jimin slides into the chair across from you, his expression soft but mischievous.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” he says, his voice teasing, but his eyes searching, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Is something on your mind?”

You force a smile, trying to sound casual. “Just tired. A lot of things to do.”

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head as if he’s considering you closely. “I get that. But you know, if you ever need someone to talk to... I’m always around.”

The words are innocent enough, but the way he says them - soft and sincere, yet with that familiar playful edge - makes you pause.

Something in his tone feels different today. More intentional, maybe.

He’s not quite flirting like before, but there’s still that warmth in his voice, that glint in his eyes. You wonder if he’s being just a little more forward than he usually is, or if you’re just reading too much into it.

Before you can respond, he winks. A little too casually, like it’s nothing at all, but the moment lingers longer than usual.

But as Jimin gets up to leave, you notice him glance back over his shoulder with that same playful smile - but there’s something about it now that makes you want to shake yourself back into reality.

The office is quieter than usual on Friday afternoon, with people heading out early for the weekend. The usual hum of activity is replaced by the soft sound of footsteps and muffled conversations, but you’re too absorbed in finishing up some last-minute tasks to really notice. Your mind is still spinning from the week’s events, your thoughts tangled in a mix of confusion and anticipation. Then, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, the sound familiar enough to make you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see someone else.

But it’s Jungkook.

He’s standing there, casually leaning against the doorframe, his posture relaxed yet somehow carrying a sense of purpose. His usual calm demeanor hides something else — a spark in his eyes, a glint that makes your heart skip a beat. You try to keep your composure, to ignore the way your pulse quickens at his presence, but it’s harder than you thought.

You’ve been used to seeing him around all week, but something about today feels different. His eyes meet yours, and he doesn’t look away. You’re not sure why he’s come over, but you can’t help feeling that whatever he says next is going to make everything feel different.

“You know,” he begins, his voice soft yet deliberate, drawing your attention completely. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something all week.”

You hesitate for a moment, your heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. You set your pen down carefully, trying to steady your hands, and look up at him. “Yes? How can I help?”

Jungkook steps into th room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sends a wave of tension through the air. He crosses his arms, his gaze still fixed on you, as if he’s sizing you up in a way that makes your insides flutter nervously.

“I’ve been watching you all week,” he says, his voice low with a teasing edge that you don’t quite expect. “You really didn’t recognize mefrom the airplane, did you?”

Your heart stutters for a second, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You didn’t expect him to bring it up, especially not like this. But you don’t let your guard down. You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your cool. “I really didn’t know,” you answer honestly, your voice steady despite the way your heart is thumping in your chest. “I had no idea.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t. You were just... another person on the plane to me. I you didn’t recognize me either when I arrived. ”

A soft chuckle escapes him, and he steps closer, the space between you both feeling smaller with each movement. Jungkook shakes his head, as his playful grin returns. “You really thought I wouldn’t? Y/N, if you think that I didn’t recognize you the second you walked through that door, you could not be more wrong.”

There’s a moment of silence where your heart pounds in your ears, and the world feels like it’s standing still for a second. You just honestly didn’t think he remembered you. The idea of him being the person you thought he was, someone untouchable, had made you second guess everything. But now, in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, all of that uncertainty is starting to fade.

“Well,” Jungkook says, his tone lightening again, a teasing grin to his face, “now that that’s out of the way, I’ll let you get home. But I’ll see you Monday, yeah?”

You nod, still trying to process everything he just said. “Yeah. Monday.”

As he turns to leave, the soft click of the door behind him sounds louder than it should. You sit there for a moment, your mind racing as you try to make sense of everything. The conversation, burning a whole on your skull.

Your phone feels like it’s burning in your hand as you stare at it, debating whether to call Evi. You’re itching to talk to her about everything that’s been happening, but you have no idea how to tell her. How do you explain it all without accidentally breaking one of the million confidentiality agreements you signed?

You imagine telling her: “Hey, remember that hot guy from the plane that I had to drink to get the courage to text? Well, turns out, he’s my boss. Big B, and an international idol. The same one who has girls fighting over his number – which is casually sitting on my phone. But anyway, how’s your day?”

You laugh to yourself, but it’s a nervous laugh. You wish it were that easy.

As if through whatever type of which craft she practices, your phone lights up with her picture as her call comes through. Your stomach flips, and with a deep breath, you answer. "Hello?" Her image showing up on your screen.

"Y/N!" Her voice rings through, filled with that familiar enthusiasm you’ve missed. "I’ve been dying for this call! You’ve got to tell me everything about the new job! How’s it going? Give me the details!"

You rub your forehead, glancing out the window at the city skyline. How do I even begin?

“Well... it’s not exactly what I expected," you start, trying to sound nonchalant. "I mean, I knew it was going to be big, but... maybe not this big."

Evi’s voice sharpens immediately. “What do you mean by that? What’s going on? Who are you working for? Spit it out, girl.”

You hesitate, your mind racing. This is where it all starts to get complicated. "Well, about that," you begin, trying to sound calm. "You remember that guy from the plane, the one I was all nervous to text? The guy I had to drink to get up the courage to text?"

You hear her breath hitch on the other end. "Wait, wait. Are you telling me he’s... your boss now?" she asks, disbelief lacing her voice.

You chuckle dryly. “Hypothetically speaking, if he’d be an international idol. A big one.” You pause for a second, trying to gauge how this is all going to land. “But I didn’t think he remembered me. I mean, why would he?”

Evi doesn’t say anything for a moment, probably taking it all in. Then, she bursts into laughter. “Oh my god. Are you telling me the hot guy from the plane—the one you were too nervous to talk to- is an idol, actually remembers you and is your boss now?!”

You wince, rubbing your forehead. “Well, hypothetically speaking he would be my boss’s boss.”

Her laughter dies down, but you can hear her grin through the phone. “Y/N, girl, you are living my dream. But seriously, this is wild. So who is it? Because I’m dying to know. This is like a drama, but for real.”

You groan, letting your head fall back against your chair. "I don’t know. They might show up to your house to kill you if I tell you who it is/"

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Evi speaks, her tone suddenly serious. “Ok. I’ll drop some names and you just nod?"

You freeze, blinking in shock. "Wait, what?"

“Stray kids?”

I frown and that for her is enough of an answer
 
“What gen are they?” She continues to try to guess

“Evi, how would I even know? You are the one obessed with Kpop”

“Is it Seventeen? TXT? Is it even a group?” she stops for a moment clearly trying to connect all the dots and coming up with another guess “Is it BTS?”

“Evi, it doesn’t matter I could not tell you even if I really wanted to”

“Oh. MY. GOD.” You notice her screen being almost being thrown around as she screams and squirms on the other end “IT IS FUCKING BTS. HOLY SHIT YOU LUCKY BITCH!” She continues screaming and laughing.

“Evi, You are making assumptions over nothing it really is not – “ She cuts you off swiftly

“So hypothetically speaking, the guy you met on the plane, and you didn’t recognize is in BTS and now you work with him everyday?”

You groan, feeling the weight of her excitement press down on you. "Evi, calm down, you’re making me stressed out. It’s not like that. I can’t tell you anything specific. I really, really can’t."

But Evi, as usual, doesn't listen. "I don't care! Just the idea of it being BTS is insane! Y/N, do you even know who you’re talking about right now? Do you understand what you just said?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to keep yourself from losing it. “I know what I said, but I’m not confirming anything. This is literally not something I can talk about. I signed my life away to this job. If anyone finds out, I could get in so much trouble. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to say anything, even if I wanted to."

She goes silent for a moment, and you can almost hear her brain processing the information. Then, in a much softer tone, she says, “So... you’re saying you can't tell me, but you’re Hypothetically working with one of the biggest names in the world right now. And he's the guy from the plane."

You’re biting your lip now, frustrated but also kind of in awe of how quickly she’s pieced it together. You don’t even want to think about how close she is to figuring it out.

“Yes,” you mutter. “And it’s way more complicated than that. I didn’t think he even recognized me. I thought I’d just be some regular person to him. But here we are."

Her voice drops to a whisper, almost like she’s scared to say it out loud. “You’re really working with BTS, huh? Just... just don’t do anything crazy, alright? This is your job now, Y/N. Don’t let the craziness mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, trying to steady your nerves. “I know. It’s just... everything’s so much. He’s... he’s normal one minute and then he’s not the next. I never imagined anything like this could happen."

Evi lets out a little laugh, her excitement still lingering. “Girl, you’re living in the plot of a K-drama. Just don’t fall for him too hard, okay? I know how these things go.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Don’t worry, I’m not the one getting my hopes up here. And anyway, he is an Idol. There are probably girls out there who would commit murder to breath the same air as him for longer than 5 min.”  I say “hypothetically” I try to add for plausible deniability.

There’s a long pause before she says softly, “Yeah, but you’re still gonna have to tell me everything you can, okay? I’m living vicariously through you right now, so I need all the details, even if I have to swear off celibacy for the rest of my life.”

You can’t help but laugh, though it’s more out of nerves than anything. “Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. But for now, let’s just... let’s just keep this between us. You know how these things go. I can’t risk anyone else finding out.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll zip it,” Evi says dramatically. “But just know this: If you’re really working with BTS, you’re gonna have to at least send me one picture. Just one.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I’ll see what I can do. But for now, it’s just... just keep it quiet, okay? No crazy theories, no going wild. I need to focus.”

“Got it,” Evi says with a wink you can practically hear.

You hang up the phone, your heart still racing. The weight of everything is starting to sink in. You have no idea what’s going to happen next, but for the first time in days, you feel like a weight went of your shoulder.

Chapter Text

Evi called about thirteen more times on Saturday.

Each time your phone lit up with her name, it was like bracing for impact. The first time was at 9:42 a.m., and you stupidly answered, thinking maybe someone had died. Cause would she be awake in the middle of the night in her own timezone?

Instead, it was her voice—sugary-sweet and absolutely unhinged:
“How is Yoongi? Like, in person. Is he as emotionally unavailable as he looks or are those just his stage eyes?”

You’d groaned so loudly your neighbor probably heard it through the wall. “Evi. Goodbye.” Click.

That should’ve been the end. It wasn’t.

The next call came fifteen minutes later.
“I’m serious. Are they actually that pretty? Like normal human pretty or are they glowy and like Gods in real life too?”

You hung up again.

Another call.
“Okay but like… if I write a letter—nothing weird, just, you know, soul-bearing fan admiration, could you casually slide it to Namjoon? Like leave it near a coffee machine or something?”

That one got a hard click and an eye roll so dramatic it gave you a headache.

But it didn’t stop.

By the eighth call, you stopped saying anything altogether and just sent her straight to voicemail.
By the tenth, you blocked her calls — temporarily. You were still polite. Ish. Or at leas that’s what you keep telling yourself

She texted instead.

[My one and only true love] : Y/N, you’re literally the key to world peace right now. Don’t be selfish.
[My one and only true love] : Did you breathe the same air as Jungkook today? Did he smile? Did his eyes crinkle? I just need to know if they crinkled.
[My one and only true love] : I KNOW YOU READ THIS.

You tossed your phone across the bed and buried your face in a pillow.

The worst part wasn’t even her questions. It was the fact that you wanted to answer them. You wanted to tell her how surreal it was. How Yoongi was intimidating at first but warm in a blink-and-you-miss-it way. How Namjoon gave a small, surprised nod when you held the studio door open. How Jimin was... flirtier than expected. And how Jungkook-

Your phone buzzed again. You reach over lazily, fully expecting to flip Evi off for the last time. But then you see it: Park Jimin

Your heart stumbles just a little and you have no clue why.

[Jimin] : Are you surviving the weekend, or should we send a rescue team?

You snort. Of course he would text like that.

Over the past week, you’d found yourself growing unexpectedly closer to Jimin. He had a way of just being around. He was never imposing, but always present, sliding into conversations with that easy charm of his. He’d casually ask about your day, your favorite coffee order, the friends you missed back home, or what music you listened to when no one was watching. Sometimes, he’d sit nearby and let comfortable silences fill the space, occasionally staring out the window like he was watching something only he could see.

You type back:

[you] :  Barely. I’ve had 13 missed calls from my best friend who may or may not be trying to bribe me into smuggling a letter to Namjoon.”

A bubble pops up immediately.

[Jimin] : Namjoon-hyung? She has good taste. 😂
[Jimin] : What did you tell her?

You pause, then:

[you] : I told her she’s delusional and hung up. Then she called again to ask if Yoongi bites.

[Jimin] :  Okay now I have questions.

[Jimin] :  What’s her theory on me?

You can’t help but smile at your screen. Of course he would like to know. 

[you] :  She hates you. Says you're the worst.

You send it and you can immediately imagine him frowning and pouting on the other end of his screen. 

[you] : She thinks you’re the dangerous flirt. Her words, not mine.

Three dots appear, disappear. Then reappear.

[Jimin] : Dangerous, huh? That’s a first. Most people just call me cute.

You roll your eyes.

[you] : Don’t let it go to your head.

[Jimin] : Too late. I’m dangerously flattered.

You laugh quietly, kicking your blanket up over your legs. It’s strangely comforting. Light, teasing, normal. Almost what you felt while talking to Jungkook when you didn’t know he was… well, Jungkook. He has been treating you with a cold shoulder until yesterday, when he suddently decided to mess with your head even more by saying all that stuff.

Then comes the next message:

[Jimin] : Anyway, just wanted to check in. You’ve had a crazy first week. Everything okay?

Your fingers hover over your screen for a moment. It feels like a casual question, but you know Jimin, not long, but long enough, to know he wants to know something else.

[you] : “It’s a lot. Not bad, just... a lot. Still wrapping my head around everything.”

[Jimin] : Yeah, I figured. You’re handling it better than most would, though. The last girl almost had a heart attack before she even entered the building.

That makes your chest tighten a little. You weren’t expecting sincerity after all the playful back and forth.

[you] :  Thanks. That means more than you know.

[Jimin] : Don’t overthink stuff too much, okay? If you need someone to talk to... I’ve been told I’m a great listener. 😉

You shake your head, smiling.

[you] :  I’ll keep that in mind. But only if you promise not to flirt mid-therapy.

[Jimin] : No promises. I multitask like a pro

You toss your phone onto the pillow beside you and cover your face with your hands, grinning like a complete idiot.

God help you.

Because if Jungkook made your heart stumble, Jimin made it dance.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Jimin] : So

[Jimin] :   you doing anything this weekend?

You stare at the message. Your brain screeches to a halt.

Wait - what?

You sit up a little too fast, nearly knocking your phone off the bed.
This is not happening. Or at least not happening how you think it is. You try to play it off.

[you] : Why?

[you] :  Planning to send that rescue team after all?

He replies instantly.

[Jimin] : Was thinking more like… coffee? A walk? Something to help you forget your job involves dodging fangirl mail and existential dread.

You blink at the screen, rereading it. Once. Twice.

[Jimin] : . If that helps you breathe.

You don’t answer right away.

Because your first instinct is to say yes. Not because any other reason then hes just been a friend lately and he’s nice to be around. Having a friend is nice and you are craving the company if anyone at your side. Even though that person is Jimin.
But your second is to slam your phone face down and pretend you never saw the message.

[you] : Maybe that's not such a good idea.

And then immediately regret sending it. He takes a moment.

[Jimin] : Too soon?

[you] : No, not that.
[you] : It’s just… you’re not just anyone. You’re… you.
[you] : And I don’t know if you are aware, maybe hanging out with a girl would be putting my head in a spike withing 10 min..

He doesn’t leave you hanging long, but the wait for his new message to show up feels like forever.

[Jimin] : Y/N, I’m not announcing it on Weverse.

[Jimin] : Plus, its just coffee.

[Jimin] : And maybe muffins.

[Jimin] : Unless you're anti-muffin, in which case this friendship is doomed.

[Jimin] : Its just… a moment to breathe. That’s all.

You bite the corner of your lips as his chat bubble comes on and off. Like he is unsure of what he is typying and keep rewriting the message.

 [Jimin] : Maybe its more for me then you, to be honest.

You stare at the screen, your fingers frozen over the keyboard.

You want to believe it’s that simple. That he is that simple.
But nothing about this job has been simple since the moment you walked in. And the man behind the other phone, of all people, definitely isn’t.

[you] : I just don’t want to do something that ends up hurting you later.
[you] : Or makes people talk. I’ve seen what they do to girls who so much as blink near you guys.

The typing bubbles appear, then vanish. Then appear again.

[Jimin] : I get it.
[Jimin] : I really do.
[Jimin] : But I also know what it’s like to feel like you're constantly holding your breath.
[Jimin] : I’m not trying to make things complicated. I’m just trying to be your friend.

You bite your lip, tension winding in your chest.

Friend.
Right.

Just friends.

You glance around your room like the walls might offer advice. They don’t.

[you] : …Okay. But it has to be low-key. Like, “no makeup, hoodie, cap pulled low” kind of low-key.

[Jimin] : That was the plan.
[Jimin] : We’re not going to Paris.
[Jimin] : We’re going to a café that doesn’t even serve milk alternatives.

You huff a soft laugh despite yourself.

[you] : Fine. But if this turns into a headline, You are paying for my moving to Iceland.

[Jimin] : Cool. I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights. 😉
[Jimin] : Pick you up at 11?

[you] : 11 works. You better not bail.

[Jimin] : Please. I put “dangerous flirt” on my calendar and everything.

You roll your eyes toss your phone onto the bed and fall back with a sigh that turns into a small, helpless smile.

Just friends.
Just coffee.

Totally manageable.

...Totally.

Sunday. 10:58 a.m.

You’ve changed outfits three times.

Not because you’re trying to impress him - no, definitely not - but because “low-key” is an annoyingly vague instruction when the guy you’re grabbing coffee with is literally Park Jimin. You’ve quickly came to realize theres not a single moment of the day that he is not stunning. Sometimes cuter then he is hot but stunning nonetheless.

You settle on jeans, a hoodie, and a cap pulled so low you can barely see your own reflection. Besides it being what you had previously agreed on it was perfectly invisible.
Totally inconspicuous… if no one looks at your face. Or voice. Or existence.

Your phone buzzes.

[Jimin]: I’m outside. If you don’t come out in 60 seconds, I’m filing a missing person report.

You peek out the window and immediately duck back down like you’re in some kind of spy movie.

He’s leaning casually against a nondescript black car, wearing oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap, dressed in all-black with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows they look good doing absolutely nothing.

Cool. Great. This is fine. You’re calm. You’re so calm. Since when you got the nervs around him? Maybe it was Evi getting to your head.

You grab your phone and bag and hurry down, shoving your keys into your hoodie pocket and whispering a quick prayer to the gods of awkward social encounters.

When you reach the car, he spots you instantly and grins - this slow, cheeky thing that spreads across his face like sunshine and amusement rolled into one.

“Well, well. You clean up nice for someone trying to go incognito.”

You scoff, tugging your cap down lower. “I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon.”

He opens the passenger door for you. “A cute raccoon. Very urban. Very now.”

You roll your eyes but get in anyway. The car smells like citrus and fabric softener and something unmistakably him. It’s dangerously comforting.

As he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb, he glances at you sideways.

“Nervous?”

You snort. “What, about being seen with you? Not at all. I thrive on public scrutiny and mild panic attacks.”

He laughs, warm and unguarded. “Well, good. Because we’re going to the world’s chillest café. I doubt other people truly even know about that place. Just overpriced muffins and the worst coffee chairs in Seoul.”

You raise a brow. “Are the muffins worth the spinal injury?”

He grins. “Guess you’ll find out.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re seated in a tiny café tucked between a used bookshop and an abandoned florist. True to his word, it’s quiet. Unassuming. The kind of place where no one looks twice. Especially not at two hoodie-wearing, sunglasses-inside weirdos sharing a corner booth and a plate with 3 different types of muffins.

“This place is cute,” you say, peeling the lid off your coffee.

“Told you.” Jimin sips his drink and scrunches his nose. “Still terrible coffee though.”

You laugh. Taking a sip of your own coffee. It indeed is terrible. “Then why do you come here?”

He shrugs, looking out the window for a beat before glancing back at you. “It’s quiet. And I like the light.”

You follow his gaze, drawn to the soft warmth of the sunlight spilling through the glass. It pours in gently, casting golden stripes across the table, dancing over the worn wood, glinting off the rim of your cup, and settling in a delicate pattern across the backs of his fingers. His hand doesn’t move—he just lets the light touch him like he’s used to observing rather than participating.

It’s peaceful. Still.

And it hits you, in a way it hadn’t before. This is probably what peace looks like to him. Not the loud cheers of crowds or the frantic energy that buzzes around his name, not the stages or the flashing lights or the cameras always trying to catch him mid-breath. Just this. A quiet table. Warm sunlight.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, nudging your foot under the table, “you’re not overthinking again, are you?”

You jolt, blinking. “I - no. Maybe. Just... it’s weird.”

“What is?”

“This whole thing…” you motion off to the air around you and looking at him for some sort of understanding but finding none “This whole week. It’s like I accidentally walked into someone else’s life and now I’m just... pretending I belong here. Crazy imposter syndrome I guess.”

Jimin’s expression softens, all teasing vanished. He leans in a little, voice lower.

“You do belong here, Y/N. You didn’t walk into someone else’s life. I believe we all are exactly where we need to be. Maybe we don’t know yet the purpose but eveything has a reason.”

You blink at him. Taking in his expression as he continues to sip his coffee.

Then shake your head laughing. “That was surprisingly profound for someone who puts ‘dangerous flirt’ on his calendar.”

He grins again, flashing those trademark eye-crinkles that Evi would absolutely scream over.

“Multitalented,” he says with a wink. “Told you.”

You’re halfway through your muffin—blueberry, surprisingly good—and mid-story about Evi trying to flirt with a guy at a gas station while wearing a werewolf onesie when the café door swings open with a soft ding. You don’t pay attention at first, until Jimin stops laughing and glances over your shoulder.

It’s subtle, but you came to know him well enough now to clock it.

You twist in your seat, turning toward the entrance.

And your stomach drops.

There, framed in that golden end of morning sunlight and looking like he walked straight out of a fever dream, is Jungkook. Black hoodie, sleeves pushed up. Messy hair under a beannie. Bag slung over one shoulder like he’d just rolled out of bed and remembered he existed. He looks sleep-soft, a little puffy around the eyes, but still unmistakably him. And unfortunately for you, unfairly attractive. He doesn’t spot you at first. Greets the barista with a quiet, “Morning,” and a smile that barely tugs at the corner of his mouth.

After placing his order, his eyes flick to the seating area.

And land on you.

He pauses. Just for a second. His expression doesn’t shift much. Jungkook is always hard to read when he wants to be. But there’s the smallest flicker of something in his eyes. Like surprise and amusement and-

Oh god hes walking towards you.

You don’t know whether to panic or laugh at how surreal this moment feels. There’s no way he could have known you were here, right? You were just talking to Jimin like everything was completely normal.

You try to look cool. Nonchalant. Why are you that bothered anyway? You mentally cringe at yourself. Jimin, however, is grinning like a Cheshire cat, clearly having caught the slight shift in your expression.

“Oh,” Jimin says casually, glancing over. “Looks like someone’s popular.”

You try to hide the flush rising in your cheeks, glancing back at Jungkook. He’s almost there now, and your stomach tightens. It’s ridiculous. This is just... another chance encounter, right? Another coincidence. Except, your heart doesn’t seem to think it’s a coincidence. It’s beating a little faster, and you are totally blaming it on the coffee and sugar treats you are having.  

“Didn’t know this place had a fan club,” he says, stopping just beside your seat.

Your pulse skips.

Jimin leans back in his seat, one arm slung casually over the back of the chair. He’s smiling, but it’s a touch cooler now. “Didn’t know you were stalking my Yelp reviews.”

Jungkook huffs a small laugh, eyes still on you. “Didn’t know I needed to.”

You try not to fidget under his gaze.

“We’re just grabbing coffee,” you say, keeping your voice neutral.

There’s a pause. Heavy, weighted.

You glance at Jimin, but he’s watching Jungkook now with a look you can’t quite decipher.

Jungkook clears his throat. “Mind if I join?” He grins, leaning against the table, his gaze flickering to Jimin for a moment before returning to you.

Jimin immediately gestures to the empty chair next to you. “Come on, sit down! We’ve got muffins, coffee and Y/N telling embarrinsing stories of her best friend.” He flashes a teasing smile, obviously enjoying the moment far more than you’re capable of right now.

Jungkook pulls up a chair and sits, but not without giving you a playful glance, as if he can sense your awkwardness. His eyes soften for a brief second, but then the playful smirk returns. “I didn’t expect to see you here... but I’m not complaining.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know why it feels so different when he says it. Maybe it’s because you’re so used to the version of Jungkook who’d been distant all week- the one who was so hard to read and had you over analizing every breath he took when in the same room as you.

But this? This Jungkook feels... lighter. Less guarded. Like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, and in a way that makes your heart race.

You clear your throat, attempting to sound casual, but the teasing tone in your voice betrays you. “Is there a VIP section for BTS members I didn’t know about?”

Jungkook chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that bunny smile that makes you forget what you were even talking about. “Maybe we should make it a thing, Jimin” He says face turning more serious as he turns to his friend. Jimin laughs and shrugs making the expression on Jungkooks face soften again “Just happened to walk by and saw you guys.”

“Lucky me,” you reply, your voice quieter than you intended, but there’s no taking it back now. Your face betrays you, coloring a little too much as you glance down at your coffee cup.

Jimin watches this whole exchange with a barely-contained smirk, clearly enjoying the subtle back-and-forth between you and Jungkook. He leans back in his chair, popping a muffin bite into his mouth as if he’s watching a movie.

Jungkook, noticing your hesitation, changes the subject, ever the sweet, playful force of nature that he is.

He glances at your plate. “Blueberry?”

“Yeah.”

He hums. “Thought so.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“You just seem like the type.”

You open your mouth to respond but realize you don’t know what that even means. He doesn’t clarify either, just smiles at his cup like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The three of you chat, and it’s casual. On the surface. Jimin is his usual playful self, asking Jungkook if he’s ever actually finished a full muffin in his life that it wasn’t just a “boring chocolate muffin”. Jungkook fires back with something dry but grinning, and the banter goes on like they’ve done this a thousand times.

But beneath it, there’s a quiet undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Jungkook keeps glancing your way when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him once, and he doesn’t look away. Just holds your gaze for a second longer than is safe.

And then he smiles.

Soft.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

You glance away first.

Because it’s safer. Because looking at him too long feels like falling in his gravity and you don’t even know how deep the drop goes.

Jimin’s still talking, teasing Jungkook about something-some inside joke about trainee days and an incident involving a blender and soy milk. You try to follow, you really do, but the air between you and Jungkook has shifted again. Not heavy. Just… charged. Like the moment before rain when everything is too still.

He reaches for your coffee cup without asking, pulls it a few inches toward him, and squints dramatically at the foam heart on top.

"That’s it? You didn’t ask for any whipped cream? No chocolate drizzle?” He pouts, mock-offended. “Where’s the joy, Y/N?”

You blink at the sound of your name. He’s never said it like that before. Like it belongs in his mouth. Like he’s tasted it before and liked the way it settled on his tongue.

You try to play it off. “I didn’t realize I was contractually obligated to order dessert in a cup.”

“Oh, you are,” Jimin says, still chewing muffin. “Jungkook’s a dessert tyrant. He once called my black coffee ‘emotionally unavailable.’”

“Still true,” Jungkook mutters.

“You drink Americanos,” Jimin fires back. “You’re the emotionally unavailable one.”

You laugh under your breath as they bicker, the banter light but threaded with something else—something that doesn’t quite settle. Because even as they go back and forth, Jungkook’s attention keeps drifting. Small, fleeting glances. The kind that most people wouldn’t notice. But you do.

He watches your hands, the way your fingers curl around your cup. The shape of your mouth when you smile. The curve of your cheek in the afternoon light. His eyes always find their way back to yours, lingering there just a moment too long. Again, only when he thinks you’re not watching.

And you feel it. Every glance. Every pause. Like your body is tuned to a frequency only he broadcasts on.

Jimin’s phone buzzes, sharp and insistent, and after a glance at the screen, he sighs and excuses himself to take the call.

And then it’s just you two.

You look at Jungkook—really look this time—and the playful edge in his features is gone. What’s left behind is sharper. Focused. There’s something alive in his expression, something that simmers just below the surface.

You lower your cup, lean back slightly in your seat, and arch a brow—just enough to make him wonder what you’rethinking now.

The corners of his mouth twitch, almost like he knows.

And then neither of you says a word.

But suddenly, silence feels louder than conversation ever could.

His gaze drops for the briefest second—to your mouth, then back to your eyes—and this time, it’s not subtle. Not pretending to be accidental. It’s intentional, and he knows you saw it.

Your breath catches, just barely. Enough for your body to register the shift before your mind catches up.

Jungkook leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the edge of the table, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, but I am happy that I did” he says. Not casual. Not friendly. Something else.

Before you can answer - before you can even think of how to respond - Jimin’s voice cuts back in, light and unbothered as he slides into his seat in front of you.

“Sorry. That was Mr. Kim. I truly believe he never sleeps.” He says still focused on his screen.

You blink, moment broken. Jungkook leans back like nothing happened, like the air between you didn’t just shift on its axis.

But your heartbeat is still racing. And when your knee brushes his under the table-by accident or fate or something in between-you don’t move it.

Neither does he.  

Chapter Text

You are not exactly sure how you ended up here. You are sitting in the middle of Yoshi and Seo-Jun while Sana throws her head back laughing and leans against Mitsuki. You became friends during the week that had passed, as Yoshi was in the same position as you — but for another group.

The room buzzes with easy conversation and half-eaten snacks scattered across the low table in front of you. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker is playing some upbeat music in the background, the kind that makes everything feel like a movie montage.

You glance at Yoshi, who’s balancing a chopstick on her upper lip like a walrus. She grins when she catches your eye and leans closer, whispering, “You realize we’ve completely infiltrated their inner circle, right?”

You snort. “You make it sound like we’re on a spy mission.”

She raises a brow. “Aren’t we?”

Seo-Jun, catching your exchange, shakes his head with a smile and passes you the last shrimp chip. “Better eat it before Mitsuki sees.”

“Hey!” Mitsuki calls from across the couch. “I heard that!”

Sana giggles harder and nearly spills her drink, slapping Mitsuki’s arm like it’s her fault she finds everything this funny. You realize your cheeks hurt from smiling, which surprises you. You hadn’t expected this — to feel so relaxed, so included — not insuch a short time.

For a moment, you let yourself soak it in: the warm press of Yoshi’s shoulder against yours, Seo-Jun’s dry humor, Sana’s uncontainable laughter, the distant sound of someone starting to sing along off-key.

You met Yoshi first — your unexpected lifeline in a sea of chaos, when both of you showed up on site for a dance challenge between one of ‘your boys’ and hers, you both wide-eyed and unsure where to even stand. She was going through the same thing but just with another group, and instantly took you under her wing, as the social butterfly she is.

Through her, you met Mitsuki — warm, naturally chaotic, and somehow always both the loudest and most observant in the room. Mitsuki brought you into the fold without hesitation, acting like you’d always been part of their circle.

And with Mitsuki came Seo-Jun and Sana.

Seo-Jun, calm and a little blunt, had seemed intimidating at first. It took you a while to realize his quietness wasn’t disinterest — just that he didn’t feel the need to talk unless he had something worth saying. He’s already a full-time employee, someone who knows the ropes and looks at your current internship with a quiet sort of amusement.

Sana is different. Sunshine with a sharp edge. She works with BTS too, but in a role that doesn’t have her glued to them 24/7 like yours. She's seen things, knows things, but never flaunts it — instead, she focuses on everyone else, drawing people in with ease, like laughter is something she hands out on demand.

A beat passes. Then two.

And just when the moment starts to settle into a comforting kind of quiet, Sana suddenly gasps. “Truth or dare.”

Groans ripple around the room. Seo-Jun immediately throws his head back against the couch cushion. “No.”

“Yes,” Sana insists, sitting up and pointing at him with dramatic flair. “You are too mysterious for your own good. I need answers.”

“I vote yes,” Mitsuki says, raising his hand like they’re in a board meeting.

“Traitor,” Seo-Jun mutters.

Yoshi’s already grinning and sitting up straight  “Alright. But if we’re doing this, we go full chaos mode.”

“I’m scared,” you say, laughing.

“You should be,” Yoshi replies without missing a beat.

Before long, the circle is formed. Someone dims the lights. Sana finds a bottle to spin — of course she does — and the first few rounds are harmless: sing the chorus of a guilty pleasure song, show the last meme you saved, attempt to do a handstand (which goes horribly for Mitsuki and earns loud applause anyway).

Then the bottle spins and lands on you.

“Truth or dare?” Sana asks, eyes twinkling like she’s already plotting your downfall.

You hesitate. “Truth.”

Groans again. “Boring!” Yoshi yells, but you shrug at him. You’re still trying to preserve what little dignity you have left.

Sana doesn’t miss a beat. “Alright,” she says, smirking. “Who in this room did you expect not to like when you first met them?”

The room erupts in oooooohs.

You freeze, mouth parting slightly. “What kind of loaded question—?”

“Answer it!” Mitsuki cackles.

Your gaze flicks to Seo-Jun, who’s watching you calmly over the rim of his drink. To Sana, who’s definitely enjoying this. To Yoshi, who just looks way too entertained.

You inhale, then blurt out, “Seo-Jun.”

More gasps. Even a bit of fake betrayal from Mitsuki, though he wasn’t even mentioned.

Seo-Jun raises a brow. “Fair. I thought you were too polite to be real.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” he says, setting his drink down. “But then I heard you curse under your breath in the elevator on Thursday and figured you were human.”

The group erupts into laughter again, but this time, it feels warmer. Softer.

Your shoulders relax without you realizing it.

You catch Seo-Jun looking at you, though not saying anything more — just watching, like he sees something that makes him smile quietly to himself.

You’re not sure what that means.

But the bottle is spinning again, and for now, you don’t ask.
As the bottle lands on Mitsuki, who groans dramatically as Sana claps like a game show host.

“Truth or dare?” she asks, grinning wickedly.

“Dare,” Mitsuki says, sitting up straighter like she’s bracing for impact.

“I dare you,” Sana says, eyes gleaming, “to post an Insta story with the caption ‘catch flights not feelings’ while holding Seo-Jun’s hand.”

The room erupts. Even Seo-Jun laughs, half covering his face with his sleeve.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze. “That’s so 2016.”

“But kind of iconic,” Yoshi adds, snorting into her drink.

Mitsuki plays along, grabs Seo-Jun’s reluctant hand and strikes a peace-sign pose while Sana fumbles for her phone. You swear your cheeks ache from how much you’ve smiled tonight.

When it’s Yoshi’s turn next, she picks truth. Sana narrows her eyes like she’s about to ask something deeply invasive, but instead says, “What’s something you haven’t told anyone since arriving here?”

Yoshi falls quiet.

Not in a tense way — more thoughtful. She stares at the ceiling for a moment, then says softly, “That I almost didn’t come. I was scared I’d mess everything up. That I wouldn’t find anyone who… got me.”

No one says anything right away, and the silence feels delicate. Then you reach over and squeeze her hand, and she looks over with a soft smile.

“Well, that was dumb,” you say, teasing gently. “You’re everyone's favorite already.”

“Speak for yourself,” Seo-Jun mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.

Yoshi squeezes your hand back.

It’s odd, you think. How fast people can go from strangers to comfort zones. How easy it is to laugh with them like you’ve known them longer than a week.

Sana yawns loudly and announces, “Alright, I’m claiming this couch and Mitsuki is my pillow.”

Everyone begins shifting around, the game dissolving into sleepy chatter and late-night laziness. You find yourself tucked next to Yoshi again as the group stretches out across the room in various stages of exhaustion.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says suddenly, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance at her, a little surprised.

“Me too,” you say, quieter still.

And for the first time since you got here, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you belong too.

Monday hits hard, but the studio buzzes with energy before you’ve even had your coffee. Comebacks do that, apparently—everyone’s running on nerves, caffeine, and a little too much hairspray.

You’re balancing a tablet and three paper schedules when someone taps your arm.

“Are you part-time barista now, too?” Jin jokes, eyeing the coffee tray in your other hand.

You laugh. “Only for the cranky and the overworked.”

“Perfect,” he says, snagging one before you can answer.

Jungkook’s sitting on the couch nearby, hoodie up, absently watching rehearsal footage on a monitor. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch him glancing your way. When you set a coffee beside him, he looks up—brief eye contact, a quiet “thanks,” and then back to the screen.

Jimin walks in a minute later, beaming like he hasn’t just danced for six hours straight.

“Morning,” he says brightly, and your name rolls off his tongue like he’s said it a hundred times. “You survived the weekend?”

“Barely,” you say. “I think Yoshi broke my spine. Or maybe Mitsuki’s couch did.”

He laughs, leaning in like it’s a private joke. “You should’ve called me. I would’ve rescued you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “With what? Your limited cooking skills and anime recommendations?”

“Exactly.”

Behind him, Taehyung’s dragging a chair into the corner. Sana stands beside him, flipping through notes, her eyes narrowing in concentration. You catch her eye, and she gives you a quick, subtle nod—shared understanding between coworkers in the same storm.

Namjoon enters mid-call, Yoongi trailing behind him with a snack in hand. Hoseok’s already stretching out by the mirrors. The energy shifts when they’re all in one space—bigger, louder, like the air itself rearranges to make room for them.

You hover near the monitor, watching choreography edits with the rest of the team, but you feel it when someone steps beside you.

Jungkook.

He doesn’t speak, just folds his arms and watches the footage like you do. You steal a glance at him—his profile calm, unreadable—and then look away again.

It’s like that with him. Presence without pressure. Silence that feels just full enough.

“Make sure they get a water break in ten,” Sana says, nodding toward the guys. You nod back and pull out your phone to set a reminder.

Jimin’s voice carries from across the room, teasing Hoseok about his messy bun. The others laugh.

You’re seated on the floor near the back wall of the dance studio, finishing up notes on your tablet when Hoseok flops down beside you, dramatically wiping sweat from his forehead.

“You survived,” he says, voice breathless but teasing. “We almost didn’t.”

You glance up from your screen. “You say that every rehearsal.”

“Because it’s true every time,” he grins. “This choreo is no joke. Try doing it yourself them come talk to me.” You roll your eyes playfully at his comment and go back to what you were working on.

On the floor nearby, Jungkook is lying flat on his back, shirt damp, chest rising and falling steadily as he recovers from the last run-through. Jimin’s sitting beside him, chugging water while teasing Taehyung about a missed count. Namjoon scrolls through something on his phone, and Jin’s rifling through the snack box like it owes him something.

You’re technically not needed for another fifteen minutes, but no one seems to mind you staying.

“You’ve got the look,” Yoongi says from across the room, pointing a finger at you without looking up from his notes.

“The look?” You question him, your gaze curious to what hes so entertained by his notes.

“The ‘what did I sign up for’ look.”

You smile. “You mean the ‘I’ve never sweat this much from watching other people dance’ look?”

He lets out a low laugh. “Yeah. That one.”

Jimin, overhearing, scoots a little closer, pointing at the notes in your lap. “Are those for the team or for us?”

“Team. But I can make a few copies if you promise not to crumple them into your bag.”

“No promises,” Jin calls from the snack pile.

Jungkook finally sits up, arms propped on his knees. “She’s already better than half the staff we’ve had.”

You blink at the unexpected compliment, and he meets your eyes just briefly before looking away again, like he didn’t mean for it to come out so bluntly.

Taehyung nudges your foot with his own, grinning. “Look at you, making fans.”

“Should I start a club?” you tease trying to go back to what you were doing.

Hoseok lifts his head. “Too late. We’ve already named it.”

“Oh?”

“The Y/N Protection Squad,” he says proudly. “It’s exclusive. Invitation only.”

“She didn’t even ask to be protected,” Namjoon says without looking up.

“Exactly,” Taehyung adds. “That’s why it’s a squad. She doesn’t even know we’re protecting her.”

They’re all talking at once now, bouncing off each other like it’s just another inside joke in a long list you haven’t fully caught up with yet—but the difference now is that they’re pulling you into it. Not watching from a distance. Not treating you like a nobody, which is exactly like you thought it would be. Its exactly what internships are, right? You are the corporate slave that does the job nobody wants to do. Like making photocopies of useless papers. But here…. Its comfortable. Letting you exist in their space as one of them.

Even Jungkook, who doesn’t say much, offers you his unopened bottle of water before getting up and muttering something about changing his shirt.

You take it, not because you’re thirsty—but because it’s the first time he’s handed you something without being askedsince you arrived.

Later, as they trickle out one by one, Jimin lingers.

“You staying late again?”

“Probably,” you say, glancing at the untouched parts of your schedule.

He offers a sympathetic smile. “Don’t work too hard. You’re allowed to like this, you know.”

You nod, unsure of how to answer that. Because you do like it.

You like them.

And you’re starting to think they might like you too.

It’s late. The kind of late where most of the building has gone quiet, lights dimmed in the hallways, and even the vending machines seem like they’ve powered down for the night.

You were just coming back for your badge—you’d left it in the sound room during the last meeting. It should’ve been a two-minute detour. In and out. No big deal.

But then, you hear something.

Low voices. Close. Around the corner near the back stairwell—the one barely anyone uses unless they’re avoiding being seen.

You pause, footsteps going still against the polished floor.

“Come on,” a girl’s voice says—soft but sharp at the edges. “You said tonight.”

“I didn’t say yes,” Jungkook’s voice answers, and your chest goes still. “I said maybe.”

There’s a shift in the air, like you’ve walked into something private. And yet, your feet don’t move.

The girl scoffs, not loud enough to echo. “You always say maybe. Then you disappear.”

“I told you,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying not to be overheard. “I don’t want anyone finding out.”

“So you are embarrassed.”

“No.” The word comes fast. Too fast. Then slower: “It’s not like that.”

It’s hard to tell what exactly stings in that moment—but something does. A prickling behind your ribs, heat rising slowly in your chest like a wave you weren’t expecting. You don’t understand why you’re still standing here. Why your legs won’t move. Why hearing his voice like this makes your throat tighten.

The girl speaks again. “Then what is it like, Jungkook?”

There’s silence for a beat.

And then, almost reluctantly, he says, “It’s just not… serious.”

Something drops in your stomach.

The girl lets out a sigh—a little too theatrical—and steps closer. You hear her heels click softly. “Well, if it’s not serious,” she murmurs, “then why do you always act like we’re doing something wrong?”

You lean the slightest bit forward, and your shoulder brushes the wall. A quiet sound—but enough.

Jungkook turns.

His eyes find yours immediately, and something in his expression shifts—like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, even if technically, he hasn’t done anything at all.

The girl follows his gaze and straightens, smoothing her shirt like it matters.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, caught in the strangest emotion you can’t name. You aren’t angry. You aren’t hurt. Not really. But there’s this weird hollow ache spreading in your chest—something close to disappointment, maybe. Or confusion. Or something heavier that you don’t want to examine too closely.

You force yourself to nod with a very weird and fake smile. Not cold, not warm. Just… neutral. Like you didn’t hear enough to matter. Like you’re okay.—You’re not sure if you are.

You walk away before he can say anything. His voice catches on your name, soft and uncertain.

But you don’t turn around.

You keep your head down when you walk into the BTS floor the next morning, hoping no one will notice the way you didn’t sleep much. There’s a dull pressure behind your eyes, but you’ve tucked your hair neatly back and thrown on a clean hoodie, so maybe that’s enough to make it through the day.

Most of the guys are already there—scattered across the space, talking over breakfast or lounging on the couches with their phones. The usual quiet chaos.

You pretend not to scan the room.

He’s there.

Jungkook’s standing by the fridge, bent slightly as he digs around for a drink. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, headphones looped around his neck, hair pushed back like he didn’t try too hard—but not messy, either.

He looks like he always does.

Except he doesn’t.

Because he’s watching you. Quietly. From the corner of his eye, like he’s been doing it for a while.

You make the mistake of meeting his gaze.

It’s brief—half a second, maybe less—but your stomach twists anyway. He straightens up quickly, drink forgotten in his hand, lips parting like he’s about to say something.

But you turn away.

You’re not trying to be dramatic. You’re just not ready.

Not for his explanation, not for his shrug, not for whatever careful thing he might say to smooth it over. You don’t want to hear him say its nothing, not when it clearly meant something that he didn’t want anyone to know.

You slide into your usual spot near the monitors and pull out your tablet, focusing on anything but him.

The air feels weird all morning.

He doesn’t come near you.

But you feel him. His glances. His hesitation. The way his voice drops when he talks to other people near you, like he’s careful not to be too loud. Like if he sounds normal, it might make everything worse.

Jimin ends up next to you at one point, joking about how tired he is, and when you laugh—just enough to be polite—you don’t miss the way Jungkook’s posture tightens across the room.

You don’t know if it’s guilt or something else.

And you don’t ask.

Because if he really wanted to talk to you… he would’ve done it by now.

You’re sitting on the far side of the room, headphones half-on as you skim through a rough cut of their behind-the-scenes footage. They’re gathered just across the room on the lounge couches, sprawled out and tossing snacks between themselves like it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon, not a packed weekday.

It’s nice. Comfortable. Loud.

Until it isn’t.

“Hyung,” Taehyung says around a mouthful of chips, “didn’t Jungkook sneak out after dinner last week?”

You don’t react.

At least, not on the outside.

Namjoon looks up from his phone. “Oh yeah, you disappeared. You were gone like an hour.”

“An hour?” Jimin laughs. “Bro was gone the whole night.”

You keep your eyes on the screen, tapping your stylus like nothing’s shifted. But the room tilts slightly—something inside you shrinking, pulling taut like a wire.

Jungkook groans softly, but there’s a note of defensiveness under it. “Don’t start.”

“Wait,” Jin says, leaning in. “Was it that girl? The one from—what was it—like a month ago?”

You pause your video. Just for a second. Then restart it. Keep pretending.

“Not important,” Jungkook says quickly. It’s not embarrassed. It’s… careful.

“She’s cute,” Taehyung shrugs. “Nothing serious, right?”

“No,” Jungkook mutters. “Not serious.”

There’s laughter. A few jokes tossed around.

No one’s being mean. No one’s trying to hurt anybody. It’s just boys talking.

But still, something inside you curls in on itself.

You don’t know why your fingers feel colder. Why your throat’s dry. Why every version of “not serious” echoes louder than the last.

You hadn’t thought about him much today. Had buried it, tucked it neatly behind to-do lists and edits and that new note you made for their stage lighting.

But now he’s right there again. Not looking at you. Talking like you’re not listening.

And maybe that’s the part that stings the most.

Not because you wanted him to like you.

You swallow and adjust your headphones higher on your ears, blocking out the rest of it.

The screen in front of you flickers into a new frame. Taehyung laughing into the camera, someone offscreen cracking up behind it.

You force yourself to focus. Pretend you didn’t hear anything at all. -- You’re getting good at that.

It’s weird how easily Jungkook slips back into being himself.

The next day, he’s in the studio early, hoodie slung loose over his shoulders, hair still wet from a rushed shower. You spot him the second you walk in—he’s balancing a paper cup of iced coffee on his knee, headphones around his neck, half-humming something under his breath while scrolling through his phone.

He glances up when you enter.

And smiles.

Not forced. Not apologetic.

Just—bright. Like nothing’s strange. Like you’re still in that awkward-soft place from a week ago where you were just getting used to each other.

“Morning,” he says, sing-song and cheerful.

You blink. “Morning.”

You sit at the far end of the work table and open your laptop. He doesn’t move toward you, but he watches. Just for a second. Then glances away like he doesn’t want to make it weird.

Later, he offers you a snack—just slides it across the table with a nudge and a grin.

You nod politely. “Thanks.”

Still no eye contact.

He keeps trying, though.

Little things.

He tosses a foamball at you when the room gets quiet. It bounces off your desk and lands at your feet. You blink down at it, expression unreadable, and when you look up, he’s waiting with that sheepish smile, like come on, smile back.

You don’t.

Not because you’re mad. You just… can’t.

It feels strange. Too familiar.

He doesn’t stop, though. Not even when it becomes obvious that you’re not meeting him halfway.

At one point, when most of the others are gone, he passes behind your chair to get to the water dispenser. You feel him slow. Hover.

“You okay?” he asks.

It’s soft. Kind. Genuinely concerned.

And it makes your chest ache.

You force a tiny smile, eyes still on your screen. “Just tired.”

He hesitates. Then lightly taps the back of your chair with his knuckles. “Don’t burn yourself out.”

You nod once.

He walks away.

And that’s the thing—you want to believe he means well. That he’s just being friendly, that this is who he is.

But it’s hard to separate his warmth from the ache he left in you.

Harder still to pretend that his attention doesn’t feel like salt on a wound you’re trying not to name.

The thing is—he doesn’t stop.

Over the next few days, Jungkook finds little excuses to be around you. He’s not pushy. He’s not obvious. But he’s there.

And he’s always nice.

Too nice.

He compliments your hoodie on thursday, even though you’re pretty sure you’ve worn it before and he’s never mentioned it.

He brings in an extra drink “by accident” and just happens to hand it to you.

He jokes with you when the group teases Jin. Bumps your shoulder when something funny happens. Looks your way first when Taehyung says something ridiculous, like the two of you are sharing a private joke even though you’re barely reacting.

It’s not overbearing.

But it’s constant.

And it’s confusing.

Because now your stomach twists for a whole new reason. Not from seeing him with someone else. Not from the ache of being invisible.

But from the way he keeps acting like you’re not.

Like he wants to be close. Like he’s trying to pull you back in without ever saying anything out loud.

And you hate that it’s working, even just a little.

You hate that when he calls your name in that soft, playful way—“Y/N-ahhh”—you still look up without thinking.

You hate that you want to ask him why he’s being so warm when he knows you caught him red handed.

You hate that you don’t even know who she was.

And you really hate that it doesn’t make it easier.

Because you’re still just the girl in the room who’s not supposed to feel anything.

You’re supposed to be invisible.

Professional.

Neutral.

But your smile is thinner now. Your replies quieter. And sometimes, when you laugh at one of his jokes because everyone else is laughing too, you catch him looking at you like he’s waiting for more.

Like he can feel it too—the distance that wasn’t there before.

But he doesn’t say anything about it.

He just keeps showing up, softer than he needs to be, kinder than you know how to accept.

And you keep pretending that it doesn’t affect you at all.

It Friday and guess what? You are doing over hours again. “at least its some extra money” you think to yourself.

Most of the staff have trickled out, but a handful of you are still in the studio, waiting for a delivery, finishing edits, or—if you’re Taehyung—sitting upside down on the couch, legs thrown over the backrest like it’s the most normal way to exist.

Jungkook’s nearby too, playing with a Rubik’s cube like it owes him money. You’ve barely spoken today—just your usual hello, a shared glance across the room when someone spilled coffee, the kind of silent acknowledgement that you’ve both become good at.

You’re typing notes into your laptop when Sana walks past, tossing a grin your way.

“She’s still working,” she calls out to the room. “Y/N wins Employee of the Month.”

Taehyung peeks over the couch. “Only because Jungkook’s not eligible. Too much favoritism.”

Jungkook makes a mock-wounded sound. “What? I’m a model coworker.”

Taehyung smirks and points his Rubik’s cube at you. “Nah, he’s just trying to stay on Y/N’s good side. Ever since she tamed the dragon.”

Someone snorts—maybe Sana. Maybe Hoseok, who just walked in with a snack.

You smile without looking up. “Right. He’s terrified of me. That’s why he brings me coffee. Classic fear response.”

Taehyung cackles. “See? You admit it!”

You glance up then, just in time to catch Jungkook watching you, that boyish grin already tugging at his lips.

He shakes his head. “You’re so dramatic.”

You flash him a crooked smile. “I’m just saying—if I had a fan club, I think you’d be president.”

“Wow.” He leans back in his chair, feigning offense. “Didn’t realize I was so obvious.”

You shrug, turning back to your screen. “That’s okay. I’m used to being everyone’s emotional support intern.”

More laughter.

The moment passes.

But when you sneak a glance at Jungkook again—he’s still smiling.

Still looking at you.

Like the cold air between you never existed.

And somehow, that smile stings worse than silence.

Your weekend passed too fast even though you were doing absolutely nothing just rotting in bed, watching bad movies while facetiming with Evi.  And now you’re in one of the conference rooms, folding over a stack of notes while your phone buzzes uselessly beside you. Another group rehearsal is happening a few floors up, but you weren’t asked to be there today. You tell yourself that’s a good thing.

You don’t really believe it.

“You okay?”

Seo-Jun’s voice cuts through the silence gently, like he’s already halfway sure you’re not.

You glance up. He’s leaning in the doorway with two coffees in hand.

You try for a smile. “Am I that obvious?”

He shrugs and walks in, offering you one of the cups. “Only when you stare at the same sticky note for five minutes straight.”

You accept the drink with a quiet “Thanks,” then nod toward his work badge. “Shouldn’t you be off being administrative somewhere?”

He grins. “Delegated. Perks of being useful.”

You laugh, just a little. He’s always been easy to talk to—funny without pushing, smart without showing off. He sits across from you now like he has all the time in the world.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say after a beat.

“Uh-huh.” He sips his coffee, eyes still on you. “Fine with a capital not.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it.

He doesn’t push, just lets the silence stretch out, quiet and unthreatening.

Eventually, you sigh. “I’m just…a bit tired.”

“From what? Work?”

You shrug. “Everything. I don’t know. It has been a lot to process”

There’s a beat of quiet.

He nods like he understands anyway. “Well… maybe you should try not carrying all of it alone.”

You glance at him. He’s not joking. There’s a softness in his eyes, calm and steady.

You smile, small. “Was that supposed to be deep?”

He smirks. “Give me a break, I don’t do this kind of pep talk often.”

You shake your head, but the smile lingers a little longer this time.

Later that day, you’re in the break room with Sana and Mitsuki when the topic circles back, as it always does.

“He’s cute, you know,” Mitsuki says, nodding toward the hallway where Seo-Jun had just walked by.

You feign ignorance. “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Mitsuki nudges you with her shoulder against yours.

Sana nudges your side. “He’s been circling for weeks. He even offered to help you carry equipment last time. Voluntarily.”

You groan. “You’re both terrible. Hes just being nice. And it was heavy.” You try to defend it.

“Terrible and correct,” Sana says with a grin. “Look, maybe it’s okay to let someone be good to you.”

You don’t respond right away.

Mitsuki raises an eyebrow. “You always act like you’re waiting for some other shoe to drop.”

“I’m not,” you say. Too quick. Too defensive.

Sana gives you a look—soft, not judging. “No one’s asking you to fall headfirst. Just… don’t shut the door before it opens.”

You nod, but your stomach twists.

Not because of Seo-Jun.

But because you don’t know what it means to be open anymore. Or what version of yourself you’d even let someone get close to.

You don’t see Jungkook until the next day, when you’re walking out of a team meeting and Seo-Jun jokes quietly beside you about running off together to avoid editing deadlines. He says it loud enough to get a laugh—and you catch Jungkook just a few feet away, pausing mid-sentence with Taehyung.

His eyes flick to you. Then to Seo-Jun.

His smile doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

Later, Jimin is quieter than usual too. Especially when Seo-Jun shows up again with extra snacks “just in case you skipped lunch.”

You say thank you.

You see it in Jimin’s face—that flicker of something.

But no one says anything.

Not yet.

You’re walking alongside Seo-Jun after a team sync, arms full of folders and checklists. He’s making some ridiculous joke about running away to Bali with company funds and blaming it on a scheduling error. You roll your eyes, laughing, and nudge him with your elbow. He nudges you back, playful, easy.

It’s the kind of banter that’s harmless on the surface. But you feel the eyes on you the moment you round the corner.

Jungkook is standing near the door to the main rehearsal room, talking to Taehyung and someone from sound.

He’s mid-sentence when he sees you.

His gaze flicks down to the way your arm brushes Seo-Jun’s, then back up to your face. You’re still smiling when you meet his eyes—until you realize the smile isn’t mirrored.

Not fully.

Taehyung says something that makes Jungkook blink, refocus. He nods, laughs a little, but it’s off. Like a scene slightly out of sync.

You keep walking, heartbeat suddenly not where it belongs. Seo-Jun doesn’t seem to notice the shift in you.

But Jimin does.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the editing suite sorting through a cluster of schedules when the door cracks open.

“Yo,” Jimin says, poking his head in. “Got a sec?”

You motion to the mess in front of you. “Technically, no. What’s up?”

He slips inside anyway and drops into the chair across from you. “Just hiding. Hobi’s making us do bonus choreography and I didn’t stretch today.”

You huff a laugh. “You didn’t stretch yesterday either.”

He grins. “Wow. So observant. Are you always watching me, Y/N?”

You blink, caught off guard.

He’s clearly teasing, but the words land awkwardly in your chest. You shift your focus back to your laptop. “You’re hard to miss.”

Jimin watches you for a second, the mood thinning just slightly. Then, without warning, he gestures to the pile of empty snack wrappers at your side.

“Are you and Seo-Jun, like… working late nights together or something?”

The question is too casual. His tone too carefully light.

You shrug. “He just shows up sometimes. He’s nice.”

“Mm,” Jimin hums, gaze flicking back to the hallway. “He’s also really there lately.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope,” he says quickly. “Just… curious.”

The silence stretches.

You tap your pen against your notepad. “It’s not like that.”

Jimin looks at you for a moment longer—like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. Finally, he stands and stretches.

“Cool,” he says lightly. “Just checking.”

He leaves with a crooked smile that doesn’t feel quite right.

You stare at the door for a long while after it shuts.

You didn’t plan to stay this late.

Again.

The hall lights have gone into energy-saving mode, leaving a soft dimness that reflects the end of the day. Your monitor glows faintly through the half-open office door, and you rub your temples, exhaustion settling in behind your eyes like a weighted curtain.

There’s a light knock on the doorframe.

You glance up, a little startled.

Seo-Jun.

Holding two cups of something hot.

“I guessed wrong once already,” he says, holding both up. “This one’s tea, the other’s some kind of sugary latte situation.”

You blink. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says simply. “But your eye twitch was getting louder and it started to bother me.”

You huff a tired laugh and take the tea. “How observant of you.”

He shrugs, settling onto the edge of the desk next to yours. “I’ve got a good eye for overachievers on the edge of burnout. Especially the ones who pretend they’re fine when their voice gets all chirpy and fake.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

“You’re oddly easy to read, sometimes,” he says, not unkindly.

You glance back at your screen to avoid that look—the way his face softens when he talks to you like he knows there’s something hiding underneath all your composure.

For a minute, you sip your tea in silence.

Then he says, carefully, “You’ve been a little quiet lately. Quieter than usual.”

You hesitate. “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Work. Life. The occasional existential spiral.”

“Any particular reason you don’t talk about it with the rest of them?”

You lift a brow. “Why, when I can trauma dump on you for free?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

But then his tone shifts, just slightly. “I mean it though. I see the way they look at you sometimes. Like they’re trying to figure out where to place you. Like they still don’t know if you’re one of them or just… someone passing through.”

You feel something flicker in your chest.

He’s not wrong.

And the worst part is—you’re not sure either.

“Sometimes I don’t think they know what to do with me,” you admit. “Like I’m too involved to be uninvolved… but not really part of the circle either.”

Seo-Jun nods slowly, like he’s been waiting for you to say that.

“I know that feeling,” he says. “Floating somewhere in between. Close enough to hear everything, but far enough to pretend it doesn’t affect you.”

You glance at him, your defenses dipping just a little. “Is that why you’re nice to me?”

He grins. “No. I’m nice to you because you’re funny when you’re pretending not to be overwhelmed.”

You snort.

“And because I like your face,” he adds, more casually than you’re ready for.

You almost choke on your tea. “Okay. That’s enough honesty for tonight.

“Was it too much? Should I have texted it instead?” he teases.

You don’t know what to say. Your heart thumps awkwardly in your chest—caught off guard not by what he said, but how easy it felt coming from him.

And maybe that’s what scares you a little.

You glance at the time.

“You should go home.”

“You too.”

You both stand, but neither of you moves.

Then Seo-Jun says, quieter this time, “You don’t have to always be half-in, half-out. With anyone. Including me.”

You nod.

But you don’t promise anything.

The day drags on slower than you’d like, filled with meetings and fleeting moments where your attention drifts toward your phone. Between glances at the time and half-hearted attempts to concentrate on the project in front of you, the weight of reality starts to press down on your chest.

You don’t know when you started to dread the idea of returning to university after the internship ends. It should feel like a break—getting back to what was familiar—but somehow, the idea of leaving this behind doesn’t sit right. The longer you’re here, the more you wonder whether you belong with this group of people—or if you’re just in the way.

It’s not something you’ve shared with anyone, but the unease lingers quietly in your thoughts. You’re here. But not for long.

You let out a breath and turn your focus back to the group.

The boys are clustered around, a mixture of friendly banter and half-distracted comments as the team finishes setting up for another session. It’s chaotic in the best way, but something’s different today. As the conversation shifts and the focus drifts toward the work, you catch Jimin’s eyes across the room. He gives you a smile, a little brighter than usual, but there’s something else in it, too—something you can’t place.

Then, Seo-Jun enters the room, his usual confident gait making its way to the group of managers in the back. He waves at you, and instinctively, you wave back, a smile tugging at your lips as you exchange a quiet greeting.

You don’t see it immediately, but you sense the change. Jimin’s gaze sharpens, his attention switching between you and Seo-Jun in a way that makes your pulse pick up.

You ignore it, busying yourself with some notes, but you feel the tension shift in the room. Seo-Jun’s presence never fails to bring an ease to the space, yet today it feels like something else lingers—like the air is thickening with unspoken thoughts.

Jungkook, who’s been quiet all morning, suddenly clears his throat. “I didn’t know you two were so close,” he says, his tone casually off-handed.

You glance up, feeling something you can’t quite define. Jungkook isn’t looking at you—he’s still focused on whatever conversation he was having with Taehyung, but his words hang in the air, a little too pointed.

Seo-Jun chuckles, the sound easygoing. “We’re not that close,” he replies with a grin, but the look he gives you—almost teasing, light-hearted—makes your chest tighten.

Jimin, who had been smiling just moments ago, suddenly shifts. His expression darkens, just slightly, as he looks at you and Seo-Jun. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something you can’t decipher.

Jimin’s smile tightens, and he raises an eyebrow at you in a way that feels like he’s asking a question that you don’t have an answer to.

You’re caught in the middle, and for the first time, the weight of it feels heavier than it has before. They’re noticing you and Seo-Jun. The growing tension between you and the two boys has only escalated, and now, Seo-Jun’s casual proximity to you in the group feels like a spark in the room.

Jungkook, picking up on the shift, leans back in his chair, throwing a glance your way. “Don’t tell me, Y/N,” he teases, “someone already trying to steal my coffee buddy, too?”

You force a laugh, though it comes out a little more strained than you intended. “It’s not like that.”

It’s a deflection.

It’s always easier to hide behind humor.

Seo-Jun glances over at you, his grin softening. “No stealing involved.” he says, making sure his voice is light. But something about the way he’s looking at you—almost too knowingly—sends another ripple through the room.

The boys don’t let it drop, though. Jungkook raises an eyebrow, his usual playfulness tinged with something sharper, and Jimin, ever the observant one, quietly observes.

“You sure about that?” Jimin’s voice carries a quiet edge, and you notice the way he’s looking at Seo-Jun, his expression unreadable.

Seo-Jun’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of something passing between him and Jimin. It’s almost imperceptible, but you catch it—a quiet challenge, an unspoken question.

“Don’t worry, Jimin,” Seo-Jun says lightly, though his words feel heavier than they should. “We’re just having some tea and talking about work. Nothing to steal.”

Jimin watches him for a moment longer, and you can see the tension in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything else.

You don’t know what’s happening—whether it’s just the stress of the day or the weight of all the things you’ve been carrying, but it suddenly feels like everyone’s watching you. Their eyes on you, but their minds somewhere else. The air’s too thick, the silence too loaded.

Seo-Jun doesn’t seem to notice it, and Jimin doesn’t address it further, but you’re painfully aware of how your presence in the group feels like it’s shifted, and maybe not in a way you can control.

It was finally the weekend.

After the whirlwind of awkward silences, confusing tension, and long days of tiptoeing around unspoken things at work, the neon lights and music felt like another universe. The girls had practically dragged you out of your apartment—and you were glad they did.

You weren’t sure what to wear. You’d stood in front of your mirror too long, trying on outfits you didn’t even care about, until Yoshi yelled through your door, “You look hot in anything! We’re late!”

Now, an hour in, you were letting yourself breathe for the first time in days.

The bar-turned-club pulsed with bass-heavy music and flickering strobes. Sana was already tipsy and dancing with someone she swore she didn’t like. Mitsuki was talking with a cute bartender, and Yoshi kept bouncing between the group and taking pictures of the night.

Seo-Jun stayed close.

Not hovering—but always within reach.

He was comfortable to lean on. A familiar, steady kind of presence in the chaos. You’d caught him glancing at you more than once, but he didn’t act on it. Just stood nearby with a lazy grin and a drink in hand, answering your sarcastic comments with his own dry humor.

“You okay?” he leaned in to ask, his voice almost drowned by the music.

“Yeah,” you shouted back, nodding. “I’m good.”

You wanted to be good.

So when a remix of an old song you loved started playing, you grabbed his hand for a second and spun toward the dance floor with a “Come on!” before letting go and disappearing into the crowd. He hesitated, watching with that unreadable look again, but didn’t follow.

You danced with Yoshi at the edge of the crowd. Song after song it was only hits, songs that you knew way to well. You danced with also the strangers around you sometimes singing with them and feeling yourself in this moment. And you loved doing this. Dancing.

Not for anyone, not for attention—just because your body finally felt light again. Like you could shake off the complicated week, the stares, the weird feeling in your chest every time one of the boys looked at you like they knew you too well—or not at all.

And then… you realized something.

You were alone. Somehow you had drifted into the crowed and Yoshi had vanished. Maybe she went to the toilet?

You turned slowly, blinking through the red and blue haze. Your friends were still on the other side of the dance floor, but now you were in a patch of strangers. Faces you didn’t recognize. Bodies too close.

That’s when it happened.

A hand touched your waist. Too low. Grabbing you in and pulling you close.

You flinched, turning, only for the guy to smile—drunk and overconfident.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said whispering in your ear, clearly not meaning it. His other hand moved like it wanted to find a place on your back.

You sidestepped pushing yourself away. “I’m good, thanks.”

He didn’t let go. Gripping now your arm.

“C’mon, don’t be like that. You’re out, right?”

You tried again to pull away, but his grip firmed. “Hey, I said—”

“She said she’s good.”

The voice cut through the music like a switchblade.

Familiar.

Low.

Commanding.

You froze, the guy startled enough to back off a step, and that’s when you saw him—Jungkook.

Sweat dampened the strands of hair stuck to his temple, his jaw clenched. Behind him, Taehyung had a drink in his hand and a frown on his face. Jimin stood close too, his eyes fixed on you, unreadable.

You didn’t understand.

They weren’t supposed to be here. Why would they be here?

The guy mumbled something and disappeared before any of them could say more. Jungkook didn’t chase. He turned to you instead, gaze running down your arms as if checking if he’d gotten too rough.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now. Less anger. More… shaken?

You nodded, barely.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure—”

“I said I’m fine.”

It came out sharper than you meant, the panic still fresh in your chest. You weren’t mad. You were just embarrassed. The adrenaline still hummed in your blood and now all three of them were watching you like you’d broken.

“I didn’t need a rescue,” you added, softer.

“No,” Jimin said from behind Jungkook, voice quiet, “but you got one anyway.”

You blinked.

It was only then you realized how close they all were.

The three of them.

Watching.

Hovering.

And suddenly, you felt more exposed than you had all night. The walls felt like closing in and suddently you couldn’t completely cacth your breath.

“Thanks,” you said quickly, stepping back. “But I’m fine now. I should get back.”

“To Seo-Jun?” Taehyung teased gently, but something in his tone hinted he wasn’t just joking.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Jungkook’s jaw ticked.

Jimin looked away.

You turned before you could unravel.

You blinked again.

Gone.

The boys were nowhere.

Where Jungkook had stood, there was only a flicker of shifting lights and unfamiliar faces. No Jimin. No Taehyung. It was as if the moment hadn’t happened—if not for the thrum still in your ribs and the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, like they were still on edge.

You pressed your lips together and turned away away again

No one needed to know. Not Seo-Jun, not the girls. Not anyone.

You pushed your way back through the crowd, forcing yourself to walk like you hadn’t just been rattled. Like you weren’t fighting a war between embarrassment and something colder.

“Hey!” Yoshi waved you over as soon as she spotted you. “Where’d you go?”

You gave her a faint smile. “Just wandered off. I’m back.”

She passed you a half-finished drink. “Mitsuki left with that bartender.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Sana chimed in with a giggle, “She texted ‘Don’t wait up’ and a heart emoji. I think she’s fine, but you know. Classic Mitsuki.”

You nodded, pretending to laugh with them. But the night suddenly felt thinner. Less electric.

You glanced toward the bar where Seo-Jun stood talking to someone from another department. As if sensing your gaze, he looked over. His face shifted the second he saw you—shoulders straightening, mouth tightening a little.

He walked over, brushing his knuckles lightly against your arm. Which had you frowning and stepping away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just over it. .”

“Want to go?” His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to pressure you but wouldn’t take no for an answer.

You paused.

“I think I’ll just head out,” you murmured. “You don’t have to leave. Stay and have fun. I’ll be okay.”

He frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you going home alone.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” you said gently, cutting him off before he could insist again. “Seriously, Seo-Jun. I’m just not feeling it anymore.”

He hesitated, clearly torn. But you looked away before he could protest, already pulling your coat off the back of a chair.

You stepped outside a few minutes later, the air cool and damp against your skin. The noise of the club melted into a low hum behind you. You were halfway toward the curb when a voice behind you made your heart lurch.

“Hey.”

You turned, startled.

Jungkook.

He was standing a few feet away, hoodie up, his hands in his pockets. You hadn’t seen him come out, hadn’t even known he’d stayed.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same.”

He smiled faintly. “Taehyung wanted to stay. I just needed air.”

You glanced toward the sky, then back at him. “Yeah. I get that.”

He took a step closer, but not too close. “About earlier…”

You shook your head quickly. “Don’t worry. It was nothing. Leave it be”

That made him pause, caught somewhere between a smile and something sadder. “That’s not what I—”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” you interrupted, gently but firmly.

Jungkook nodded. He looked down, scuffed the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. “You’re not hurt, right? From the guy?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Silence.

He keeps staring at you trying to see through whatever you were trying so hard to cover. His jaw tense and his face more serious than you have ever seen him.

You didn’t know what to say. Everything was so heavy suddenly. Like your body had already left the club, but your mind was still playing catch-up, trying to understand the strange looks, the timing, the strange ache in your chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

“I should go,” you mumbled, stepping off the curb.

He nodded again, slow this time.

But just before you opened the taxi door, he spoke again.

“Y/N?”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“…I don’t like seeing you look at someone else like that.”

The words knocked something loose inside you, something small and quiet and stubborn.

He must be drunk and doesn’t even know what hes saying anymore.

You didn’t answer.

You just slipped inside the cab and shut the door.

Chapter Text

You arrive at work exactly on time. Not early, not late. Neutral.

You clock in, settle at your desk in the rehearsal room, and begin reviewing your checklists for the day—camera angles for the afternoon shoot, backline confirmations, sound setup revisions. It’s the usual rhythm that you have fallen into in the past month. Familiar. Safe.

Except it’s not.

Your skin still prickles from last night. The noise, the light, that moment in the club you’re trying hard to delete—his hand, the pressure of it, the way your body stiffened before you even had time to really register what was happening.

You haven’t told the girls. You didn’t text Seo-Jun back. Even though he texted maybe one too many times for your liking. You haven’t really looked at your phone at all, actually. It’s easier not to think.

So you sit. And you focus.

You keep your face calm, your spine straight, your tasks in check.

But when one of the sound guys brushes your shoulder while passing a cable behind you, your body reacts.

A quick, automatic flinch.

Just a twitch—so small no one should notice.

Except someone does.

You feel the heat of his gaze before you even look up.

Jungkook stands on the far side of the studio, half-bent over a monitor setup, a cord in one hand. His head is tilted slightly, one brow faintly raised. His expression unreadable.

Your stomach drops.

You immediately look away, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like nothing happened.

It happens again an hour later.

You’re crouched by one of the cases, sorting the smaller equipment pieces when Jimin approaches with a light laugh and a clipboard in hand.

“Hey,” he says casually, crouching beside you, “you good with this checklist, or should I double-check it before you send it over to the floor team?”

You nod, smiling faintly. “It’s good. Already cross-checked the light positions.”

“Wow. Gold star for you.”

He nudges your shoulder gently with his own. It’s friendly. Normal. The same was he has done a couple of times before.

And still—your body freezes for a second.

You catch it too late, feel your own chest tighten. You hope he doesn’t notice.

But he does.
Of course he does.

Jimin tilts his head slightly, his playful grin dimming. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You force another smile. “Just didn’t expect that.”

He doesn’t press. But he doesn’t look convinced either.

You pull away politely, standing. “I’ll go prep the next set.”

You don’t look back.

By lunch, you’re wound so tightly you barely hear your name being called.

“Y/N”

You blink, glance up. Jungkook stands in front of you, a protein bar in one hand, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. The studio lights cast a soft sheen across his cheekbones, but his expression is strangely neutral.

“You forgot to eat again,” he says, holding the bar out to you.

You hesitate. Looking between the treat in his hands and back to his face.

He waits, not smiling like he usually does. Just watching.

“It’s fine,” you say softly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

You finally take it, your fingers brushing his for half a second. You pull your hand back quickly, clutching the wrapper.

Jungkook leans against the edge of the table, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

“You always flinch like that?”

Your heart skips. “What?”

His eyes stay on yours. He doesn’t say it with judgment, or even concern—it’s something a bit more than that. Measured.

But not cold.

“I’ve been around you for weeks,” he says. “I’ve never seen you act like people touching you was a problem.”

Your lips part—but nothing comes out. Then shut again.

He shrugs slowly, his tone softening just slightly. “Just wondering if someone did something.”

You look down. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You glance around the room, but no one is paying attention.

You force a breath through your nose. “It’s fine. I don’t… I just didn’t sleep well.”

Jungkook leans in a little closer—not physically, but emotionally. His presence narrows in on you, quiet and grounded.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says. “But if something’s wrong… I don’t think you should pretend it’s nothing.”

You finally meet his eyes again.

And you say it gently, without a hint of emotion

“Jungkook its really ok. I just didn’t sleep very well”

Something flickers behind his expression—regret? frustration?

He doesn't push.

Just takes a breath, straightens up, and gives a tiny nod.

“Okay,” he says getting back up. “But maybe try eating that before it melts in your hand.”

He turns and walks away.

When he finally leaves the room, you look down and realize your fingers have crushed the corner of the bar from how tightly you were holding it.

You’re outside, behind the building, leaning against the railing near the loading dock—your unofficial break spot. Your coffee’s cold, but you’re still holding it, sipping like it might ground you. Gently nibling on the protein bar jungkook gave to you.

It’s a quiet moment. Almost peaceful.

Until you hear the door creak open behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn slightly and find Seo-Jun there, hands in his pockets, a hesitant look on his face.

“Hey,” you echo, soft and tired. You haven’t been clearly avoiding him today but you also were not looking for his company either.

He walks over and stands beside you, not too close—but not far enough to ignore. There’s a silence between you that isn’t awkward, but it’s weighty. Like he came here with something to say and is still working up to it.

“You’ve been off today,” he says eventually, glancing sideways at you. “Something happen?”

You keep your eyes on the concrete taking another small bite before answering. “No, not really.”

“You sure?” You can feel his gaze on you.

You nod. “Just tired.”

He studies you for a second. “Was it the club?”

You blink. Slowly. Your heart kicks a little. You don’t want to think about the club again. You are honestly getting tired at this point from people asking if you are ok and if something happened.

You don’t answer right away. Seo-Jun watches your silence and softens his tone. He reaches for your arm and you stare for a second at his hand on you.

“Y/N… if someone did anything to you, even if it felt small, I—”

“Nothing happened,” you interrupt, a little too sharp. Finally looking up at him with a blank expression on your face. “Really. I’m fine”

He backs off slightly, hands raising in surrender. “Okay. I believe you.”

The silence that follows is tenser now. He breaks it gently.

“I’m only asking because I care, you know. Not just as a co-worker. You know that, right?”

You look at him—his expression is honest, warm, maybe too open. It makes your chest hurt.

“I know,” you murmur. “You’re kind.”

He takes a step closer. It’s subtle—but you notice.

And so does someone else.

“Break room’s not good enough anymore?”

The voice comes from behind you.  Low.

Casual but at the same time not casual at all.

You freeze.

You both turn to find Jungkook slightly leaning at the doorway, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression is unreadable—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Darker than usual. Sharper.

Seo-Jun straightens a little. “Just getting some air.”

Jungkook nods slowly and gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right. That’s why you’re trying to corner her outside like it’s a drama scene?”

“Excuse me?” Seo-Jun says, surprised.

You step between them instinctively, voice flat. “We’re just talking.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick to you for half a second, then back to Seo-Jun.

“She said she’s fine,” Jungkook mutters, jaw tightening. “Maybe take the hint.”

Seo-Jun’s brows knit. “You’re being weird, man. What’s your deal?”

“My deal,” Jungkook says, stepping forward, “is watching you look real comfortable trying to pull her aside every chance you get. You think she wants that?”

You blink.

Seo-Jun opens his mouth, then closes it.

Your heart is racing, and not in the way it normally is to when you are with Jungkook.

“Stop,” you say, voice sharper now. “Both of you. This is ridiculous.”

Jungkook looks at you, but he doesn’t back down. “Just saying. If someone actually gave a damn, they’d leave you alone when you clearly don’t want to be touched.”

The words hit too directly.

Seo-Jun looks between the two of you, frowning. “Okay. Got it.”

He steps back. “Let me know when I can talk to you without getting pushed around.”

You don’t say anything. God he has some guts to say that to him. Jungkook with a flick of his finger, if he really wanted to, find a way to move Seo-Jun to some other position really fast. Even though you don’t believe he would do so.

He leaves.

The door swings shut behind him.

Jungkook stays where he is, arms crossed now, chest rising and falling with too much tension.

You don’t want to ask. Not really. Your head is still heavy from last nights drinking and, in fact, you dind’t sleep well at all. You just want to go back home call Evi and tell how stupid life feels right now.

But you do ask.

“What was that?”

He shrugs, not looking at you.

“Don’t like the way he talks to you.”

“Why?” you press. “Because he does?”

Jungkook finally looks at you, jaw set.

“He doesn’t know you.”

“And you do?”

That stops him cold.

For a beat, nothing moves between you. No words. No breath.

And then, softer—less angry—he says:

“I’m trying to.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to answer. Yeah, if theres something Jungkook has been learning how to do is shut you up alright.

So you turn and go back inside before he can say anything else.

But the weight of it follows you even if he doesn’t.

You are clocked out when you find yourself on the rooftop of the building, the skyline flickering like static. You didn’t mean to come here—your body just moved on its own, like it needed air, distance, a moment.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

[Sana]: Have you left already?

You pause. Then reply: 

[you]: Roof.

Minutes later, the door creaks open and she steps out, two bottled drinks in hand.

She hands you one without a word, plops down beside you on the low ledge, and kicks her feet out like she’s lived on rooftops her whole life.

“You look like you’re ten seconds away from fighting someone,” she says casually, bumping your arm. “Should I be worried?”

You laugh—but it’s dry. “I already did that today. Sort of.”

“Oh?”

You take a breath, then let it out slowly. “Jungkook and Seo-Jun almost got into it.”

Sana’s head turns so fast you hear her earrings jingle. “What?”

“They both said shit. Jungkook got all weirdly defensive and said Seo-Jun needed to back off. I know Seo-Jun was trying to check on me,  but it just… exploded.”

Sana whistles low with a smirk on her lips as she took a sip of her drink. “Damn. Who knew golden boy had claws.”

You shrug, twisting the bottle in your hands. “ I don’t think its that deep.”

She gives you a long, sideways glance. “You sure he doesn’t like you?”

“I don’t know.” You pause. “And even if he did… Honestly, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is temporary. I go back to uni soon. I’m not even from here. I’m not in this world, not really.” You sip from your own drink now. Looking into the city “Also I don’t know if you noticed” you turn to her and whisper “hes like, veryfamous. And Army is scary”

Sana watches you for a second longer before turning her eyes back to the skyline with a ghostly smile playing on her lips.

“You know, sometimes I forget you’re the intern.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“No, I mean it. You’re so… calm. Even now, when you’re clearly unraveling.”

You scoff and smile faintly loking back at her. “That’s new. I feel like a mess.”

“I’d trade places with you if I could.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, brushing off the comment. “Just thinking out loud.”

You don't press it. You’re too tired. Why would any one want to be in the mess you feel like you are in now?

“Can I ask you something?” Sana says, after a pause.

You nod.

“What do you want from all of this? Like… when your internship ends. What’s next?”

You stare at the lights across the river. “I don’t know.  Definetly go back, finish school. Pretend I didn’t just get blown into the most complicated, confusing  part of my life?”

“That’s… kind of poetic.”

You scoff. “It’s kind of tragic.”

Sana chuckles and leans her head on your shoulder. “Well, until you leave, we’ve got you.”

You lean your head against hers.

And in that moment—warm rooftop lights, distant traffic hum, someone breathing next to you—it almost feels like the world isn’t shifting beneath your feet.

The week moves slowly. Not in hours or things to do, but in atmosphere.

You show up early to the company every day. Focused. Steady. Like nothing happened. Not like Seo-Jun stopped texting. Not like Jimin haven’t been facetiming you every so often to talk about nothing and everything. Sometimes hes just bored and keeps quiet as he scrolls on his phone. Not like Jungkook haven’t gone back to being playfull and sweet around you, and hasn’t scared one of your friends.

You nod politely when Jungkook walks in, headphones slung around his neck, offering his usual grin—easy, sweet, playful. Like nothing happened.

You meet Seo-Jun in the hallway once. He gives a small smile, and you smile back. But he doesn’t stop to talk. Doesn’t walk you to the elevator like he used to. Doesn’t ask if you’ve eaten or wait by your desk with a second coffee just because.

You tell yourself it’s the comeback schedule. Everyone’s busy. You’re lucky if you get more than a few minutes with anyone. Right?

Still… your inbox feels quieter than usual.

“Hey.” A voice tugs you out of your thoughts. You turn and Jimin’s leaning against the wall near the studio entrance, watching you.

You blink. “Hi.”

“You’ve got that face again.”

“What face?”

He crosses his arms and nods thoughtfully. “The ‘Shit, did I turn off my iron off this morning’ face.”

You let out a soft laugh, and that’s all it takes. Jimin steps in, sliding easily into your rhythm like he always does—without pushing.

“Don’t say stuff like that. I might actually need to go back home and check”

“I was gonna grab coffee. Want to come?”

You glance at your screen. Nothing urgent. No one waiting. No Seo-Jun anywhere in sight.

You stand. “Sure.”

The walk to the café is easy, breezy conversation—half jokes about the staff, half your quiet comments that make Jimin laugh like you’re funnier than you are.

He holds the door open with a little bow. “After you, Miss Important.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes, “you’re the celebrity.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one we all talk about.”

You snort into your drink. “Right.”

“I’m serious. You keep surprising everyone.”

You glance at him over the lid of your cup. “Why?”

“Because you’re… good. And you stay kind. Even when things are clearly weird.”

You stiffen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I saw your face last week. After that night.”

Your grip tightens slightly.

“I didn’t say anything because you looked like you didn’t want anyone to,” he adds gently.

You nod, eyes lowering to your cup. “I didn’t.”

“Okay.” He nudges you with his elbow. “I still wanted to check in.”

You look at him. There’s no expectation in his eyes. Just quiet warmth.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

“Of course,” he says, like he knows you’re lying but won’t make you say it.

You sit there for a moment longer, then finally crack a smile. “You’re really good at this, you know?”

“At what?”

You shrug. “Being normal.”

He grins. “Well, someone’s gotta balance out Jeon.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he chuckles. “It’s true. You should see him these days. All bark, no clue.”

You let the silence stretch after that, and Jimin doesn’t rush to fill it. He just sits beside you, letting you breathe.

And for the first time in days, you do.

You don’t expect to see Jimin again that evening. Not after the way the week’s been going—everyone scattered, schedules packed, Seo-Jun ghosting in and out of rooms like an afterthought.

But there he is, waiting outside the elevator when you’re finally heading down to grab something from the vending machine before heading home, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from practice.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, amused.

“Obviously,” he says without missing a beat. “I’m incredibly subtle.”

You raise a brow.

“I was just on my way down too,” he admits, nodding to the elevator. “You don’t own the snack machine, Y/N.”

“Yet.” You point out. 

He grins. “Now that’s the ambition I like to see.”

You both walk side by side under the flickering hallway lights, the building quieter than usual at this hour.

“You’re not sleeping enough,” he says casually, grabbing a juice box from the machine.

“You noticed that from a hallway?”

“No, I noticed that from the fact that you look like someone pressed mute on you.”

You stare at him. Raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen you make five sarcastic comments in under a minute. This new quiet version is weird.”

You grab your drink and sigh. “I’m just tired.”

“From?”

You hesitate. Then as if he managed in the past week to take brick by brick off of you, you say “Everything.”

“Fair.”

He doesn’t pry. Just sits on the bench nearby and gestures for you to join him. You do. A quiet hum of silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s… spacious.

You sip your drink and glance over. “Do you ever feel like people expect you to be something even when you’re running on empty?”

“All the time.” He replies not skipping a beat.

“Do you ever fake it?”

He gives a soft laugh. “Every single day.”

You exhale through your nose, and for the first time in a while, it’s not out of frustration. It’s something like relief.

“I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people,” you admit, quieter now.

“No you haven’t,” he says, resting his head against the wall. “You just don’t want to say the wrong thing. That’s not the same.”

You turn your head toward him squinting in his direction. “How do you always know what to say?”

“I don’t,” he replies, smirking. “I just look like I do.”

You laugh again, and this time, it feels real.

He shifts toward you slightly, and something in the air changes—still light, still safe, but there’s a warmth to it now. A slight tilt.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “you really don’t have to be so tough all the time.”

You meet his eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on your expression. “If I’m not, I might break.”

He holds your gaze. “Then break. I’m sure someone will be there to help pick up the pieces.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. You want to say something—anything—but your throat tightens.

So instead, you whisper, “Thanks.”

He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours. “That’s what friends are for.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, with a shit-eating grin and  eyes sparkling, “Though, just for the record… I look great holding broken pieces.”

You burst out laughing again, loud enough to echo down the hallway. Pushing him with your hands.

And for a moment, it’s enough.

Jimin’s is back on the schedule of always being there.

Not in a clingy, all-consuming way. Just… there. When you walk into the practice floor with coffee. When you’re buried in edits in the conference room. When you’re catching your breath after yet another rushed lunch.

It starts to feel like muscle memory—turning your head and finding him there, eyes crinkling, teasing something out of you without even trying.

“You’re starting to show favoritism,” you tease one afternoon as he hands you a drink without asking. The exact one you’ve been craving.

He shrugs, leaning on the counter beside you. “I’m not showing favoritism. You’re just easier to deal with when you’re caffeinated.”

You roll your eyes but sip gratefully anyway.

He watches you for a second. “Better?”

“Not terrible.”

“High praise.” The corner of his lips twitch up.

You two fall into an easy rhythm, the kind that doesn’t demand anything too intense, but still feels sincere. Jimin flirts—because of course he does—but it’s always with a nudge of humor, a twinkle in his eye, and never too close to a line.

You like that. You need that. Someone who sees the weight on your shoulders but doesn’t force you to unpack it. Someone who meets you where you are, without pushing.

And somehow, he gets that. Every time.

One late afternoon, you’re both hiding out in a corner of the building, away from the chaos. You’re lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and he’s sitting beside you, cross-legged, spinning his phone on his palm.

“You know,” he says casually, “I like that you don’t try so hard.”

You glance at him. “Thanks…?”

“No, I mean it.” He lies back too, arms folded behind his head. “People either try to impress us or avoid us. You kind of just exist.”

“I think that’s supposed to be an insult.” You look at him with a look of slight disbelief.

He grins. “It’s not. I like that you’re not fake.”

You stretch your legs out. “Yeah well, faking things takes too much energy.”

He hums in agreement. “You’re funny.”

“You’re soft.”

He gasps. “I am not.”

“You gave me a cookie earlier and said it was because I ‘looked like I needed love.’”

“I was being practical.”

You laugh, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

Safe. That’s what this feels like..

Just… safe.

Later, in the practice room, the rest of the boys filter in slowly. Jungkook’s the last to arrive. Hoodie up, hair slightly damp, headphones hanging from his neck. His usual outfit.

You’re sitting beside Jimin, working on your laptop while he watches something on his phone and casually throws in commentary like you’re both watching it together.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything when he walks in. But you feel it—his eyes on the two of you for a beat too long.

You glance up just in time to see him drop onto the couch across the room, pulling out his phone immediately.

He starts typing. And doesn’t stop.

Hoseok notices first. “What’s up with you, Jungkook? You’ve been texting all day.”

Jungkook glances up, casual. That smug smile on his face “Huh? Just stuff.”

“Stuff?” Taehyung leans over to peek. “Are you in love or something?”

Jungkook laughs but doesn’t deny it. “I’m allowed to text.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon adds, “but you hate texting.”

Jimin looks up at that, interest piqued. His eyes flick from Jungkook to you. You don’t react, just keep working. Jimin leans over and whispers, “Told you he’s sus lately.”

You snort. “He’s probably playing a game.”

Jimin nods dramatically. “A dangerous one.”

Jungkook looks up briefly—only at Jimin—but his gaze shifts just for a second toward you. Then he looks back down and resumes typing.

It’s late.

The lights outside the building cast long golden strips against the windows. Most people have already gone home. Afterall who wants to stay at their workplace on a Friday night? You and Jimin are still in the corner of the break room, the remnants of takeout boxes between you and the hum of the vending machine the only sound for a while.

You didn’t mean to stay this long. But you’re here. And so is he.

Jimin’s leaning on one elbow, swirling the straw of his soda with absent focus. “You’re quiet tonight,” he says without looking at you.

“I’m tired.”

“You say that even when you’re not.”

That makes you glance up. He’s not teasing this time. His voice is soft. Matter-of-fact. Still gentle.

And that’s all it takes.

You lean back in your chair and exhale slowly, as if the breath had been waiting days to be let out.

“It’s weird,” you say after a long pause. “Being here.”

Jimin shifts slightly, listening.

“I like it so much. All of this. The work, the people… even the chaos.” You let out a quiet laugh. “Sometimes I catch myself just… smiling in the elevator. Like an idiot.”

His lips lift, just slightly.

“But I’m not supposed to stay,” you continue, eyes fixed on a smudge on the table. “This was always temporary. My internship ends in a few months, and then I have to go back and finish Uni. Write my thesis. Take the last of my exams. Do all the normal stuff that is paused.”

You finally look at him. “It doesn’t leave room to even think about staying. You know? Even if I wanted to.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you carefully. Then: “You don’t talk about your life before this much.”

“No one here really asks.”

“I’m asking now.”

You hesitate. Then something in his expression—completely open, unhurried—unravels something you’ve kept stitched tight.

So you start to talk.

About how before Korea, you felt stuck. How you were so excited for the internship even though you were taking the place of your friend, so ready to grow and take a risk. But that not everyone saw it that way.

You talk about Evi. “She was supposed to come. She’s my best friend—still is. But something came up last minute, and she asked me to take the opportunity instead.”

“And your friends?” Jimin asks gently.

You hesitate, then laugh without humor. “They kind of... scattered. Some just drifted. But a lot of it was after my breakup.”

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t interrupt. Letting you continue your story on your time. Even if you wanted to stop right there you know he wouldn’t push.

“We were together for years. I thought—” you stop with a scoff, then continue more quietly. “He said he couldn’t do long-distance. That I was choosing this over him.”

Jimin’s voice is low. “That’s not fair.”

“No. But maybe it was just honest.”

You’re surprised you’re even saying any of this. That it’s spilling out like this. You look away, toward the vending machine’s glow. “I just didn’t expect to feel this right here. I thought I’d just... do the job, learn what I could, go home, figure it out with him and have my life back. Maybe get a friend or two back”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away. But when you look at him again, there’s something in his expression that feels like comfort without pity.

“You know what I think?” he says after a moment.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I think you deserve to feel like you belong somewhere. Even if it’s not forever. Even if it hurts when it’s over.”

Your chest tightens.

“You’re not weird for liking it here,” he adds, a little softer. “You’re just human.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

He bumps your knee under the table. “Anytime.”

And for the first time in a long while, the silence that follows isn’t heavy.

It feels like space.

Like safety.

You wake up later than usual. No alarm. No schedule.

Just stillness.

The kind that creeps in when the world isn’t expecting you anywhere, and for once, you don’t feel guilty about it.

Sunlight pours through your curtains, catching the particles in the air like glitter. You blink slowly, turn your head on the pillow, and reach for your phone—not out of urgency, but habit. Not at all expecting a text that you know deep down would never come.

 But there’s a text from Jimin.

[Jimin 10:17 AM]:
You awake, sleeping beauty?

You smile.

[You 10:18 AM]:
Barely.

[Jimin 10:19 AM]:
That’s progress. Want to meet later? We could get coffee. Or ramen. Or cake. Or all three.

[You 10:20 AM]:
Tempting. Let me see how I feel after I pretend I’m a functioning adult for an hour.

You drop the phone on your chest and stare at the ceiling, still smiling faintly.

There’s something strange about how good that feels. A message. A check-in. The easy, steady presence of someone who isn’t trying to fix you—just letting you be.

You think about the other night. How you’d told Jimin things you hadn’t even told Evi. How he’d looked at you like you weren’t hard to understand. Like your sadness wasn’t inconvenient. You knew she would never do any of that. But sometimes she had a habit of blowing things a bit out of proportion.

You sit up slowly and start moving around the apartment—put on music, open the windows, wash your face with cold water that shocks your nerves awake. You don’t feel happy, exactly. But you feel okay.

And these days, okay feels like a win.

You tell Jimin you’re in. He sends back a dancing bear sticker and a voice note that makes you laugh because it’s just him humming aggressively off-key to some old ballad he probably heard in a random video online.

You meet at a small café tucked into a quieter side of the city. No crowds. Just the two of you in oversized hoodies, both wearing sunglasses like you’re famous and mildly hungover.

He makes you laugh. Constantly. You talk about nonsense—cereal brands, your irrational fear of jellyfish, his totally rational fear of ghosts.

“You always eat so fast,” you say through a mouthful, watching him finish his sandwich in record time.

“I was a growing boy,” he shrugs. “Still am.”

You laugh, flicking a crumb off his jacket. “Sure, Jimin.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, then nudges your foot with his. “You’ve been less... storm cloud-y this week.”

You pause mid-bite. “Storm cloud-y?”

He grins. “Yeah. You usually walk around like you’ve just remembered an embarrassing moment from 8 years ago.”

“I have.”

“That’s fair.” He laughs leaning back on his chair.

“You  just… you looked lighter today.”

You tilt your head. “Lighter?”

“Yeah. Like something’s changed. In a good way.”

You look down at your coffee. Then back at him. “Maybe it has.”

That night, you get home early. The city’s quieter on weekends in your part of town. You’re brushing your hair out when your phone buzzes again.

[Jimin 7:42 PM]:
I meant it, by the way.

[You 7:43 PM]:
Meant what?

[Jimin 7:44 PM]:
That you deserve to feel like you belong. You’re good at what you do. But more than that—you’re a good person.

[Jimin 7:44 PM]:
And I’m glad you’re here.

Your chest squeezes unexpectedly.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, thumbs hovering.

You don’t know what to say.

But you type anyway.

[You 7:47 PM]:
I’m glad I’m here too.

You hit send. Then turn your phone over, heart a little louder than before.

You declare it before your feet even touch the floor: today, you will take no more than 100 steps. Maximum. It’s a vow, whispered into the quiet of your bedroom like a sacred promise between you and the corners of your house.

Your limbs feel like noodles—soft, limp, and unwilling to engage with the outside world. You stretch, yawn, and flop back onto the mattress, tugging the blanket up to your chin like a barrier against anything productive. Sunlight is peeking through the blinds in lazy slants, catching dust motes that dance in the quiet. You blink slowly. There's no rush.

No alarms. No texts. No notifications. Bliss.

You reach for your phone out of habit and check. Maybe Jimin sent something that will have you going against your promisse in the next 15 minutes.

But…nothing from Jimin.

Odd.

Normally, he sends a meme. A dumb selfie. A random message like “Do bees have knees?” or “You think rabbits ever get tired of hopping?”

But today, your screen is quiet.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. Maybe he’s taking a real day off too. God knows he needs one more than you do. You picture him somewhere in his apartment, wrapped in a blanket burrito with his hair all fluffed out, scrolling endlessly through TikTok while sipping something way too sugary.

You smile at the thought.

The first half of the day passes exactly how you planned. You eat something microwavable, shuffle around the apartment with socks so fuzzy they could double as small animals, and stare at your ceiling more than any emotionally stable person probably should.

You do yoga. Not actual yoga, but the kind where you lie flat on the floor and call it “restorative.” You even light a candle and feel proud of yourself for not burning anything down.

By the time 9 PM rolls around, you’re about 78 steps into your 100-step limit. Victory is in sight.

Then your phone rings.

Evi.

You smile and answer immediately. “Hey. Don’t you have a hot social life to be living right now?”

“You know I’m a grandma after 7 PM,” she shoots back, voice crackling with laughter. “Besides, I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

You melt a little. You missed her. You always do.

“I’m honored,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “But if this call needs any sort of effort, I’m hanging up.”

“Understood. Minimal movement. Maximum gossip.”

What was meant to be a quick check-in turns into a four-hour marathon.

You talk about work. About Seoul. About the café that put pickles in your grilled cheese and how traumatized you still are. Evi tells you about a guy who tried to flirt with her using a PowerPoint presentation on why they’d make a good couple.

You snort so loudly you scare yourself. “Please tell me he included transition effects.”

“He had star wipes,” she says solemnly.

“Oh God.”

It’s easy. It’s comforting. You forget the time.

Until Evi gasps so loudly you think something’s exploded.

“Oh my god, did you see what’s trending?!”

Your brain scrambles. “What? No. I’ve been horizontal all day.”

She’s already typing. “I’m sending it. Check Twitter. Now. Now.”

“Why are you being dramatic?”

“I’m not. This is a cultural event. Look.”

A notification pops up. One link. No caption.

You tap it.

It takes a second to load. Then—

Your stomach flips.

There’s a photo, blurry but unmistakable. It looks like it was taken from a distance, probably by a phone hidden behind a plant or something equally stalkerish. The lighting is dim, but the person in the picture is clear as day.

Jungkook.

Even with his back turned, you’d recognize that frame anywhere. The black cap pulled low. The shoulders. The way his hands are tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.

But that’s not what makes your heart lurch.

It’s the girl beside him.

She’s leaning in, her hand lightly brushing his arm. Her face is half-turned toward him, lips curved in a way that feels too familiar. Too… intimate.

Ji-a.

Your breath catches.

Your throat goes dry.

You don’t realize you’ve gone silent until Evi speaks again, voice cautious.

“You saw it?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Is that—?”

“Jungkook.” You don’t even try to soften it.

There’s a long pause.

Evi doesn’t have to ask why you sound like that. She already knows. You told her about Ji-a in one of your late-night rambles. You said her name the way people say ghost stories—quietly, like saying it too loudly might summon her.

Evi inhales. “It could be nothing.”

You nod even though she can’t see you. “Yeah.”

“He’s not facing the camera. I don’t even know its him”

“It’s him.”

You don’t know how you know. You just do. It’s the way he’s standing. The slope of his shoulders. That slight inward tilt of his head when he’s listening to someone speak. You’ve seen it in real life now. Once. Twice.

Enough times for it to be burned into your brain.

Evi sighs. “I hate that people sneak photos like this.”

“Yeah.”

“And post them like they’re prizes. Like human beings are trophies to be dissected online.”

You nod again, lips pressed tightly together.

You know she’s right.

But still.

Something twists in your stomach. Jealousy? No. You don’t have the right to feel jealous. Hurt, maybe. Disappointed. Or just… embarrassed. You remember the way Jungkook looked at you Friday. Like he saw you. Like he remembered everything.

Like it mattered.

But maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was just a moment. And this is real.

Your chest tightens.

“This is going to be a shit show. Thank God you are not in PR, bestie” She adds trying to lighten the mood.

You say goodnight soon after. Evi offers to stay on the phone longer, but you politely decline.

When the call ends, silence floods your apartment like rising water.

You stare at the photo again.

You wish you hadn’t.

The comments are worse. Speculations. Ship names. Theories. Some fans defending him, others demanding explanations. And some people—because the internet is the internet—talking about how perfect Ji-a is.

You put your phone face down.

You’re at step 96 now. You know because you count the four steps it takes you to crawl into bed and cocoon yourself in blankets. You stare at the ceiling.

What did you expect?

Jungkook is… Jungkook. He’s allowed to date. Allowed to be seen with whoever he wants.

You just didn’t expect it to sting this much.

Chapter Text

Saturday afternoon

12PM

He hadn’t meant to scroll.
Really.

He was just waiting for the water to boil, standing in the kitchen with his hood up, tapping his phone like it was a nervous habit. It wasn’t even late afternoon—barely 12—but his house was quiet, and he was alone.

Taehyung had gone out. Jin spent the morning texting someone with a dumb smile on his face. The rest were scattered.

And Jungkook…
Well. He was just bored.

That’s what he tells himself when he opens Instagram.

And what he keeps telling himself when he accidentally sees your story.

It’s nothing dramatic. He tells himself. Just a blurry shot of a café table. A coffee mug, a paper napkin doodled on, and a hand—yours, probably—holding a spoon. The corner of someone else’s hoodie sleeve is in frame.

It’s light. Normal. Probably meaningless.

But his brain catches on that small square of fabric.

He knows that hoodie.

He knows it because Jimin wore it the day before.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

He locks his phone and sets it facedown, turning back toward the boiling water like it matters more than the pulse behind his ears.

Why does that bother him?

Why should it?

He has spent his time close enough to you. Smiled, made jokes. Even though sometimes all he wanted was to go back and kick the shit out of the guy who had touched you in the club. And — more often then not— wipe that smile of Seo-Jun’s face.

He also knows you and Jimin are close. Everyone’s seen it. The playful way you guys act around eachother. The way Jimin always seems to make you laugh—And the way he wished he could too.

It’s not like he has a claim on you.
It’s not like he wants one.

Jungkook swipes a hand through his hair and grabs the ramen from the cupboard, annoyed at himself for even thinking about it this much.

But then, it gets worse. He thinks back to when  you show up at the studio with that same soft smile Jimin always manages to put on your face. You're holding an iced americano in one hand and a folder in the other, and when Jimin sees you, his eyes light up like he’s been waiting all morning just for that.

And you—

You bump his shoulder with yours, say something under your breath, and laugh when he tugs your hood up over your head like you’re a little kid he needs to protect from the cold.

You don’t even notice Jungkook watching.

He’s across the room, fiddling with the straps of his bag, pretending to check his something in inside. But he’s watching.

It’s subtle, the way your body leans just a little toward Jimin. Like you're used to being near him. Like you want to be near him.

And Jungkook hates it.

Not because it’s wrong.
Not because you’re doing anything bad.

But it makes him feel like he missed a moment he desperately wanted—like he blinked, and you drifted into someone else’s orbit, while he was still circling you like the moon to your planet.

He wants to tell himself it’s just protectiveness. That he’s just worried for you. That he knows how this world works, and it’s harsh, and it can break girls like you if you're not careful.

But the truth?

He just doesn’t like seeing you that way—with someone else.
Even if that someone is Jimin.

Especially because it’s Jimin.

Saturday Evening

6PM

“So are you still seeing that Ji-a girl?”

Mingyu’s question lands casually. No agenda. No edge. And snaps him right back to reality.

But it still knocks the air out of Jungkook’s lungs like he wasn’t expecting it—even though he should’ve been.

Taehyung shifts in front of him, picking up his chopsticks again without looking up.

Jungkook leans back in his seat, nursing his glass, jaw tight.

“We weren’t really seeing each other,” he mutters.

Mingyu blinks. “But you were together the other night, no?”

“Not like that.” He exhales slowly. “She just... came by. It wasn’t planned.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “She found you outside the company at night with a perfect blowout?”

Jungkook glares at him. “I said it wasn’t planned.”

Taehyung doesn’t argue. He just flips the meat calmly and waits.

Jungkook downs the last of his drink and finally says, “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“What is?” Mingyu asks, completely missing the tension. “She’s hot. She’s obviously into you. You didn’t like her?”

Jungkook hesitates.
He doesn’t answer right away.

“She’s fine.” Shrugging.

Taehyung snorts. “You say that like you’re talking about lukewarm ramen.”

“I don’t know” Jungkook says quietly. “It just felt... off.”

He taps his fingers restlessly against the table.

“I thought maybe it would help,” he adds. “To get my mind off—”

He stops.

Off what, exactly?

Taehyung looks up, his voice calmer now. “Off of her?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Instead he flips the meat that was sizzling on the grill.

Mingyu looks between them, eyes wide. “Wait, who? Are we talking about her-her now?”

“Y/N,” Taehyung says plainly.

Mingyu nods slowly. “Ohhh... right. Yeah. That makes more sense.”

“You’ve barely talked about her lately,” Tae adds. “But I’ve seen it. You’ve changed.”

Jungkook scoffs, and with a smile, plays it off. “I have not.”

“You don’t look at your phone. You stare at it. And when she’s around, it’s like you forget how to act normal.” Taehyung jokes and pokes Jungkook with his elbow.

“That’s not true,” Jungkook protests.

“Right. That’s why you barely speak when she walks in. Or why you always find a reason to hang around if she’s talking to Jimin.”

Jungkook groans, resting his head in his hand. “It’s not like that.”

Taehyung leans back, casual but deliberate. “Then what is it like?”

Mingyu’s grin returns. “Yeah, what is it like, Jeon?”

His smile now not reaching his eyes, Jungkook doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t want to say it.
Not the way it’s been tangled in his head.

So instead, he says, “She’s... different. I don’t know… ”

“Different how?”

“Like...” he pauses. “Like, it matters what she thinks. Even though it shouldn’t” he pauses “Even when she’s not looking. Even when she’s not talking to me. Even if I screw up and pretend I didn’t recognize her from the airplane” He looks up. “I felt like shit after that.”

Taehyung nods, voice calm again, holding a smile. “Because you care.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Because I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

He goes quiet again.

He doesn’t know what really to say to you. He just knows he wants to be around. To hear you laugh. Or have a smug remark about something that they did. And that is driving him crazy. Even if he doesn’t want to fully admit it.

Mingyu, clearly trying to help, lifts his soju glass. “So... why don’t you just tell her?”

Jungkook lets out a short laugh. “Because she’s leaving. She’s just an intern. Because I don’t know if she even sees me like that. Because she’s close with Jimin, and I don’t want to make it weird. Because maybe I already messed up.”

Taehyung watches him with that same unreadable look he gets when he’s quietly judging you but also doesn’t want to kick you when you’re down.

“ It’s a lot what she has done to be here. It must be hard for her” he says carefully. “You know that.”

Jungkook swallows hard. “I know.”

“So if you want to show up for her, do it for real. Or don’t do it at all.”

He doesn’t say it like a warning.
He says it like a friend. Like a brother.

And it hits even harder because of that.

Jungkook stares down at the half-empty plate in front of him and doesn’t say anything else for a while.

The sound of laughter from another table cuts into the silence for a beat, while the scent of grilled pork and sesame oil hangs warm in the air. Jungkook leans forward, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to loosen the pressure building behind his forehead.

“Can we change the subject?” he mutters.

“No,” Taehyung replies, cool and blunt.

Jungkook looks up. “Hyung.”

“I’m not saying this to mess with you.” Tae sits straighter now, expression serious. “But it’s you, Jungkook. You never hesitate like this. You either care or you don’t. You’re in or you’re not.”

“That’s not fair,” Jungkook says.

“It’s true though,” Mingyu throws in, mouth half-full. “Even back in the day, if a girl wasn’t your thing, you were just polite. If she was, you’d go for it. No second-guessing.”

Jungkook looks away.

It’s so different this time.

It’s not about liking you. It’s not even about attraction. That’s the easy part. And God knows hows he’s attracted to you. It feels like the moment you looked at him in the airplane his gravity shifted and he spent 90% of the day thinking about you. It’s the way you makes him feel like he’s seventeen again—like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like one wrong move will push you away.

“She’s... different,” he says again.

“You keep saying that,” Taehyung replies. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re acting like a toddler around her lately. Friendly one second. Ice cold the next. And after that night at the club, you think anyone didn’t notice?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens.

“She didn’t say anything.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t feel it,” Tae says simply.

There’s a pause, and then Mingyu asks, softer this time, like hes actually just trying to understand his friend. “What would you even want with her?”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

“Like—long term? You said she’s leaving. She’s not like other girls. And you’re not exactly the kind of guy who—” he stops, thinks better of it. “Well, I just mean, you’re always focused on work. Life’s complicated. Would you even want to deal with that kind of mess?”

Jungkook lets the question settle. He lets the buzz of the alcohol twist through his stomach a little.

“I don’t know” he says shrugging it off.

Taehyung glances up.

Mingyu raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“I think about it all the time.” He exhales. “What it would be like if she stays. What I’d say if I wasn’t such a coward. If I could just figure out how to fix what I already screwed up.”

Taehyung studies him closely now.

“What do you think she wants?”

Jungkook pauses.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Sometimes I think... probably nothing. Maybe I just want this more than she ever did. Maybe it’s just me. Good to point out the position we are all in” He motions slightly to the place around them.

Taehyung’s expression softens just a little, understanding his friend.

“You ever think she’s scared too?”

Jungkook swallows.

“I see it,” Tae continues, “in how she talks to you. She’s guarded, yeah. But she still lights up when you’re around—when you let her in. And she shuts down fast when she thinks she’s wrong about you.”

That last part lands like a weight in Jungkook’s chest.

Because it’s true. He saw it. After Ji-a. The way Y/N’s smile dropped. The way her eyes darted away. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg for clarity.

She just stepped back.

And he let her.

 Jungkook says quietly. “I just don’t know if it’s already too late.”

Mingyu finishes his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sound like you’re already losing something you never had.”

Ouch. That stings.

Taehyung raises a brow. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Jungkook looks down at his empty glass, fingers tightening slightly around it.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Then—

“But I think I need to stop pretending I don’t care.”

7:45 PM

They’re halfway into their third bottle of soju when Jimin finally shows up—hood up, cheeks slightly flushed from the jog over. He slides into the booth beside Taehyung like he’s always belonged there.

“You started without me,” Jimin whines and grins, reaching for a glass.

“You said ten minutes. It’s been forty,” Jungkook mumbles, but there’s no heat in his voice.

“Had to finish something,” Jimin shrugs, pouring himself a shot. “Besides, looks like the therapy circle’s already in full swing. Who cried first?”

“Who says we’re crying?” Jungkook muttered, leaning back, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

Taehyung gave him a look. “You might as well be.”

Jimin reached for a glass, pouring himself a drink. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing much. Therapy topic is Mingyu asked why everyone’s losing their minds over Y/N,” Taehyung said dryly.

Jimin’s expression shifted—but not too much. He took a slow sip, watching Jungkook from behind the rim of his glass.

“And?” he said. Casual.

Jungkook stayed quiet, staring at the table.

Mingyu, clueless in his own charming way, added, “I mean, I get it. She’s hot, chill to talk to, but like… is she secretly a princess or something? I didn’t know a girl could cause this much chaos without even doing anything.”

There was a short beat of silence.

“She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t have to do anything,” Taehyung said, almost gently. “She just is.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. He wanted to say something, anything. But the words stuck.

Jimin leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “She’s also the kind of girl who doesn’t know the effect she has,” he said, voice light but eyes a little too honest. “That’s part of it. You can tell when you talk to her she’s not playing games.”

Taehyung gave him a look—knowing, soft.

Jungkook finally spoke. “She’s not like the others. Staff might even be sweet and innocent but you know what they really feel”

Mingyu blinked and nodded. He has experienced that himself. “Damn. So it’s that serious?”

“It’s not,” Jungkook said too quickly.

Jimin raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. He just said, “Sure.”

“She saw me with Ji-a,” Jungkook added suddenly, like the words had been burning to get out. “The other night. She didn’t say anything, but… I know she saw.”

Now even Mingyu stayed quiet.

Jimin tilted his head, frowning slightly. “And?”

“She looked at me like…” Jungkook trailed off, searching for the word. “Like I wasn’t who she thought I was.”

“You aren’t,” Taehyung said. “Not when you’re with girls like Ji-a.”

Jungkook winced. “That’s not fair.”

Mingyu blinked between them, finally putting it together. “Wait, you too?”

Jimin looked at him with a lopsided smile. “What, me?”

“You like her.”

Jimin shrugged. “She’s easy to like.”

“But you’re not doing anything about it?”

There was a brief pause before Jimin replied, voice calm. “She doesn’t need me to make it harder.”

Taehyung’s mouth pulled into something almost proud. He nodded once.

Jungkook looked up at Jimin.

“She trusts you,” he said, and it wasn’t quite a question.

“She does,” Jimin agreed, no hint of competition in his voice. “That’s why I’m careful.”

Another beat of silence.

Mingyu raised his glass. “Okay, now I really feel like I walked into the middle of a drama.”

Jimin laughed, and even Jungkook cracked a tired smile.

But under the laughter, the looks lingered.

Taehyung looked between his friends and said nothing—but he saw everything.

Jimin watched the way Jungkook’s knee bounced restlessly, how his thumb kept tapping at his phone screen, even when there were no new messages. Messages Jungkook thought maybe if he willed them enough, they would show up.

10PM

They were well into their fifth bottle by the time the vibe mellowed into something lazy and warm. Laughter came easier, voices lowered with tired honesty. They moved their get-together to Tae’s apartment, since it was closer to where they were and neither of them wanted to get caught red in the face. Literally.

Jungkook hadn’t said much since Jimin’s comment. His phone was in his hand again, thumb hovering over the screen. Not messaging anyone—just checking. Always checking.

Taehyung noticed, of course. Jimin too. But neither said anything.

Mingyu, on the other hand, remained blissfully unaware of the invisible lines stretched between them all.

“You know what I think?” he said suddenly, tipping back the last of his drink and setting the glass down with a clink. “You’re overthinking it.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. “Overthinking what?”

“Her. Y/N.” Mingyu grinned. “She’s pretty, she’s cool, she’s nice to everyone—too nice maybe? But if it’s getting in your head that much, why not just… I don’t know. Fuck it off?”

Taehyung glanced up sharply. “Mingyu—”

“I’m serious!” Mingyu waved him off and points at Jungkook to make his point. “He’s young. He’s hot. He’s got Ji-a on the line. She’s fun, right? No pressure, no complications. If you’re gonna get all twisted over someone you can’t even date, why not stick with the one who’s actually into you and didn’t really cause trouble?”

That’s when Jungkook’s phone lit up.

Ji-a .

A video call.

All three boys saw it. Mingyu raised his eyebrows, like he’d just manifested it.

“See?” he said, laughing. “Perfect timing.”

Jungkook stared at the screen. The call kept ringing.

He didn’t move.

Taehyung shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“It might help,” Mingyu countered. “Blow off some steam. You’ve been weird for weeks, man.”

Jungkook hesitated. His jaw clenched, thumb hovering.

Then he swiped. He just wanted to know what it was about. Curiosity getting the best of him.

The screen lit up with Ji-a’s face. Pretty. Smiling. Tipsy from whatever party she was clearly at. Music thumped in the background.

“Kookie,” she drawled, eyes gleaming. “What are you doing?”

“Just out with the guys.”

“Aw. I miss your face.”

Jungkook forced a smile. “Yeah?”

“You should come over after,” she said without hesitation.

Taehyung looked away. Jimin’s mouth tightened.

Mingyu leaned back smugly.

“I’ll… think about it,” Jungkook muttered.

Ji-a winked. “Don’t think too hard. You know how you like it.”

The call ended with a giggle and a blown kiss.

Jungkook put his phone down slowly.

Silence.

“You don’t have to do that,” Taehyung said again, firmer this time.

“I know.”

Jimin said nothing, but he took another slow sip of his drink, eyes unreadable.

Mingyu finally caught on to the tension and blinked between them. “What?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His mind was already somewhere else.

Not at Ji-a’s apartment. Not on her voice or her deep sighs.

But on a flinch he’d seen when someone’s hand brushed your back earlier that week.

On the way your laughter always came after a pause—like you needed to be sure it was safe.

On the texts you sent him first friendly when you didn’t know you worked for him, he now wishes he could slap himself for not getting your number first and texting immediately after leaving that airplane. Your texts that turned purely practical and polished. Which even though was not even close to what he was actually craving, he wanted them all day long.

On the quiet nothings you said after catching him with Ji-a the first time.

He hated that you hadn’t said anything.

He hated even more that you probably never would.

Because you waren’t like Ji-a.

And you waren’t his.

By the time the apartment fell into that familiar post-drunken hush, it was past 1 AM. Mingyu was passed out with only one sock on, cradling a cushion like it owed him money. Jimin had tucked himself into the corner by the balcony, earbuds in but nothing playing—his chest rising and falling too evenly to be real. Taehyung had retreated to his room, door slightly ajar, low jazz humming through his speaker like a sigh no one could stop.

And Jungkook?
He was still awake.

Phone screen dimly lit in his palm, thumb hesitating over the keyboard. Ji-a had been texting all night.

Ji-a [12:17 AM]:
You ignoring me?

Ji-a [12:23 AM]:
Come over, Kookie.

Ji-a [12:24 AM]:
I can send a car for you.

Ji-a [12:31 AM]:
We both know you’ll sleep better here.

He didn’t answer.
Didn’t want to. Not really.

But he couldn’t stop reading them.
Couldn’t stop thinking.

The more he tried to quiet it—you—the louder it all got. The image of you laughing with Seo-Jun at the bar, that bright, spontaneous sound that had cut through the haze of his thoughts like a spotlight. You flinching earlier that week when someone tapped you shoulder—so subtle he almost missed it, but enough to tangle him up. The way you always gave everyone else your full attention—but him, you kept at a polite distance, like he was a puzzle you had given up to solve.

He should’ve been grateful for that.
He wasn’t.

He wanted more, and he hated that he did.
He hated that wanting her made him feel so damn helpless.

So when Ji-a texted again—

Ji-a [01:04 AM]:
I need you.

Ji-a [01:04 AM]:
[photo]

His breath caught. He stared at it too long—her silhouetted against dim light, hair tumbling over one shoulder, expression both inviting and expectant. She was beautiful in a careless, confident way he used to like

And then he moved.

Just like that.

He grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch, slid his phone into his pocket, careful not to wake the others. He slipped on his sneakers quietly, the zip of his hoodie echoing too loudly in his ears. He paused by the mirror down the hall—half-expecting to see someone else’s determined eyes looking back. Instead, he saw his own gaze: sharp, restless, tinged with something he refused to name.

He didn’t think.
He just moved.

Ji-a’s apartment was barely a fifteen-minute ride away. He could feel the engine of the car before he even got in, that hum of metal and promise that she’d be waiting with lips curved into that same familiar smile.

He didn’t text her.
He didn’t need to.

1:18am

Her place was warm.
Smelled like jasmine and vodka and something artificial he couldn’t name. Maybe candle wax. Maybe perfume. Maybe the ghost of too many nights that started like this.

Ji-a opened the door in a satin robe, no bra, her smile curling like she’d been waiting for him all her life.
“There you are,” she said, like he belonged there. Like this was where he should’ve been all along.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Just stepped in and let her pull him close, her mouth already brushing his jaw, fingers tugging at his hoodie like it offended her.

“You always take too long,” she murmured against his throat, her hand already sliding down his abdomen, like she’d done it before. Because she had.
Too many times.

It was easy. Familiar. Fast.
She was warm, soft, hungry in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

He let her drag him through the hallway, stumbling over his shoes that got kicked off beside the couch, the scent of jasmine thickening the farther they went. Her robe slipped from one shoulder, her thigh bare where it parted. She looked beautiful. He could admit that.

But halfway to her bedroom, something in him stalled.

His back hit the wall, her hands greedy as they pulled at his belt, mouth trailing kisses down his neck. “God, you taste the same,” she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur that might’ve worked—once. “Missed this.”

She moaned his name when he grabbed her waist. Clutched at him like she’d memorized every edge of him.
It was all so smooth.
Too smooth.
Like they were checking boxes in a scene they’d both performed too many times.

His hands slid under her robe, fingers skating along her ribs, but there was a hollowness to it. A delay between touch and reaction. Like his body was here, but his head… it was somewhere else.

A pair of eyes he wasn’t supposed to remember so vividly.
A laugh, unpolished and real..
The kind of connection that hadn’t needed rehearsal.

Ji-a pressed against him, her breath hot against his ear. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said, almost teasing. She tugged his jeans lower, her knee brushing between his legs. “Not like last time.”

He exhaled, closed his eyes.

He could do this.
Could pretend.

But his brain—
It was cruel.
It kept searching.

Searching for skin that felt different. For a voice that didn’t try so hard to be seductive. For a softness that hadn't meant to tempt him, but did.

Ji-a’s lips trailed down his chest, fingers curling around him, making him close his eyes and lean back his head. “What is bothering you, baby?” she asked, low.

He didn’t answer.
Didn’t lie either.

He just leaned into her.
Put his mouth on hers, slow and deep.
Gave her what she wanted—rhythm and friction, lips and hands and muscle memory.

But he couldn’t stop the name that almost slipped out.
The thought of someone else’s breath hitching under his touch.
Someone who wouldn’t have pulled him into this, but who he would’ve followed anyway.

And in the moment Ji-a tipped her head back as he was deep into her and gasped his name, he let himself imagine it was you instead.

4:04am

He left before she could ask him to stay.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t wait for her reaction.

Back at Tae’s apartment, the lights were still off. Mingyu snored. Jimin had rolled to the other side of the blanket. His pillow was cold again.

Jungkook tossed his jacket aside and collapsed on the couch like something deflated.

He pulled out his phone.

No new messages.

Nothing from you.

Not even a dumb update. Not even work. Why would you anyway? It’s the weekend and in the middle of the night.

He opened your contact, stared at it again.

The cursor blinked in the empty text box.

Hey.

He erased it.

Tried again.

Couldn’t sleep.

Deleted.

He tossed the phone onto the floor and dragged the blanket over his shoulders like it could protect him from the truth.

He'd tried forgetting you.

With hands. With skin. With someone else.

But he still ended up here.

Alone.

And wanting only one person who had no idea she was keeping him up at night.

Sunday Morning
 7:02 AM

He hadn’t really slept.

Not after slipping out last night. Not after coming back and lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it could make sense of the mess inside his head.

Ji-a had said all the right things—worn all the right things too. She always did. Familiar in a way that made it easy to lose himself for a while. But nothing stuck.

Not when he walked away from her apartment and still found himself checking his phone like an idiot. Hoping for a message that wasn’t coming.

From someone who probably wasn’t even thinking about him.

He clenched his jaw and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the muted reflection in the black TV screen. Pathetic. Even his reflection looked like he didn’t want to deal with him either.

Footsteps broke the silence.

He didn’t need to look to know it was Taehyung.

That quiet, easy rhythm of someone who knew the space like his own thoughts.

“You good?”

Jungkook shrugged without looking back. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything right away. He just opened the fridge and tossed him a cold water bottle. Jungkook caught it one-handed, let the coolness sting against his palm.

“Thought you knocked out early,” Taehyung said, casually.

“I went out for a bit to clear my head.”

He didn’t say where. But he could feel the weight of Taehyung’s stare like it was physical.

“…and did you manage?” Jungkook knew Taehyung enough to know his friend clocked in to where he went but didn’t say anything.

Jungkook hesitated. Just long enough to give himself away.

“No.”

Silence.

He hated this part.

Not because of the judgment. There wasn’t any. Not from Taehyung. Just... disappointment? Concern? Understanding?

It was worse.

“She called,” Jungkook muttered. “Again.”

“You answered.”

“You know she wouldn’t stop.”

Taehyung came over and sat down next to him, back against the couch. Grounded and calm, like he was willing to wait all day for Jungkook to get it together.

“I thought if I saw her, maybe I’d stop thinking about it.”

“You mean Y/N.”

He didn’t even flinch at the name. It had been there in his chest all night anyway.

“I thought maybe I could forget her,” Jungkook admitted quietly.

“And did it work?”

“No.”

The word scraped out of him like it hurt. Because it did.

“She’s still very much there,” he said. “In my head. Every second. And I don’t even have anything with her. I’m this messed up over something that never even started.”

Taehyung gave a dry chuckle.

Jungkook looked down at his hands. “I thought I could distract myself. I tried to. But I walked out of Ji-a’s apartment and I felt worse than when I got there.”

“You’re gonna end up resenting both of them.”

“I already do.”

Taehyung let out a slow breath beside him. Not surprised.

Jungkook rubbed at his temple. “She hasn’t texted me.”

“You haven’t exactly opened the door either.Plus is the weekend.”

“She texts Jimin though.” He pouts slightly.

“You think she’s not reaching out because she doesn’t care?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she thinks I don’t.”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to tell.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, voice tight. “I was a dick. I know.”

“You’re being one to yourself, too.”

He stayed quiet for a second. Then, like a confession: “She’s not like Ji-a.”

“No. She’s not.”

“She’s not like anyone.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Jungkook sat back against the couch and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I’m losing it.”

“You’re feeling it,” Taehyung corrected gently. “Finally.”

Jungkook cracked a small, hollow smile. “Feels the same.”

Taehyung got up and stretched. “Come on. Let’s make coffee before Mingyu wakes up and says something dumb.”

The curve on Jungkooks lips went up and he nodded slowly.

He would never say it out loud—but part of him hoped she would text anything other then work. Just once. Even if she was mad. Even if it meant nothing.

Just so he’d know he hadn’t imagined everything.

Sunday

8PM

The city was unusually warm for a Sunday evening this time of year, the kind of humid warmth that stuck to your skin and made everything feel slower, lazier, heavier. The kind that wrapped around you like an unwanted second skin. Jungkook leaned back in the car, one hand resting loosely on his thigh, the other scrolling through his phone—not because he cared about anything he saw, but because he needed something to do with his hands. Something to distract from the low thrum of guilt that had been pounding in his head since morning.

Doom-scrolling was his best form of self-soothing these days. Especially after Ji-a had sent the location. A cozy but upscale izakaya tucked away in a quieter corner of Gangnam. She promised good food, cold drinks, and "no stress."

No stress.

That was the part that hooked him, and she knew it. He was exhausted. Not just physically, from the lack of sleep, but from the noise in his own head. Beating himself up over things that no longer had quick fixes.

When he arrived, she was already there, perched on the edge of a booth like she belonged in that dim lighting. Legs crossed. Drink half-finished. Lips curved into a coy smile that had always worked on him in the past.

"Hey, stranger," she said.

He slid into the seat across from her and offered a small smile, more polite than anything. "Hey."

Ji-a looked great. Objectively. She always did. Her makeup was minimal but perfect, skin glowing under the moody amber lighting. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose tie, framing her face with effortless elegance. She wore a cropped black top that hugged her waist, and it wasn’t a surprise if every man who passed glanced over. She leaned in a little, her elbows on the table.

"I wasn’t sure you’d actually come."

"I said I would."

"Still," she teased, "you’ve been so… inconsistent."

He shrugged, noncommittal. The waiter appeared, and they ordered—grilled skewers, fried chicken, a round of soju. The clinking of glasses and the low hum of laughter from surrounding tables filled the silences between them.

For the first twenty minutes, it wasn’t bad.

Ji-a talked about work, complained about her schedule, made sly jokes about idol life as if she weren’t halfway in the industry herself. Jungkook laughed in the right places. He asked questions when it seemed appropriate. He even smiled a few times—the kind of automatic smile he knew how to summon. There was a time, not too long ago, when being around her had been easy. Comforting. She was sharp and bold, with a knack for pulling him out of his shell just enough. She didn’t need coaxing, didn’t hesitate to touch his arm, lean close when she laughed.

But that comfort felt thinner now. Like cheap fabric. Stretching. Fraying. And he hated anything that felt forced.

She poured him another glass of soju, sliding it across the table with a smirk.

"So," she said, eyes scanning his face, "what’s got you so quiet lately? I mean, besides your usual introvert phase."

He stared at the glass for a second before meeting her eyes. "I’ve just been busy."

"Too busy to reply to me?" she asked. Her voice was still light, but the edge in it was sharper now, more noticeable.

He didn’t flinch just smiled politely. "I don’t like texting."

"I noticed," she said with a hollow laugh. Then, quieter, "You’ve been extra cold lately. Did I do something?"

"No. It’s not about you."

He meant it. God, he meant it.

She tilted her head, one perfectly shaped brow lifting. "But there is something."

Jungkook said nothing. He looked out the window instead, where city lights flickered off the rain-washed street and a couple crossed the road with fingers intertwined.

It wasn’t about Ji-a. Not even a little.

It was about the girl who wasn’t here. The girl who barely looked him in the eye this week. Who pulled away every time someone touched her now. The one who talked about her thesis and made it sound like poetry.Whose absence stung more than it should.

"You’re somewhere else again," Ji-a said, her voice softer now, but distant.

He turned to her slowly. "I’m here."

She reached under the table, her fingers brushing his hand, then curling around it. "Then prove it."

Classic Ji-a. Direct. Confident.

The food arrived, offering a break in the tension. He ate mechanically, his movements rehearsed, grateful for something to focus on other than the ache building behind his ribs. The taste of grilled meat and salty batter was dull on his tongue.

Ji-a finished her drink and then stood, sliding into his side of the booth without asking. Her thigh pressed against his. She smelled like jasmine and a perfume he recognized but couldn’t name. Her hand rested casually on his leg.

"Remember the last time we came here?" she murmured close to his ear. Her breath was warm. Her tone suggestive. "You were way more fun."

Jungkook offered a faint smirk. "We were drunk."

"Wanna fix that?" she asked, already refilling their glasses.

And so he drank again. Let her lean into him. Let her whisper into his neck and kiss his cheek. Let her pretend they were okay, that this was what he wanted. For a while, it was easier that way.

Because when he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was someone else.

Almost.

They stayed until the staff started wiping down tables. The night air had cooled slightly when they stepped outside. Ji-a looped her arm through his and leaned into his shoulder like they were something. Like they could still be something.

Maybe this was what normal looked like. Maybe this was what he needed. Someone easy. Someone who wanted him.

When they reached the curb, she looked up at him, her voice soft. "Come back to mine?"

Jungkook hesitated.

This was the part where he usually said yes. Let things unfold the way she wanted. Let himself be wanted, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.

"I have an early schedule," he lied, again.

Ji-a blinked, smile faltering before she forced it back. "Right. Of course."

He opened the cab door for her. Said goodbye. Walked away before she could say anything else. The silence of the ride home filled his lungs like cement. He didn’t scroll. Didn’t text. Just stared out the window as neon signs blurred past.

When he got home, everything felt too quiet. The hum of the fridge. The soft buzz of the lights. The faint creak of his floorboards as he toed off his shoes. He didn’t turn on the TV or music. Just tossed his jacket on the back of the couch and opened a bottle of water.

The moment he sat down, his body slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, water bottle untouched in his hand.

His phone buzzed.

For half a second, his heart kicked.

It could be you.

But why would it be?

Ji-a. Again. Her message was sweet. Suggestive. Asking if he changed his mind.

He didn’t reply.

Locked the screen.

Another buzz. He was ready to throw his phone out the window.

But this time, it was his manager.

Jungkook sat upright, pulse ticking.

“ Emergency meeting at the company. Come now. Someone took pictures tonight. ”

The air thinned. His chest tightened.

He unlocked the screen again. Two attached photos followed. Blurry, but clear enough. His back to the camera. Ji-a leaning into him. The kiss to his cheek. Her arm wrapped in his.

"Shit" he whispered.

Chapter Text

The news broke like thunder.

Not the cinematic kind that rolls through the sky in warning—but the kind that crashes down without mercy, right on top of you. Violent. Sudden. The one that leaves your bones rattleling.

Your phone vibrates so violently on the nightstand that it skitters off the edge, landing on the floor with a sharp, accusing thud. It doesn't stop. Just keeps buzzing like it’s trying to wake the dead—or destroy the living. Your groggy limbs don’t want to move, but something in your chest starts to twist, coil, squeeze. You force your eyes open.

5:47 AM.

You blink. Once. Twice. The numbers don’t change.

Who the hell is texting you before sunrise?

For a split second, you almost reach for Evi’s contact out of reflex—ready to half-joke, half-scold her for pulling you into some chaotic rabbit hole this early. But your hand stills before it touches the screen. Evi wouldn’t. Not unless it mattered.

Your fingers fumble over the edge of the bed, blindly searching until your palm grazes the phone’s edge. You squint at the screen.

Twenty-three notifications.

The cold dread begins to bloom before you even unlock it.

The first one, timestamped 4:13 AM, stares at you like a siren in the dark:

[Yoshi 💚]: Are you awake? Check Twitter. NOW.

You swipe down. Another from Evi, minutes later:

[my one and only true love]: girl its blowing out of proportions. I know you’re not PR but I’m sure the bomb is gonna drop in your lap at some point.

Your heart stutters, picking up a strange, off-beat rhythm as you scroll further.

Texts from the girls. Three missed calls from Seo-Jun—which throws you, given how distant he’s been lately. One from your supervisor.

And then Sana, which leaves your fingers frozen on the screen for longer then it should.

[San ✨]: Guess golden boy isn't so golden after all … Dating scandal with Ji-a just dropped. Everyone’s freaking out. Manager wants all hands on deck.

Your blood runs cold.

And then you're moving—sitting up too fast, legs tangling in the sheets, lungs tight as if the air has turned into smoke. Your fingers fly across the screen, launching your browser with practiced speed.

There it is. Headline after headline. Like digital shrapnel.

“Alleged Date: BTS’ Jungkook Spotted on Intimate Night Out with Actress Ji-a”
“Golden Maknae’s Secret Romance? Late Night Rendezvous Caught on Camera”
“HYBE Stocks Dip Following Dating Rumors of BTS Member”

The breath you suck in trembles through your chest.

The photos aren't explicit. No grand confessions. No stolen kisses in alleyways.

But you know that build. That silhouette. That casual oversized hoodie he wore just last week to the office, sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he always does.

And Ji-a’s smile—it’s the kind that reaches her eyes. Her hand is tucked into the crook of his arm like she belongs there. In another frame, she leans up—her lips brushing what looks like his cheek, but the angle swallows his expression whole.

It could be anyone.
But it’s not.
You know it’s him.

A sharp ache carves itself into your chest.

You swallow hard, but the knot in your throat refuses to budge. You blink, then blink again, as if that might make the headlines disappear. As if denial could overwrite truth.

He’s not yours.

He never was.

Still—your hands are trembling.

The screen buzzes again. Taking away the haze that had been taking control.

[Manager Kim]: Emergency meeting at 7 AM. All staff required. Media response team assembling now.

You inhale, long and slow. A futile attempt to calm the chaos clawing through your ribcage.

This isn’t personal.

This is your job.

Your job.

You’re just staff. Intern staff, at that.

You tell yourself this again and again as you set the phone down. As you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. As your bare feet press to the floor.

But the words don’t land. They bounce right off the jagged glass now wedged in your chest.

You get dressed in silence.

Black slacks. Crisp white blouse. You tug your hair back into a low, tight bun. Not a strand out of place.

If you look like you have it together, maybe no one will see the cracks.

The mirror doesn’t lie, though.

Your eyes are red. Swollen in the corners. You look exactly like someone who barely slept, who was sucker-punched by a truth she never wanted to admit.

You stare yourself down for five long seconds.

Then you turn away.

The city blurs past the car window, a gray smear of buildings and movement. Your Uber driver hums along to a soft pop ballad, and your brain doesn't even register the lyrics until the segment changes.

A newscaster’s chipper voice cuts through the radio:
“...breaking news in the world of K-pop today. BTS’s Jungkook was spotted late last night with actress Ji-a in what fans are calling a romantic date…”

You almost ask the driver to change the station. The words feel like needles under your skin, but you can’t summon the energy to speak.

You just press your forehead to the window, letting the cold glass anchor you. Ground you. Keep you from floating into the spiral that threatens to pull you under.

You don’t open your phone again.

You don’t want to see the trending hashtags.

Or the edits.

Or the commentary dissecting every inch of his posture, every pixel of her expression.

You already saw everything you needed to.

You felt it.

That silent confirmation that whatever sliver of hope you’d let flicker in your chest—whatever spark there was between you and him that night on the plane, or in the quiet glances at the studio—was nothing more than smoke.

Maybe it had been real for a second. Maybe not.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Now the world had a new power couple to obsess over. And you?

You were supposed to be the ghost behind the curtain.
Not even a footnote.

You arrive at HYBE twelve minutes early and walk into a war room.

The energy is electric—tight with tension, exhaustion, and that specific brand of focused chaos that only comes with a PR crisis. Laptops are open. Papers clutter the table. Coffee cups, some half-empty, litter the surface like fallen soldiers. On the main screen, the photos—the ones causing all of this—are blown up in high resolution, each pixel scrutinized to death.

Your eyes lock onto them. Not like you haven’t stared at them for way too long at this point.

“—we need to control the narrative immediately. We have a statement drafted, but timing is everything. The longer we wait, the worse the speculation gets.”

A woman from legal adjusts her glasses. “We also have to consider contract implications. If we confirm a relationship—”

Manager Kim cuts in sharply. “Let’s not jump ahead.” He runs a hand through his short black hair, eyes scanning the table, reading the tension in everyone’s posture. “Thoughts? Anyone?”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not even sure why you open your mouth. Maybe it’s because you’ve been staring at the same three photos for an hour and something about them keeps nagging at you.

You lean forward slightly, keeping your voice light. “It’s just… interesting how conveniently unprovable these are. No face. No tattoos. Even the outfit—yeah, it looks like something he’d wear, but it’s not exclusive. The angles, the hair, the framing—it almost feels intentional. Like someone wanted it to look like him, without ever proving it.”

A few heads turn. You pretend not to notice, keeping your eyes on the screen.

Manager Kim taps his pen against the table once, then looks directly at you. “You’re saying we don’t even need to deny it—because technically, it can’t be confirmed.”

You shrug, casual. “If someone wants to believe it’s not him, there’s just enough doubt to let them. We don’t have to say anything. The public will do it for us.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Manager Kim nods. “We hold the statement. No confirmation, no denial. We circulate this internally—to senior staff, the social teams. Get a few trusted fan accounts to point out the lack of facial ID. Let the doubt spread organically. Let the public talk itself out of it.”

“But sir,” someone from PR chimes in carefully, “the fans are already—”

“They’ll speculate no matter what,” he says firmly. “Silence is not admission. It’s refusal. And we’re not playing a game we can't win.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple around the table. The head of PR is already scribbling notes.

You sit back in your chair, trying not to overthink it. You hadn’t expected anyone to actually listen to what you said, let alone use it. But Manager Kim throws you the smallest glance—barely there, but unmistakably approving.

And suddenly, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

He turns to security. “Increase protection for all members. Especially Jungkook. No press contact, no comments. Adjust schedules only if absolutely necessary. We need to show this doesn’t touch us.”

The meeting moves on—action items, timelines, roles. You take notes automatically, keeping your focus on logistics: extra guards, backdoor exits, minimizing visibility. You bury yourself in the tasks. It’s easier than thinking about everything else.

An hour later, the meeting begins to thin out. Someone from the team walks over, clutching a folder.

“Y/N,” she says, “can you take these revised security protocols to the members? They’re in the practice room.”

You stay long enough to answer a few questions about exits and the new silent protocol for building arrivals. Jin nods seriously. Yoongi doesn't look up. No one asks about Jungkook.

You don’t either.

Your voice is even, measured, as if your pulse isn’t climbing with every second you stay in the room. As if your bones aren’t buzzing like live wires beneath your skin. You can still feel the aftershock of the meeting upstairs—the sharp, clipped tone of voices deciding how to erase the truth without technically lying. Your own voice, echoing in the room when you hadn't meant to say anything at all.

And then Manager Kim's approval, the way it had cut through the static.

Now here you are. Delivering orders about protection and secrecy to the very people who need shielding from the world—and maybe, in some way, from each other.

As you excuse yourself and are halfway down the hallway, you hear Jimin’s voice call after you.

“Y/N.”

You stop mid-turn. “Yeah?”

He jogs lightly to reach you, slowing as he gets close. His face is unreadable—his usual brightness dimmed, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

“Did you see him?”

You don’t ask who. The question thuds in your chest like a dropped weight.

“No,” you answer. “Not really.”

Jimin nods like he expected that. “He’s in the small studio. Said he needed air but didn’t want to leave the building.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches too long, not awkward, but full of things neither of you says.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

His gaze lingers on you—not sharp, not suspicious. Just… searching. Watching you like he’s weighing whether to ask more or let you go.

Then, softer, “You should… uh, go talk to him.”

You nod. Not because you understand, but because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’ll… bring him a copy of the protocols,” you manage, lifting a few spare sheets from the folder. It gives you something to carry. A reason. A script.

Jimin doesn’t smile. He just hums. “You don’t have to talk to him, you know. If it’s easier.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Nothing about Jungkook is ever easy.

With Jimin, things slip into place. His warmth is effortless. The way he notices without asking, how he makes you feel seen without the pressure of being understood.

Jungkook is different.

You can never tell if he’s trying not to feel or feeling too much. He’s quiet in ways that leave room for your own noise, but when he does speak—it sticks. Like he doesn’t talk unless he means it. Like everything matters.

He never pushes. He doesn’t chase.

But he makes you want to walk toward him anyway.

And that’s what makes it hard.

You nod again and turn, the walls of the hallway closing in around you. Each step toward the small studio feels like a dare. Like walking toward a cliff's edge in the dark—knowing something waits on the other side, but unsure whether it will catch you or let you fall.

When you reach the door, your hand hesitates on the handle.

There’s no sound inside. Not even music.

You knock.

No answer.

Another beat. Then, softly, you push the door open.

He's there, in the sofa, laying face down and one arm hanging off, hoodie pulled low. A water bottle sits untouched beside him. His phone is face-down. His body language is closed off, locked down like he’s trying to disappear into the cushions.

Your breath catches.

You should say something. Announce yourself. But you don’t.

Because for a moment—for a single, gut-wrenching moment—you just look at him. You let yourself see him. Not the idol. Not the subject of a PR meeting. Just the boy who sat beside you on a plane, who laughed at your jokes before either of you realized where this would all lead.

Your bones shake—not from fear this time, but from restraint.

He shifts then, sensing you. His head turns slightly. Just enough to glance over his shoulder, but not enough to face you fully.

You hold up the pages. “Security protocols,” you say, your voice softer than it should be. “They need you to review them.”

His eyes flick down to the paper, then back to you. He doesn’t reach for them.

He doesn’t speak.

The silence between you stretches, drawn tight like a thread caught between two pins. His face is pale. Tired. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Someone who’s been watched too closely for too long.

You swallow hard. “They’re not asking you to say anything,” you offer. “No comment. No confirmation. Just… let the noise pass.”

Finally, he speaks.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

His voice is low. Rough.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his face a little more. You can see his profile now—the slope of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his eyes.

“I didn’t think… going out for dinner with someone would matter this much.”

The ache in your chest sharpens. “It’s not your fault.”

He huffs, almost a laugh. “That’s what they all say, right? When it becomes your fault anyway.”

You want to step closer. You don’t.

He finally looks at you fully sitting up, and it’s worse than you expect. Because he doesn’t look angry. Or defensive. Or even embarrassed.

He just looks disappointed.

So you place the papers on the nearest table and nod. “I’ll let them know I gave these to you.”

You turn to go.

“Y/N.”

You took a tentative step forward back at him. "Are you... I mean... do you need anything?”

A hollow laugh escaped him. "Need anything? No. I think I've got everything covered.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. There were a thousand things you wanted to say, questions you wanted to ask. But none of them were your right.

"I should go," you finally murmured, moving for the door.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. The contact sent electricity up your arm, and you froze, eyes wide as you looked up at him.

"Do you believe it?" he asked, voice low and intense. "What they're saying?"

Your pulse hammered against his fingers. "It's not my place to—"

"I'm asking what you think," he interrupted, eyes searching yours with an urgency that made your breath catch. "Not what your job says you should think."

You hesitated, acutely aware of his grip on your wrist, the warmth of his skin against yours. "I think... I think it doesn't matter what I believe."

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? Frustration? You couldn't tell.

"It matters to me," he said quietly.

Your heart stuttered. "Why?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze dropping to where his fingers still circled your wrist. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he released you.

"Forget it," he muttered, stepping back. "You're right. It doesn't matter."

The sudden distance between you felt like a physical ache. You wanted to reach for him, to pull him back.

Instead, you said, "I should get back to work."

He nodded, already turning away. "Yeah. Me too."

You watched him walk past you toward the practice room, shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. Just before he disappeared around the corner, he paused, glancing back at you.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—his expression softened into something so vulnerable it made your chest hurt.

Then he was gone.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of activity. As Manager Kim had directed, no official statement was released. Social media exploded with speculation, as expected. Fans trended supportive hashtags. Reporters camped outside the building. Security was doubled.

Through it all, you moved on autopilot, completing tasks with mechanical efficiency while keeping your emotions carefully locked away. You didn't see Jungkook again. Didn't seek him out. Didn't allow yourself to wonder where he was or what he was thinking.

It wasn't until evening, when the office had finally emptied and the crisis management had shifted to overnight monitoring teams, that you allowed yourself to breathe.

Your apartment felt emptier than usual when you finally returned home, the silence pressing in from all sides. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and moved through the darkened rooms without bothering to turn on the lights.

In the kitchen, you poured yourself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

You set the glass down harder than intended, water sloshing over the rim. This was ridiculous. You were acting like a lovesick teenager, not a professional adult with responsibilities and boundaries.

Whatever Jungkook felt—whatever that is—it couldn't matter. Not in the real world where he was a global superstar and you were a temporary intern who would be gone in seconds if compared to the timing of their life.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, pulling you from your thoughts. Probably Yoshi or Mitsuki checking in. They'd been texting all day, offering support and distraction in equal measure, even though you don’t want to admit why they would do so. This doesn’t impact you at all.

You picked it up, glancing at the screen.

Your heart stopped.

[Jungkook]: Are you awake?

You stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Three simple words that somehow felt monumental.

The response was immediate.

[Jungkook]: Can I call you?

Your pulse raced. This was crossing a line—a line you'd been carefully maintaining for weeks. A line that protected you both from complications neither of you needed.

The phone rang seconds later. You answered on the second ring, breath caught in your throat.

"Hey." His voice was rough, lower than usual.

"Hey," you echoed softly.

Silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you knew how to say. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven, as if he'd been running.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "For texting so late."

"It's fine." You moved to the living room, sinking onto the couch. "I wasn't sleeping."

Another pause.

"I wanted to explain," he began, then stopped. "No, that's not right. I need to explain. About the photos. About Ji-a."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"I know." His voice softened. "But I want to give you one anyway."

You closed your eyes, clutching the phone tighter. "Why?"

The question hung between you, simple but loaded with meaning.

"Because," he said slowly, as if choosing each word with care, "I can't stand the thought of you believing something that isn't true."

Your throat tightened. "Jungkook..."

"It's not what it looked like," he continued, a note of urgency entering his voice. "Ji-a and I... we have history. We used to... see each other. But it wasn't serious. It was never serious."

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. The confirmation of their past relationship wasn't surprising, but it still stung in ways you hadn't expected.

"She called Sunday night," he went on when you didn't respond. "Wanted to meet. I thought... I don't know what I thought. That maybe if I saw her, I could stop thinking about—" He broke off abruptly.

"About what?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of his breathing.

"About you," he finally said, so quietly you almost missed it. "I can't stop thinking about you."

The world seemed to still around you, everything narrowing to the sound of his voice in your ear and the thundering of your heart.

"Jungkook..." Your voice faltered. You didn't know what to say—what you could say. This was too much, too fast, too complicated.

"I know," he said quickly, as if sensing your panic. "I know this is crazy. I know I shouldn't be saying any of this. But after today—after everything—I just... I can’t keep pretending."

You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself. "I don't understand. Why would you go see Ji-a if...?" You couldn't finish the question.

He exhaled slowly. "Because I thought it would help. I thought if I was with someone else, maybe I could forget how I felt about you. But it didn't work. It just made everything worse."

"That's..." You struggled to find words, emotion clogging your throat. "That's a lot to process."

"I know." His voice softened with regret. "And I'm dumping it all on you at once. I'm sorry."

You both fell silent. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of everything he was saying. Jungkook—Jeon Jungkook—couldn't stop thinking about you? It seemed impossible, like something from a dream you'd wake up from any moment.

You took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say. This is... complicated."

"I know."

"You're you, and I'm me, and there are a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea."

"I know that too."

You closed your eyes, gathering courage. "And I'm only here temporarily. I go back in a few months."

"I know," he repeated, quieter now. "But none of that changes how I feel."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. Part of you wanted to tell him that you felt it too—that impossible pull, that connection that had been there since the plane. That you thought about him constantly, that seeing those photos had hurt more than you could admit.

But the rational part of you knew better. Knew that opening that door would only lead to pain for both of you.

"I don't know what you want from me," you said finally, your voice small.

"Nothing," he answered immediately. "I don't expect anything. I just... I needed you to know the truth. About Ji-a. About me. About how I feel. I hate waiting to see how things turn out and I’ve been doing it for too long with you. Its been driving me crazy not talking things out."

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Thank you for telling me."

Another silence fell, this one heavier than before. You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. Frozen into whatever it is that is stirring inside of you.

"It's late," he said softly. "We should both get some sleep."

You heard his quiet exhale—disappointment, maybe, or just resignation. "Yeah. You're right." After a beat you added "Jungkook?"

"Hmm?"

You hesitated, then said, "I'm glad you called."

It wasn't much—nowhere near the confession he'd given you—but it was all you could offer right now. A small acknowledgment that his words meant something to you, even if you couldn't return them in kind.

"Me too," he murmured. Then, after a pause: "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, JK."

The call ended, but you sat there for a long time afterward, phone clutched to your chest, his words echoing in your mind.

"I can't stop thinking about you."

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to let yourself feel everything you'd been suppressing for weeks. But the reality of your situation loomed large—he was Jeon Jungkook, and you were just... you. Temporary. Transient. Already counting down the days until you'd leave.

Getting involved would only end in heartbreak. For both of you.

So why couldn't you stop smiling at the memory of his voice, soft and vulnerable, admitting he couldn't get you out of his head?

You fell asleep on the couch, still fully dressed, torn between hope and fear, joy and dread—and the growing certainty that whatever line you'd been trying to maintain had already been crossed, whether you were ready to admit it or not.

Chapter Text

Tuesday dawned gray and drizzly—the kind of morning that left the city slick with reflections and the air thick with indecision. Seoul’s skyline blurred into a wet watercolor through the taxi window, and by the time you reached HYBE, your coat was damp around the edges and your thoughts were heavier than the clouds.

You stepped into the building, clutching your coffee like a lifeline. The warmth of the paper cup grounded you, a small, tangible comfort against the chaos spiraling in your chest. Every click of your shoes echoed too loud in the corridor, or maybe you were just hyper-aware today.

The headlines hadn't stopped.

They hadn't even slowed. If anything, the story had multiplied like wildfire overnight, igniting fresh takes and wilder speculations every hour. Ji-a’s agency had released a flimsy statement, something about "close friendships in the industry" that only managed to stoke the embers of the rumor mill. You'd read it while brushing your teeth, and the memory still made your jaw clench. Vague PR speak that offered no closure, just more room for chaos to bloom.

Your inbox had been a battlefield this morning. Between forwarding crisis management memos and reading yet another email where someone tried to sound neutral but came off condescending, you’d nearly deleted everything out of spite. One particularly ridiculous line—"Remain discreet but appear calm and approachable"—had you rolling your eyes so hard you were convinced your eyeballs would get stuck.

So, you buried yourself in work. It was the only thing you had control over.

Tasks became your escape. Highlight. Respond. Reformat. Send. Over and over until the rhythm numbed the restlessness clawing at your insides. It worked. For a while.

Until he showed up.

"You look like you need this."

You blinked.

Jimin.

He stood at your desk, an iced coffee in each hand, dressed down in sweats and a cap like he wasn’t part of the madness. You hadn't even heard him approach.

You blinked again, as if his presence alone reset your brain.

"That obvious?" you asked, voice hoarse with fatigue. You reached for the cup he offered, grateful for the cool condensation against your palm.

He grinned, lopsided and charming, like he had a secret you might want in on. "A little. You’ve been typing the same thing for five minutes."

You glanced at your screen.

Sure enough, the same unfinished line blinked back at you accusingly. You sighed.

"I didn’t even notice."

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just pulled the chair closest to your desk and turned it slightly, so that his knees brushed against yours when he sat. It wasn’t much, but it grounded you, like an invisible tether between chaos and calm.

"You okay?"

His voice dropped as he asked it, low enough that it didn’t belong to Jimin-the-idol or Jimin-the-smiling-office-flirt. Just Jimin, the person. The one who’d somehow become your quiet anchor in all this.

You hesitated.

Then nodded. "Just a lot in my head."

"Want to talk about it?"

Another pause.

You shook your head. "Not yet."

And he didn’t push.

Just sat there. Sipped his coffee. Let you breathe without having to explain why it was hard.

"I don’t know how you do it," you murmured after a moment. "You always show up at the right time. Like you have a sixth sense or something."

Jimin smiled again, softer this time. "Or maybe I just pay attention to you."

"I—uh..."

He tilted his head slightly. "You okay?"

You nodded too fast. "Golden."

He didn’t call you out on it. Just bumped your knee with his, a gentle nudge that said he saw right through you but wasn’t going to make you admit it.

And then, that smile.

The one that should be illegal. Sweet and open and devastating in its quiet sincerity.

He stayed by your desk for another 15 minutes, half looking over your shoulder on what you were doing half lounging on the chair looking at his phone. His presence conforting enough to actually start to be productive.

And just like that, he stood and left, as if he hadn’t just upended your entire morning with a single sentence. You stared after him, coffee in hand, pulse skittering like a skipped record.

Lunch came faster than expected. You weren’t even sure how Jimin managed it—one second you were knee-deep in formatting press notes for the comeback that was sprinting your way, the next he was by your desk, sunglasses on and mask tugged down just enough to show a mischievous smile.

“I’ve decided,” he said with mock gravitas. “You’re coming with me. For lunch. No arguments.”

You blinked up at him. “And if I say I’m busy?”

“I’ll sit here and pout until you’re embarrassed into agreeing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s emotional blackmail.”

He shrugged, shameless. “I’m very good at it.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already tugging gently at your sleeve. “Come on, I know a place.”

Ten minutes later, you were stepping into a tiny traditional Korean eatery tucked between two apartment buildings. It looked barely big enough to seat ten people, but it was warm and filled with the aroma of garlic, simmering broth, and the kind of spices that wrapped around your senses like a hug. Jimin held the door open for you, and the second you stepped inside, you were greeted by two middle-aged women in floral aprons who immediately recognized him.

“Jimin-ah!” one of them gasped, rushing over like he was her long-lost son. “You haven’t come in weeks! Did you forget about us?”

He bowed with a playful grin. “Never, Auntie. I brought a friend today—she works with us.”

You smiled politely, bowing. “It smells amazing in here.”

“You’re even prettier than he said!” the auntie beamed. “Sit, sit! I’ll bring you something special.”

Jimin gave you a triumphant look as you slid into a seat across from him. “Told you. Free side dishes. They love me.”

You laughed. “You weren’t kidding.”

A few minutes later, your table was so full of banchan it looked like a feast. Kimchi, spicy cucumbers, japchae, steamed egg, seaweed salad—more than you could name. The aunties even brought out bubbling hot pots of doenjang jjigae and sizzling bulgogi without waiting for your order.

“I didn’t realize you were royalty,” you said, eyes wide taking all the dishes in.

“I’m just charming,” he said with mock humility. “And sometimes I do the dishes when they yell at their husbands.”

The food was incredible, but you found yourself more focused on the way Jimin looked sitting across from you. His mask was tucked into his jacket pocket, his sleeves rolled up just slightly, collarbones peeking out from the loose collar of his shirt. He was relaxed, leaning back, one hand around his chopsticks and the other resting on the table like he wasn’t a global superstar but just… someone who liked sharing meals with you.

“So,” he said with a teasing grin, “what’s your secret talent? Something I wouldn’t guess.”

You paused, tilting your head thoughtfully. “I can fall asleep absolutely anywhere. Trains, studios, floors, standing up if I have to.”

Jimin blinked. “Wait—like, standing up?”

You nodded, proudly. “I have witnesses.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “That’s not a talent, that’s a survival skill.”

“Same thing,” you said, grinning.

“Remind me never to take you anywhere exciting,” he teased. “You’d probably nap through it.”

You shrugged. “Can’t help it if I’m built for comfort.”

He shook his head fondly, then leaned in a bit. “Alright, my turn. My secret talent... I can untangle headphone wires faster than anyone alive.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your flex?”

“Hey, don’t mock it. Do you know how many lives I’ve saved during rehearsals because someone’s in-ear monitors were a rat’s nest?”

You laughed. “Heroic.”

“I try,” he said with a wink.

You found yourself relaxing more with every passing minute. He was easy to be around, his warmth wrapping around you more effectively than the doenjang jjigae. Still, the voice in your head wouldn’t quiet down—not completely. Is he just like this with everyone? Is he playing? Or… is he playing with you specifically?

“You’re staring,” he said casually, not looking up from his food.

Your hand froze mid-bite. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he teased. “It’s okay. I heard I’m very good-looking.”

You blinked, then let out a startled laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Only sometimes.” He glanced up then, and his gaze held yours a second too long.

Your heart stuttered. Okay. That wasn’t nothing.

“I think the auntie’s going to bring us more kimchi,” he said, switching topics with a grin. “She always does when I’m with someone cute.”

You nearly dropped your spoon. “You—”

“What? It’s true,” he said innocently. “You’re adorable. She’s going to think we’re close.”

“Let me guess. She does that too?”

“Every time.”

Your cheeks were warm now, and it had nothing to do with the spicy stew.

You tried to focus on your food, but your mind was going haywire. He was flirting. Definitely flirting. Right? You weren’t imagining the way his knee brushed against yours under the table, or the way he looked at you like he saw through the entire storm of your life and still wanted to sit in it. Still wanted you to sit here and laugh.

You swallowed thickly. “You’re kind of hard to read, you know.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “Am I?”

You nodded, poking your rice. “You’re always joking. It’s hard to know when you’re being serious.”

Jimin leaned forward then, elbows on the table, voice softer but still threaded with that teasing warmth. “What if I said I’m always serious about the people I choose to spend time with?”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. The noise of the restaurant faded. 

You were about to say something when his expression shifted—just briefly—and you caught a flash of something quieter beneath his grin.

“It’s kind of nice, you know,” he said, voice thoughtful. “Being with someone who doesn’t look at me like the rest of the world does. Not everyone can do that.”

You blinked, the moment stretching. “I don’t think I can see you the way others do. Once you figure out how annoying you actually are its hard to turn back.” You joke at him trying to lighten his mood.

He smiled, softer this time. “That’s what I mean.”

You rolled your eyes and stabbed another bite. “So. Hidden talent questions aside—how do you stay sane with all the noise?”

Jimin tilted his head, thoughtful but not too serious. “I dance. I talk to people who make me feel real. I get bubble tea and send Jungkook terrible selfies until he tells me to stop.”

You snorted, nearly choking on a piece of rice cake. “You annoy him on purpose?”

“Oh, constantly. He pretends to hate it, but he’d be lost without me.”

You smiled despite yourself, chest warming in a way you didn’t know how to explain. Jimin talks like this is normal, like you’re someone meant to hear this. Someone who might just be real enough for him, too.

Before you could respond, the auntie swooped in with a plate of tteok and a wink. “For the pretty couple,” she said in Korean.

You blinked. Jimin just grinned, accepting the plate like this happened all the time.

You cleared your throat. “She thinks we’re—”

“She always does, doesn’t matter who comes here” Jimin said cheerfully. “We’ll probably get free mochi next time too if we keep smiling like this.”

You almost dropped your chopsticks again. “You’re evil.”

“Still adorable though,” he said, and this time, you didn’t bother to argue.

Even as you laughed and played along, a part of your brain whispered Jungkook’s name like a thread woven through your spine. His face. His voice last night. The way he said your name like it meant something. Just for a second, the memory made your chest ache.

But then Jimin nudged a dish closer to you with the back of his chopsticks, and murmured, “You didn’t eat enough of this one. It’s the best part.”

And you realized: maybe it didn’t have to be so heavy. Maybe not every smile had to be weighted with meaning. Not when someone was right in front of you, offering something warm.

You picked up your spoon and pointed it at Jimin. “You’re buying dessert next time.”

He grinned. “Only if you let me pick the place.”

The energy in the studio buzzed like static — bright lights overhead, stylists buzzing around like bees, camera crew setting up quick takes, music playing faintly through someone’s speaker. The set was minimal, just a wide white backdrop and a few lighting rigs, but the presence of two powerhouse groups in one room made it feel a little like chaos bottled in a jar.
You stood near the back, earpiece still in from the earlier check-ins, tablet in your hand. Your job now was mostly supervisory — making sure everything stayed on track, that no one wandered too far during setups, and that last-minute requests didn’t fall through the cracks.

You were quietly ticking something off the schedule when Yoshi slid up beside you, holding a small pack of banana milk like it was a sacred object.
“Look what I found in the staff fridge,” she whispered, eyes gleaming. “You want it? Or do I get to pretend I’m Jungkook for a few minutes and drink it dramatically?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never,” she said, handing it to you anyway. “Besides, I need to keep you hydrated. You’ve been sprinting between people like you’re in a Mario Kart track.”

You sighed and took the drink gratefully. “They’ve changed the filming order four times. I’m just trying to avoid anyone fainting from hunger before they start dancing.”
Yoshi mock-saluted. “I respect your service.”

Just then, loud laughter erupted near the center of the studio. Jungkook and Taehyung were squabbling over a pair of sunglasses, both already dressed in stylized versions of their comeback outfits—denim jackets, layers of accessories, their hair styled perfectly. The full glam treatment turned their already unfair visuals into something almost cinematic—Jungkook’s skin practically glowing under the lighting, his lips a soft rose, eyes lined just enough to cut through the glare. Taehyung looked like he’d walked out of a fashion editorial, every movement precise and graceful.

You tried not to stare. You really tried. But even across the room, you could feel Jungkook’s presence like a string tied around your ribs.
He hadn’t said anything since last night’s…moment.
And you hadn’t either.

It had been easier to ignore the strange throb in your chest when Jimin had looked at you like you were something warm and sweet just hours ago. But now—with Jungkook only a few feet away, tossing his head back in laughter, that familiar dimple showing as he cracked a joke—you felt it again. That subtle ache. That awareness.
He hadn’t looked at you once.

“Okay, this is actually kind of iconic,” Yoshi said beside you, breaking your thoughts as she waved toward the chaos. “It’s like watching a crossover episode. BTS and SEVENTEEN in the same TikTok? The internet’s going to melt.”
“Only if they can stop play-fighting long enough to film it,” you muttered.

“Hey, you two.”
You turned to find Mingyu strolling over, all six feet of friendly charm. He was dressed in soft layers—charcoal gray pants, a fitted knit, silver jewelry catching the light. The stylists had outdone themselves—his hair was slicked just enough to look effortless, skin flawless under the lights, cheekbones catching the glow. His grin was easy, warm. Classic Mingyu.

“Y/N, right?” he asked.
You nodded, offering a polite smile. “Hi, yes. Good to see you again.”
“We were just wondering if there’s any chance you can turn on the second speakers around? It's nicer with the music a bit louder.”

You blinked. “Uh—yes, one sec.” You turned toward your tablet, already checking inventory.
Mingyu leaned slightly to the side to peek. “You’re always this efficient?”
“She’s the most organized person here,” Yoshi chimed in helpfully. “If you ever want to not get lost when it’s chaos, stick with her.”

You flushed slightly but smiled. “I’ll have someone come turn the extra speaker in a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks,” Mingyu said, then gave you a grin that could probably short-circuit cameras. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

You were about to respond—something diplomatic and not awkward—when your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You hesitated for a second before pulling it out.
[JK]: Hey.
[JK]: Can I ask you something?
[JK]: What did Mingyu want?

Your heart stilled. Then sped up like it was trying to make up for lost time.
You blinked at the screen, the studio fading slightly in the background. The buzz of idols, stylists, camera crew—all of it grew muffled.

He texted.
The first time since he’d said your name like a secret behind a closed office door. The first time since your breath had caught and your voice had barely worked.

“What’s that face?” Yoshi asked beside you, peeking over your shoulder with all the subtlety of a nosy cat.
You angled your phone away. “Nothing. Just work.”
“‘Just work’ doesn’t make people look like they’ve been zapped by lightning.”

You shook your head, trying to refocus. Mingyu was still talking—something about how SEVENTEEN’s choreo was harder than BTS’s, which had Hobi from across the room raising an eyebrow in mock offense.

But your thumb hovered over the screen, your pulse strangely unsteady.
What did he want to ask?
And more importantly—why now?
The timing, the silence, the whole weight of the unspoken things between you—it all suddenly felt like it was gathering again. And here you were, right in the middle of a very crowded room.

Yoshi tugged on your sleeve. “Come on. They’re starting to line up for rehearsal takes. We should move.”
You nodded, sliding your phone back into your pocket, heart still thudding.

The studio lights dimmed momentarily as the first take wrapped, the faint sound of SEVENTEEN’s backing track fading out as a camera assistant called, “Reset!” through the room.

Jungkook was still at the center of it all — dancing, laughing, always moving. His makeup had just a hint of highlight that caught every light in the room, his outfit made to flatter and flex with him, the image of a performer in his element. But even through the layers of energy, people, and performance, you felt it.

Your phone buzzed again in your pocket.
You didn’t check it right away.

Instead, you handed a bottle of water to a stylist who looked overwhelmed, then helped reposition a soft reflector screen that had drooped mid-shot. You answered Yoshi’s whispered question about who was scheduled for the behind-the-scenes clips, checked your tablet, and moved around the set like a shadow.

But your heart wasn’t calm. Not really.

When you finally had a second to breathe, you pulled your phone out and peeked.
[JK ]: Are you ignoring me?
[JK ]: Or are you just busy…?

You inhaled slowly through your nose. The messages were simple. Almost casual. But you could feel it again — that underlying current in his words. The way he was reaching out, unsure, but still trying.
You locked the screen again.
It wasn’t about playing games.
You were working.
But you also didn’t know what to say yet. Not when just seeing his name lit something complicated in your chest. Not when you didn’t know what his messages meant.

“Y/N,” Yoshi whispered, nudging you from where she sat beside the lighting rig. “He keeps looking over here.”
You didn’t ask who. You knew.
“I think you’re driving Jungkook crazy,” she added, sipping her iced coffee like this was a drama unfolding just for her amusement. “This is kind of entertaining.”
“He’s probably just trying to figure out what time they’re filming next,” you muttered, flipping through your notes again.
“Mmhm. With that face?” she teased.
You didn’t look.
Not yet.

It was almost an hour later when the final round of takes finished — the studio dimming slightly as the lighting techs powered down the overhead rigs and started packing up.

The members were tired, buzzing with post-filming energy but ready to wind down. Most were peeling off toward the dressing rooms or grabbing snacks. You started reorganizing the paperwork for the next call sheet, fully absorbed — until someone stopped in front of you.

You didn’t need to look up.

You knew his shoes. His height. The way he stood like he was both confident and slightly restless.

“Y/N.”

You lifted your head slowly.

Jungkook stood in front of you, hair slightly damp from sweat, cheeks flushed from the dancing. His jacket was off, revealing the simple black tank top underneath, and the chain around his neck caught the low light.

But his eyes — they were focused. On you.

You blinked. “Hi.”

His tone was casual, but the line between his brows betrayed him. “Why didn’t you reply?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then said simply, “I was working.”

Jungkook stared at you for a second. Like he was waiting for more.

You tilted your head. “Is that not a good enough reason?”

He shifted slightly. “No, it is. It’s just…” He exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh. “You usually reply.”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice even. “You don’t usually text.”

He flinched — barely — but enough.

There it was again. That moment where the air between you felt sharp and soft at the same time. Like something real was just out of reach, and neither of you knew if it was okay to touch it yet.

“You looked busy,” he said finally, like he was conceding.

“I was busy,” you replied with a small smile. “See? No mystery.”

He watched you for a second longer, then nodded once. His tongue playing with the piercings in his lip like he had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

You offered a nod, pretending the tightness in your chest wasn’t growing again.

But just as he turned to go, he paused, looked back over his shoulder.

“Let me know when you’re not busy.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t move for a while. Not even when Yoshi sidled up next to you again and whispered, “Okay. That was hot.”

You just stood there.

Phone still in your hand. His name still on your screen. And that feeling — the one you kept trying to ignore — sitting quietly between your ribs.

You weren’t exactly hiding.

But the hallway was dim and quiet, tucked between the makeup station and the back entrance, away from the noise of idol chatter and crew members wrapping cables. You’d told yourself you needed to breathe, to check the updated notes on the shoot, maybe text Yoshi and see if she wanted to grab something quick before they were called back. But the truth was—

You were stressed out. And rightfully so.

The filming had gone well, technically. TikToks were shot, the members were smiling, the Seventeen boys had joined in for the for some extra takes which made everything extra chaotic — in the way everyone loved. Yoshi was still laughing when she left to chase down a script change someone forgot to print.

But you couldn’t focus. Not really.

Maybe it was the heat from the studio lights still clinging to your skin… or the way Jungkook’s unread texts sat in your phone like stones.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him, hard-soled moving without urgency, without noise. The hairs on your arms stood up before he even came into view.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” Jimin’s voice was soft, like velvet after dusk.

You turned toward him, breath catching.

He looked… unreal.

Still dressed from the shoot, his stage shirt hugged his frame a little too well, the kind of cut that made your eyes trace down before you could stop yourself. Hair styled just messy enough to look like perfection by accident. His eyes lined and shadowed just subtly enough to sharpen the soft angles of his face, the kind of face that was already too pretty for its own good.

He looked like a painting—made for lights and cameras and the hush of people watching.

And he was looking right at you.

“Taking a break,” you offered, voice careful.

“Same.” He leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted in that slow, effortless way he had. “You disappeared after the last shoot.”

“I didn’t mean to.” You lifted one shoulder. “I figured everyone needed time to chill. I didn’t want to hover.”

“But you always hover,” he said, teasing just a little. His smile was playful, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and knowing.

You tried to look away, but he stepped closer and the hallway suddenly felt smaller.

Your gaze flicked back to him — and he was already there, in front of you. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that your breath hitched. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, this time warm and sweet and a little spicy, like cinnamon and late nights. There was the faintest sheen of sweat at his temple, making his skin glow under the dim lighting.

God, he was pretty. You always tried to play it cool around him, but seeing him now—fully in idol mode, all eyes and intensity on you—it was almost unfair how much it got to you.

And it wasn’t just the glam. It wasn’t just the liner or the shimmer on his cheekbones or the way his lips looked too soft to be real. It was how he held himself — like he knew how dangerous he looked and was waiting to see what you’d do about it.

“I keep trying to figure you out,” he said finally, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed. “Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, voice softer now. “Because you don’t make it easy.”

“I’m not that complicated,” you said — but even you didn’t sound convinced.

His smile was faint, almost knowing. “You are. Sometimes, you let me in. You laugh, you text back, you look at me like I’m the only one in the room. And then the next … you disappear.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if he was talking about today. Or yesterday. Or every day since you’d started caring too much to admit to yourself.

“I’m just trying to do a good job,” you said quietly. “That’s all.”

Jimin didn’t speak. Just looked at you — long and quiet — until you could feel the tension pulling tight again.

Then he stepped in.

The last inch between you disappeared, and your back met the cool wall behind you as his body angled toward yours. Still not touching. But the air between you was practically electric now.

“I think you’re doing a great job,” he said, voice lower. “But I also think you’re scared.”

Your breath caught.

“Scared of what?” you asked, too quiet.

His eyes flickered from your mouth to your eyes and back. “You tell me.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

His presence filled every space around you. There was nowhere to go — and you weren’t sure you wanted to anyway.

You felt every single inch of the moment stretch between you.

The lights down the hall flickered faintly.

The buzz of a vending machine filled the silence.

And then — his hand lifted, like he was about to reach for your cheek, your hair, anything—

Your lips parted.

You didn’t know if you were going to stop him… or kiss him first.

But just then—

A voice from down the hall.

Laughter. Seventeen’s manager shouting something light-hearted about snacks.

Jimin didn’t move for a heartbeat.

His eyes stayed on yours like he was memorizing you. Like he wanted to burn this moment into the back of his mind.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

Not all the way. Just enough.

Just enough to let you breathe again.

You stared at him, chest rising too fast.

He smiled — not teasing this time. Not smug. Just soft.

“I should go help wrap things up,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t move.

You turned first. Started walking. You felt his gaze trail after you the whole way.

But before you reached the corner, he spoke again.

“Y/N,” he called, and you stopped.

Turned.

He looked at you, illuminated only by the dim light and the way he made everything feel more alive.

“I’m not giving up,” he said.

The words hit you square in the chest.

And then he smiled — that slow, crooked one that had no business being so pretty.

Then he turned the opposite direction, heading back into the studio.

You stood frozen for a long time.

You didn’t know what hurt more — how close he’d been… or the fact that you might want him to try again.

It was way too late for you to be awake. Even if you had the next couple of days off.
You hadn’t answered Jungkook’s messages at all. In fact you decided to not reply to anyone right now. Your phone lay facedown beside your pillow, screen dark, vibrations muted — like if you ignored it long enough, the ache in your chest would go away too.

But it didn’t.

Instead, the quiet pressed in harder than ever.

Your room was still and dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the lamp on your nightstand. The kind of lighting that made everything feel more fragile. You were curled on your side, knees tucked in, eyes open.

And all you could think about was him.

Or them.

You hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. Not the plane. Not the coffee. Not the slow, awful, wonderful way your heart reacted to them like it belonged to someone else entirely.

But today?

Today did something to you.

Jungkook had texted.

The first message was polite, harmless. The second, between takes, felt more like him. A little teasing. A little curious. The kind of message that pulled at something warm and stupid inside your chest.

And yet… you didn’t answer.

Not when he was in the middle of a PR nightmare. Not after he called you and layed it out for you that he cared for you—maybe more than he should. Not after all the things he made you feel without you ever really acknowledging them.

And not after Jimin.

God. Jimin.

Your hand curled under the blanket at the memory.

The way he had looked at you. Spoken to you. Gotten so close.

You weren’t prepared for it — the way your pulse reacted. The way your entire body had gone still and tense, like a wire pulled too tight. If that hallway had been one second quieter, one shadow deeper, one person slower to interrupt...

You might’ve kissed him.

You think you would’ve.

And maybe the scariest part is — you wouldn’t have regretted it.

You’d wanted it.

Even now, you could still see him when you closed your eyes. The shimmer on his cheekbones. The curve of his plump mouth when he said he wasn’t giving up. The heat in his eyes when he was close enough for you to taste the air between you.

He was so pretty it was almost unreal.

Too pretty.

Like something out of a dream — or a warning.

You sighed, rolling onto your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling now. Your heart felt split down the middle.

Because you were starting to realize it wasn’t just Jimin.

And it wasn’t just Jungkook.

It was both of them.

Different energies. Different intensities. Different types of gravity pulling you in.

Jimin saw you. Stepped toward you. Flirted like it was a language only the two of you spoke — but with eyes that said he was serious underneath it all.

And Jungkook? He made you ache. In silence. With nothing but a look. With the tension that lived under everything he didn’t say.

And neither of them made it easy.

You reached for your phone, staring at the dark screen for a moment before flipping it over again.

Your thumb hovered.
Then pulled away.

You couldn’t do this tonight.
Not with your chest already full of too much.

Not when Jimin’s voice still echoed in your ears.
Not when Jungkook’s silence said more than his texts ever could.

You turned your face into the pillow, eyes burning, heart heavy.

Because the truth was settling in now, and it was unbearable in its clarity.

It was never going to be just one of them.
And you didn’t know if you could survive both.

Chapter Text

After spending your day rotting in bed watching a bad show on Netflix and  some thoughtful consideration — which mostly involved asking your phone’s assistant to flip a coin and then losing — you decided to spend the unexpected days off on Wednesday and Thursday (courtesy of some random holiday you still didn’t fully understand) by going to a karaoke bar with the girls.

The booth you werere guided to was small so it became crowded, half-lit in neon pink and blue, with the screen flickering lyrics over some K-pop hit from five years ago. You held a mic in your hand but didn’t bother singing—Yoshi had hijacked the current song, yelling dramatically into her mic while Mitsuki and Sana clapped along, eyes glassy with laughter and cheap cocktails.

Yoshi collapsed beside you with a winded wheeze, hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks pink from the effort. “I should’ve debuted,” she panted. “Missed opportunity for the nation.”

“You would’ve traumatized the nation,” you said, amused. The other girls laughed from their seats.

“Okay, okay, but seriously,” Yoshi said with flushed cheeks and a wicked smile, “if you had to choose a member from BTS who would it be?”

Your heart skipped in spite of the music’s volume. You reached for your drink, trying not to react. “I’m not doing this”

Yoshi blinked. “Babe. You are no fun”

Mitsuki piped in from the other side. “I would choose Namjoon. I bet he is a good kisser.”

“He does gives the vibes,” Sana said smugly. “But I bet Jungkook is just a menace.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” Yoshi leaned closer, eyes narrowed like she was about to perform a scientific analysis. “Let me get this straight. We all work for, arguably, one of the prettiest men in Korea, who are not only super friendly but shamelessly flirt with a door if given the chance. We aren’t allowed to do anything but we are allowed to look at them and think about it. Except for Mitsuki, ” Yoshi looks at her with a pity face “You got the pretty girls to look at.”

You shrugged, giving her your best neutral expression. “They’re idols. They’re friendly. That’s their job.”

“Right,” Yoshi said, unconvinced. “And it’s your job to have Jimin light up like a christmas tree when he talks to you or have Jungkook buffer when you walk in the room.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you said, standing up and trying not to let your face betray you.

Yoshi laughed as you walked away. “Denial is a river in Egypt, babe!”

As the night wore on, the energy mellowed. You all ended up sprawled on the floor with fries and snacks between you, phones passed around for selfies and filters.

Mitsuki had everyone doing a ridiculous quiz: "What type of main character energy do you have?"

"Y/N, you're totally the quiet one with a dark past who all the love interests fall for," Mitsuki said, giggling.

"So basically… her actual life," Yoshi muttered, nudging you.

"I don’t have love interests," you insisted.

Yoshi gave you a flat look. “Two of the most famous men in Korea literally hover around you like you’re the last Wi-Fi signal in the mountains.”

You hid behind a pillow. “Please shut up.”

“Not until you admit something,” she said, grinning. “You don’t have to tell us who—but you’ve thought about it, right? One of them?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Mitsuki gasped dramatically. “You have!”

“I hate you both,” you said weakly.

Sana, sipping her drink, smiled faintly. “I guess some people attract that kind of attention without even trying. Must be nice.”

The words weren’t biting. Not exactly. But they clung to you anyway, sticky and cold.

Yoshi made a face but said nothing.

The conversation turned to lighter things—embarrassing school stories, fashion disasters, and the time Sana got mistaken for a backup dancer and actually went on stage before security caught her.

You laughed so hard you cried, and for a while, it felt okay. You all for sure had too much to drink.

But the echo of Sana’s voice—sweet and casual—stuck with you.

By the time the night ended, it was nearly 2 a.m. The karaoke machine had long since powered down, and everyone was scattered between half-empty drink glasses and tangled purses. You were so glad you didn’t work tomorrow. The alchohol at this point making you sway.

You stepped outside with Yoshi and mitsuki, who walked with you down to the street, wrapped around your arm like you were her lifeline, where a taxi you ordered for them was waiting. Yoshiwas a bit more gone then you. By a bit you mean she could barely keep her eyes open and Mitsuki volunteered to bring her home.  

The city was quieter now. Rain had started, fine and misty, softening the lights and washing the neon in a blurry sheen.

“Want me to stay with you tonight?”  Mitsuki asked gently.

You shook your head. “I think I need to be alone.”

She didn’t argue. Just squeezed your hand. “Text me when you’re home, okay?” She entered the taxi silently after Yoshi and left.

Your ride back was silent. You stared out the window, head leaned against the glass. You werent drunk. Or better, you weren’t drunk enough.

In the quiet, your thoughts unraveled.

You kept circling back to Jungkook—to the way his voice sounded when he said he liked you, like it was simple, like it wasn’t, actually,  the most complicated thing in the world. He had said it as if it didn’t carry weight, as if it wasn’t dangerous for both of you. You hadn’t stopped him. And the worst part was... you weren’t even sure you wanted to. That look in his eyes had followed you ever since—certain, almost gentle, like he was sure he’d made the right call in choosing you, and that haunted you more than any mistake ever could.

Then there was Jimin. Sweet, steady Jimin—who wasn’t supposed to matter like this, and yet he did. You couldn’t stop thinking about how close his mouth had gotten to yours, how you hadn't moved away, hadn’t even thought to, not until it was too late. You could still feel that moment clinging to your skin, lingering in the space between what almost happened and what you knew shouldn’t. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it had just been the moment, the lighting, the blurred lines between comfort and something else—but the more you repeated that lie, the less believable it became.

You hated how easily you'd let yourself exist in the space between the two of them, how natural it had begun to feel—like falling into gravity you weren’t meant to obey.

And that scared you more then anything.

Reaching home, you half stumbled into your apartment and just layed on your couch. World spinning you decided you would just rest your eyes for a second before going to bed.

The air smells like spring. Cut grass and clean laundry. The curtains sway slightly in a breeze you can’t feel. You’re on a worn but familiar couch, your hand cradling a chipped mug of tea that wasn’t there a second ago.

You frown.

Across from you, slouched in the matching armchair with his ankle balanced on his knee, sits   Theo.

Your stomach turns.

It takes a moment for your mind to catch up — to recognize the shape of him. But then it hits you. The soft scar above his brow. The way he always bites his thumb when he’s thinking. The hoodie that you claimed as your own.

Theo
Your ex.
The last person who really got close to your heart.

He looks exactly like he did the day you left — minus the quiet devastation you carried with you at the airport.

“You look good,” he says.

You blink. “What… is this?”

He doesn’t answer directly. Just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You still take your tea like that?”

You glance down. The tea is pale, nearly white. Milk-heavy. Exactly how he used to tease you for drinking it. “I don’t drink it like this anymore.”

He smirks. “You do. Just not around other people.”

Your chest tightens and you don’t answer. The room feels warped — familiar, but not quite right. The light never changes. The air never moves. A memory that never finishes loading.

“You used to sit with me like this all the time,” he says, quieter now. “Sunday mornings. Your legs on my lap. You’d tell me about a book you were pretending to finish.”

You smile despite yourself. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“You never made it past chapter seven.”

You almost laugh. You hate that it feels nice to be remembered like that. That a part of you still craves this kind of intimacy, even if it feels like just in a dream.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” he asks suddenly.

You look up.

You nod. “Outside that café. The one with the blue door.”

He smiles faintly. “You were freezing. I offered you my scarf, and you said, ‘only if I get a kiss too.’”

You flush. “You called me out.”

“You looked smug as hell when I actually did it.”

“You liked that about me.”

“I did.”

Another pause. Long and soft. Like the quiet after a snowfall.

Then he says, “I think that was the last time I really knew you.”

Your breath catches.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

His tone darkens, almost imperceptibly. “I mean… after that, you kept changing. Evolving. Looking further away every time you talked about the future.”

“I told you what I wanted.”

“You told me what you were chasing,” he says. “That’s not the same.”

You bristle. “Why are you here?”

“Maybe your brain brought me back because you still need to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

He stands up, slow and deliberate. Walks toward the window, his hands in his pockets.

“That I didn’t want you anymore.”

The room tilts.

Your voice is barely audible. “You said it you didn’t do long distance.”

“I said a lot of things to make you feel better.” He turns back to you, face unreadable. “But the truth is — I couldn’t recognize the version of you that stood in front of me by the end.”

You stare at him. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s honest.”

“No,” you bite out, standing too. “You broke up with me because I got an opportunity. Because I said yes to a dream that fell on my lap. You couldn’t handle not being my first priority.”

His eyes flash, sharper now. “I wasn’t even second by then.”

“That’s not true.”

“Wasn’t it?” he steps closer. “Every conversation turned into you defending your choices. Your plans. Your schedule. You didn’t want a relationship — you wanted a fan club.”

Your heart pounds. “That’s not what it was.”

“No,” he says. “But that’s what   you   were becoming.”

You stagger back, your spine hitting the edge of the couch.

“You stopped seeing me,” he continues, voice hardening. “I was a placeholder in your day. Someone to text when it was convenient. You’d light up over your friendship with Evi, how your coworkers would be, your Seoul skyline — but never for me. Not anymore.”

“You didn’t say that,” you whisper.

“Because I knew you’d cry and twist it into my fault. Like always.”

Your breath punches out of you.

“I let you go because I didn’t want to be the villain,” he says simply. “But I was already the leftover.”

You shake your head. “We had something good, Theo.”

“We had something   brief. ”

The cruelty in his voice isn’t sharp — it’s casual.
Like he’s just telling the truth.
Like it doesn’t cost him anything to gut you with it.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you stopped being someone I wanted to love.”

The ache that follows those words is so physical you almost double over.

He watches, unfazed. “You were too consumed by what you wanted to become and where you wanted to be. And eventually, I saw it. You didn’t want to share your life — you wanted to star in it. And I couldn’t drop everything to just follow you around.”

You flinch.

“And now,” he says, eyes narrowing, “you’re doing it again.”

“What?”

He steps even closer. “Two men. Both circling. One all charm and sunshine. One who pretends to be disinterested but looks at you like he’s drowning.”

“Stop—”

“You want them both,” he says. “Not because you love either of them, but because they make you feel important.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You don’t love people,” he says coldly. “You collect them.”

Your hands are shaking.

He leans in, his breath almost touching yours. “You act like you’re scared of choosing. But maybe the real problem is that you   like   the attention.”

You slap him.

Your hand doesn’t connect. The dream flickers, your body frozen mid-motion. Like the world itself has glitched.

He smiles slowly.

“Does it scare you?” he asks, voice soft again. “The that this version of you isn’t lovable too?”

“I am,” you choke out.

“Are you sure abou that?” he asks.

You wake with a gasp so sharp it feels like your lungs tear.

Your body jerks upright, soaked in sweat, heart pounding like a fist to your ribcage. The room spins.

Your mouth tastes like stale sugar and regret.
Your head pulses violently.
And your eyes burn — from tears or sleep or the cruel residue of his words, you’re not sure.

Theo.

His name sits like a rock in your chest. A weight you forgot you still carried.

You grip the sheets, knuckles white.

He had said it wasn’t about distance.
He said he didn’t want you anymore.
And worst of all, he’d made you believe that might’ve been right.

You press your palms to your eyes until all you see is static. Until the lump in your throat finally swells into something too painful to swallow.

It was just a dream.

It was a wound you never let scab over.

And now it was bleeding again.

The sharp ringing pierced through the fog in your head like a thousand tiny hammers. You groaned, face pressed deep into your pillow, willing the noise to stop. But it kept coming — insistent, nagging, relentless.

Your phone blinked at the coffee table, the caller ID flashing a name you didn’t bother to see right now. Then again. And again.

You slapped the side table blindly, knocking your glass of water over. Cold spilled over your hand, but you barely registered it. The pounding in your skull was a brutal drumline, each beat syncing with the relentless buzzing in your ears.

You fumbled with the phone, trying to silence it, but your fingers wouldn’t obey. Your body felt like it was full of lead and cotton at the same time. The room spun gently when you moved your head even a little, and you let out a low, frustrated sigh.

The calls kept coming.

Eventually, after the seventh or eighth ring, your bleary brain decided it was less torturous to answer.

You swiped and lifted the phone to your ear, voice a hoarse croak. “Hello?”

“Y/N?” The voice on the other end was soft but steady. Familiar.

You blinked against the haze and realized who it was. “Jimin?”

“Yeah.” His voice was calm, but there was something under it — concern? Something deeper. “You okay?”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him about the pounding in your head, the sick nausea twisting your stomach, the regret and exhaustion that felt like a physical weight. But all that came out was a quiet groan, “I’m hungover.”

There was a pause.

“Are you alone?” A pause.  “Do you need anyhing?”

You stared at the ceiling, trying to think but your hungover and the dream being too much for you to handle at once. “I cannot think right now. Thanks though.” And before you could say anything else, the call ended.

You blinked at the silent phone, your heart thumping a little faster.

20 minutes later your door rattles gently. A single knock.

You open it wearing one sock, an oversized hoodie, and what might still be yesterday’s eyeliner smudged. Your hair is a nest of betrayal. Your breath tastes like crime.

Jimin’s eyes widen just enough to register the disaster that is you, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he holds up a convenience store bag in one hand, and a bottle of Pocari Sweat in the other, like an offering.

“Hangover queen,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Where’s your kitchen?”

You make a noise that might be laughter or weeping. It doesn’t matter. You point toward the inside of the apartment and collapse back onto the couch before you can think twice. The cushions feel like heaven. Then you feel Jimin tug something over your legs — a throw blanket you didn’t even realize was there.

“Why are you like this?” you mumble into a pillow.

“Because I care,” he says with a grin you can’t see but feel in your chest. He walks to your kitchen like he’s been there before — opens cabinets until he finds a clean mug and puts on the kettle. You hear the rustle of ramen packaging. You didn’t even ask.

“Jimin,” you croak.

“Yeah?”

“I think I died in my sleep.”

“You didn’t. Ghosts can’t get hangovers this bad.”

He pads over, kneels in front of you, and presses a cold bottle into your palm. “Sip slowly.”

You obey because he’s crouched like some angelic nurse and you’re too weak to argue. It’s embarrassingly nice — the way he’s just there, not asking questions, not judging, just filling the space like he was always meant to.

You watch him move around your space, humming a little tune as he preps the ramen, cuts open the seaweed packets, and finds chopsticks like it’s second nature. He doesn’t hover, but he doesn’t leave either.

He settles beside you once he’s done, a bowl in each hand. He hands you yours with a pair of chopsticks already broken for you. “I even added an egg. Don’t say I never spoil you.”

You blink at him, the steam from the ramen fogging your already bleary vision. “You’re a saint.”

“Nope,” he says, blowing on his noodles. “But I’m flattered you think so.”

For a long time, there’s just quiet. Just the slurp of noodles, the occasional sniffle, the hum of your heater kicking in. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

He finally breaks the silence. “Rough night?”

You nod. Then, a pause. “Remind me to not try to overdrink Sana”

“That bad, huh?”

You look over. He’s not teasing. His gaze is soft. You nod again, slower this time.

You lean your head against the cushion and breathe. “Thanks for coming.”

He shrugs. “It’s me. You don’t even have to ask.”

Your heart folds in on itself a little. You’re too hungover to unpack the meaning. Too grateful to overthink it.

Instead, he steal your half-finished bowl of ramen when you’re not looking.

“Hey!”

“Caretaker tax,” he mumble with a small, wicked smile. And when you just stare at him like he grew two heads, he laughs — really laughs — and you swear, even with your head splitting in two, the world feels a little less cruel.

Jimin gets up with the plates in hand, before narrowing his eyes when you try to get up too. “I’ll fight you if you say you will do the dishes”

Before you could protest, your phone buzzes again, this time not with a call but with a FaceTime ring that practically vibrates through your skull.

You groan softly. The screen lights up in your hand, and before you can even process what you’re doing, you swipe to accept.

Evi’s face fills the screen instantly, framed in chaos — frizzy bun, hoodie half-zipped, a face mask drying in uneven splotches on her cheeks.

“BABE!” she shouts like a war siren, eyes wide. “Oh my GOD, you’re ALIVE!”

You wince, pulling the phone a little farther from your face. “Please,” you rasp. “Volume.”

“No, no. You don’t get to ‘volume’ me. I have been calling you for hours. Hours, Y/N. I was two missed calls away from reporting you to the embassy.”

You snort. Or try to. It comes out like a cough and a whimper.

Evi squints. “You look like a ghost in a hoodie. Did you fall into a bottle of tequila and climb back out covered in shame?”

“Close. It was Soju” you pout. You tilt the camera down just enough to show your position on the couch — hoodie up to your nose, mismatched socks, and the corner of a blanket over your knees.

There’s a dramatic gasp on her end.

“Someone tucked you in?!” she accuses.

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. That’s a blanket tuck. A cared-for blanket tuck. Who’s there?”

You shift the phone away before your gaze can flick toward the figure moving quietly in your kitchen — someone out of frame, but still there.

“No one.”

“Oh, no one came in and took care of your hungover, tragic self back from the brink of death? Made you look slightly less like a corpse that forgot how to moisturize?”

You stay quiet. Evi leans in dramatically, her voice dropping to a stage whisper.

“You do have mystery caretaker energy right now. That’s post-nurture glow.”

You press your lips together, failing to hide the twitch of a smile.

She doesn’t let up. “I swear, if someone cooked you ramen and handed you a sports drink, I’m demanding a meet-cute debrief. Like, was it a Florence Nightingale situation or a ‘you up?’ text turned heroic rescue?”

You close your eyes and sigh. “You’re exhausting.”

“That’s rich coming from the girl who made me call 14 times like I was auditioning for a role in Taken 4: Seoul Edition.”

From behind the screen, there’s a soft clink of dishes being set aside.

You adjust your grip on the phone. “I’m fine, okay? Just hungover. Really hungover.”

Evi narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Fine, I’ll back off. For now. But the second you’re upright, I want every single detail. Who, what, when, and how attractive.”

You nod. “You’ll be the first to know.”

She smirks. “I better be. If I find out you’re being nursed back to health by a secret boyfriend and you didn’t tell me? Friendship over.”

You laugh — a real one this time. Your headache still pulses behind your eyes, but something about Evi’s chaos, her voice, her concern masked with jokes — it soothes in a different way.

“Okay,” she says, calming down a little, though the glint in her eyes doesn’t fade. “Drink water. Nap. Text me later.”

“Promise.”

“I’m putting you on Do Not Disturb in protest.”

The call ends before you can reply, leaving you blinking at the now-quiet screen.

You lower the phone slowly, only to find a pair of eyes already watching you from the edge of the living room.

Jimin’s still there, leaning against your counter, mug in hand.

He says nothing — just gives you a look that’s half amused, half unreadable.

You blink. “You heard all that?”

He nods, lips quirking at the corners. “Didn’t realize I’m now a ramen saint.”

You groan and bury your face back in the pillow.

He just laughs, soft and low, and goes back to stirring the tea he’d made for you both.

And you don’t even try to stop your heart from aching a little.

The pounding in your head had dulled to a manageable throb — the kind that let you lift it without the room spinning in protest. You were halfway through your second mug of peppermint tea — Jimin’s idea — and nestled into the corner of your couch, legs tucked under the blanket he’d draped earlier.

But now that your head wasn’t splitting open and your stomach had finally decided to stop staging a coup, your brain… had room. And unfortunately, it chose to fill that space with one thing.

That moment in the hallway.

The second his hand had lifted, his breath had slowed, and everything between you had tilted — as if the world had quietly leaned in to watch.

You hadn’t kissed him.

But you hadn’t exactly pulled away, either.

Your phone lay face-down on the coffee table, Jimin’s untouched mug of tea now cooling beside it. He was still there — in the same spot across the couch — casually flipping through something on his phone, one leg tucked up, body half-blanketed from earlier. The gentle hush of the room wrapped around the both of you like cotton.

You picked up your phone again, thumb moving slowly over the screen without really seeing anything. Your thoughts wandered, and before you knew it, your eyes lifted from your screen, drifting over to him instead.

He hadn’t looked up, fingers still scrolling. Then, without breaking his focus, he said, “You’re staring again.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Mmhmm,” he said softly, voice casual but knowing. “That’s definitely staring.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. You looked back down at your phone, trying to focus on the meaningless scrolling. But your fingers slowed, your breath uneven.

“I must look awful,” you mumbled, voice scratchy and too loud in the stillness.

Jimin finally glanced up — just a quick flick of his eyes — and said, “You don’t.”

You swallowed. “You’re just being nice.”

He gave a lazy, soft smile without putting his phone away. “I’m always nice.”

You let out a quiet breath, a small laugh escaping you despite yourself.

Another silence stretched between you — but this one felt warmer, thicker, like a shared blanket instead of a wall.

“I didn’t mean to… ruin your day,” you said, softer this time. “You didn’t have to stay.”

He tilted his head a little, like that thought genuinely confused him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because you didn’t have a good answer. Not one that didn’t make you sound pathetic.

But maybe he saw it anyway — that flicker of doubt, the half-formed sentence you didn’t say — because he set his phone down gently, screen dimming to black.

“You don’t have to apologize for needing someone,” he said.

You looked at him, really looked. And it was almost unbearable, the way he said it — not like an offer, not like a favor, but like a truth. Like something already decided.

“I’m not good at that,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I know.”

And you hated that he did. That he saw through you like that — quiet, without judgment, without pressure. He wasn’t asking for anything. Not an explanation, not a confession. Just... presence. And somehow that was harder.

Your throat tightened. “I think I was going to let you kiss me.”

Jimin blinked — once, slowly — and then his expression softened in a way that nearly undid you.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly.

No teasing. No smug grin. Just that steady, grounding weight of him.

You stared at the threads in the blanket for a moment, fingers brushing over them absently.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

That brought your gaze back to him — not because you didn’t believe him, but because a part of you wanted to. So badly.

“I just…” you hesitated. “Listen, can you imagine the chaos? If anyone knows I’ll be on the first flight out of here, and it will be just a mess. We cannot do anything.”

He nodded again. “That makes sense.”

You blinked. “You’re not going to argue?”

“I’m not here to change your mind,” he said. “I’m here because I want to be. That’s it.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But somehow, that made it feel even more dangerous.

Because he wasn’t trying to win you over.

He was just being here — and that made your chest ache in a different way.

Jimin shifted slightly, curling deeper into the corner of the couch. “You don’t need to have all the answers.”

You looked down at your hands. They were steady now. Not shaking. Not fumbling. Just warm beneath the weight of the blanket.

“Can you stay?” you asked before you could even process it.

Jimin looked over, his eyes soft. His voice was a breath. “Yeah. As long as you want.”

Chapter Text

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But the light in your apartment is different now — not the pale, unforgiving kind from earlier, but something warmer, stretched long across the floor like the day is trying to leave without making a sound. Late afternoon, maybe. Or early evening. The kind of in-between light that makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower. Dust floats lazily through the air, catching in the golden slant that filters through the half-closed blinds.

It still smells like peppermint. Faint, but still there. Soft and clean and ghostlike. The mug on your coffee table is empty — no trace of warmth left in the ceramic, but the shape of it feels recent. Like someone placed it down gently. Like someone didn’t want to wake you.

The blanket over your legs is still tucked neatly at the sides, folded in at the edges like a quiet gesture you almost missed. You blink slowly, staring at it for a few seconds before it registers — Jimin is gone.

He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t need to. You also hadn’t expected a goodbye, not really. He moves through space like water — he fills it, carries you if you let him, and then leaves without asking for anything. And somehow, what he leaves behind feels more meaningful than words ever could.

The apartment is quiet now. Still.

The kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of the wood under your couch as you shift your weight. Every sound amplified by the absence of another presence.

But it’s not a lonely kind of quiet. Not quite. But a bit lonely, nevertheless. 

You exhale, long and slow, letting your head fall back against the cushion.

There’s a light pressure behind your eyes — the last trace of the hangover, maybe, or just the ghost of the dream you had before Jimin showed up. You can’t remember it now. Just a feeling. A sharpness. That sensation of being underwater without knowing how you got there.

Your limbs feel heavy, but not weighed down. Just… warm. Like you’ve been wrapped in a cocoon you didn’t realize you needed.

And now, you feel the absence.

Your eyes flutter shut again — just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to feel the room. The shift.

It's strange how easy it is to feel when he's gone.

You stay there, breathing. Letting the quiet wrap around you, slow and padded, like the world is giving you a little more time before it starts spinning again. Your fingers curl slightly under the edge of the blanket. The couch cushions dip just the slightest beneath you. Everything feels still in a way it hasn’t for days.

And yet…

It’s not just stillness that settles in your chest.
It’s something else, too.

A hum you can’t quite place. A presence that doesn’t belong to the peppermint or the folded blanket or even to Jimin’s echo.

You try not to name it. Try not to go there.

But your thoughts are already pulling in another direction.

His direction.

The way Jungkook had looked at you yesterday — not during a conversation, not in any obvious way, just in a moment you happened to glance up — like he saw something he hadn’t expected to see. The way his mouth had twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t. The way he didn’t look away until you did.

You hadn’t thought about it much at the time.
Now you can’t seem to stop.

The silence stretches again.

And then — the buzz.

Sharp against the cushion. One short vibration. Then another.

You open your eyes, slowly. Turn your head toward the sound.
Your phone is still facedown. Like it knew you wouldn’t be ready.

You reach for it, thumb dragging across the screen. It lights up — too bright at first — and you squint, blinking against it.

Two notifications.

The first one makes you snort softly, right on cue.

[My one and only true love 3:43 PM]: Okay. I’m really giving you a break today.
[My one and only true love 3:45 PM]: But tomorrow? I want names.
[My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And context.
[My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And height-to-hotness ratios.

You consider replying. You even start to type.

But the second notification catches your eye — and suddenly your fingers pause.

[JK 1:12 PM]: Still alive?

Your thumb stills above the keyboard.
The words are short. Barely anything. Just enough.
But you feel them settle in your chest anyway.

You stare at the screen, heart thumping slightly out of step.

You don’t know why it feels heavier coming from him.
Maybe because everything from him feels like it might mean something — even when it doesn’t.
Maybe because you still don’t know how much space he’s meant to take up in your day.
Or maybe because… you kind of hoped he would text. And now that he has, you don’t know what to do with that hope.

You type back, simple.

[ You 3:46 PM]: Depends who’s asking.

The reply comes faster than you expect. Like he has been waiting near the phone the entire time.

[JK 3:46 PM]: Just someone who heard you lost a fight to soju.

Your brows lift.
So he knows. Somehow. Someone told him.
But who?

You hesitate, then reply:

[JK 3:47 PM]: Amazing. Didn’t realize my downfall was public info.

[JK 3:47 PM]: It is now. You set a new record, apparently. Very dramatic.

You roll your eyes. But you’re already smiling. Just a little.

You tap your fingers against the edge of the phone, then type:

[You 3:47 PM]: Glad to know I’m leaving a legacy.

And then — a pause. A longer one.

Not longer then a minute. Just long enough to make you wonder.

Then his message blinks across the screen:

[ JK 3:48 PM]: You always do.

You stop.

You stare at the words until the screen begins to dim, and you tap it once to keep it lit. You don’t reply. You don’t know how.

Because you’re still figuring out what any of this is.

Still figuring out what it means when someone like Jungkook says something like that — not just to you, but about you.

And if you’re being honest with yourself — really honest — you know it’s not just the words.

It’s the way your pulse stutters now.
The way your stomach tightens, just slightly.
The way you let your phone rest gently on the blanket beside you, like the weight of it might say too much.

You exhale, slow.

Outside, the city is still moving. Somewhere far off, a car honks. Someone laughs in the hallway.

But inside your apartment, it’s just you. And that message. And the strange little ache blooming behind your ribs.

The next day at work passed in a strange kind of haze.

The hangover was gone. The peppermint scent had faded from your hoodie, and the apartment felt emptier than it did the night before — though a blanket still folded neatly on the couch gave away that Jimin had really been there. You hadn’t heard from him since, just a message in the morning saying “Hope today’s kinder to you.”

You hadn’t answered.

There was too much noise in your head already — leftover static from dreams, memories, text messages that said you always do. And then there was work. The usual rush of prep before a Run BTS shoot, the whole office tense but pretending to be casual. Scripts, gear, last-minute call time changes. People bumping into each other and pretending it wasn’t on purpose.

By 6:40, someone shoved a clipboard into your hands with a breathless “Can you take this to Studio B?”

You were already halfway down the hall when you realized you didn’t mind the errand.

You didn’t really want to be around anyone.

Except when you open the door to the smaller recording studio, it isn’t empty.

Jungkook’s already there.

He’s lounged back on the old leather couch, hoodie hood bunched behind his neck, legs sprawled comfortably. One of his feet bounces in the air, heel tapping the ground. He’s got his phone in hand and one earbud in, but it’s hanging halfway out, like he forgot about it.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s grinning — really grinning — shoulders shaking with that soundless laugh you’ve seen when something online catches him just right. You freeze for half a second in the doorway, not sure whether to step back or knock or just stand there like a forgotten extra.

Then he looks up.

And you don’t know why it feels like you’ve been caught.

“Oh,” he says, still half-laughing. “You scared me.”

“I knocked.”

“You didn’t.”

You blink. “…I thought I did.”

He smiles, and it makes your stomach shift a little too fast.

You hold up the clipboard in your hand. “Dropping these off. Tomorrow’s call sheets.”

He nods and nudges the coffee table with his foot. “You can leave it here. Unless you want to read it out loud. Make it dramatic.”

You roll your eyes but cross the room anyway, placing the clipboard down gently on the edge of the table. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick toward you as you do — just for a second. A blink. But it’s there.

“Did you volunteer for this?” he asks, voice light.

“Why?”

He shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. “I mean, it’s almost 7. Kind of feels like you wanted the walk.”

You glance at him, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Kind of feels like you’re reading too much into it.”

He laughs again — not unkind. Not sharp. Just… amused.

“I’ve been told I do that,” he says shrugging. “Once or twice.”

You hover by the table a moment longer, unsure if you’re dismissed or just lingering. But before you can move toward the door, he speaks again — this time a little quieter, but still casual.

“By the way… thanks. For the whole… mess the other day.”

You blink. “You mean—?”

He nods once. Doesn’t elaborate. Just lifts his hand in a little wave like he’s acknowledging something in the air between you both.

“I didn’t know you knew I helped with that.”

He gives a soft scoff. “Please. You’re the only one who would’ve made the managers sound like a calm older sister who’s also on the verge of quitting.”

You almost smile. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

“I thought so.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not uncomfortable.

He leans forward to pick up his phone, scrolling aimlessly now. You turn toward the door.

“You’re on the schedule at 8:45,” you say over your shoulder. “Try not to be late.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“More like a prayer.”

He huffs another laugh behind you. “See you tomorrow.”

You don’t look back when you leave, but you do catch your reflection briefly in the narrow studio window — the way your shoulders are still a little too stiff, your expression a little too carefully blank.

But your heart?

It’s doing that thing again.

The quiet kind of racing.

The studio was already buzzing by the time you arrived.

Staff filtered in and out of the side doors, trailing wires and clipped walkies, the usual pre-shoot chaos humming under every breath. You tucked your phone into your back pocket, tried not to think about the last conversation you’d had with either of them, and slid the call sheet onto the production table like it didn’t weigh more than it should.

Run BTS days always carried a different kind of energy. It wasn’t just content — it was the boys being themselves, half-scripted and half-chaotic. You’d noticed, over time, how even the quietest ones came alive here. Something about being in front of the camera without the full weight of an idol performance made them playful in a way that was rare to catch elsewhere.

You were adjusting the mic list when you heard your name.

“Y/N!”

It was Taehyung, waving dramatically from across the set like you were half a football field away.

“Come settle a bet,” he called.

You squinted. “Do I want to know what the bet is?”

Jimin appeared beside him, grinning like he’d already won. “You absolutely do.”

That’s when you noticed the screen behind them — the large monitor propped up for playback — currently displaying a paused Mario Kart track. Two controllers were sitting on the table, one already gripped tightly in Jungkook’s hands.

“Jungkook challenged me,” Jimin said, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Then he lost. And now he wants a rematch. But I refuse, so he wants to show he can beat anyone else. So we chose you.”

You blinked and pointed at yourself in disbelief. “Me?”

Jungkook, seated in one of the gamer-style chairs with his legs kicked up like he owned the place, smirked. “You talk a big game.”

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never talked any game.”

“That’s what makes you dangerous,” he replied, eyes gleaming.

Someone from the staff handed you the second controller, and it felt suspiciously like a setup — the way all the boys slowly started crowding behind the monitor, how Jimin was suddenly perched on the arm of the couch beside you, offering unsolicited tips.

“Watch the drifts in the third lap,” he murmured. “That’s where he gets cocky.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. “Are you helping me or sabotaging me?”

He smiled, all sugar and mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jungkook chose the track. Something fast. Of course.

When the countdown began, your focus narrowed. Just you, the controller, and the digital chaos on screen. Around you, you were vaguely aware of voices — cheering, laughing, someone (probably Jin) commentating like it was the Olympics.

Jungkook was fast. Annoyingly fast.

But you were patient. Quietly calculating.

And in the last stretch of the final lap, you drifted perfectly around a corner, dodged a red shell, and zipped across the finish line less than half a second ahead.

The room exploded.

Hobi’s laugh was unmistakable as Jin threw his hands in the air. Taehyung screamed something unintelligible. Jimin laughed so hard he nearly fell from where he was sitting on.

Jungkook stared at the screen, jaw slack. Then he turned to look at you.

“That was luck.”

You leaned back, tossing the controller gently onto the couch. “Skill. Coated in humble confidence.”

“Rematch.”

“You’ll need time to recover.” You patted him on the shoulder.

He huffed, half a laugh escaping before he could stop it. And then he smiled — a real one this time, boyish and bright.

Jimin passed behind you as the camera crew started setting up for the next segment. He didn’t say anything at first — just brushed his knuckles lightly across your shoulder in passing, a touch no one else would notice.

When he came back around, slipping into place beside you as the others were getting miked, he handed you a bottle of water without meeting your eyes.

“You okay?” he asked under his breath.

You nodded. “I think I just made a mortal enemy.”

He smiled. “Nah. That’s just Jungkook’s love language.”

Your stomach flipped — not because of the words, but the quiet way he said them. Like he knew exactly how light to make it. Exactly when not to push.

You looked at him then, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Then the director called for first positions, and the moment scattered like loose change.

Still, when Jungkook passed you on the way to his mark, he bumped your shoulder lightly, a grin tucked half into the corner of his mouth.

“Round two’s coming,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you smiled anyway.

The hallway beyond the studio felt quieter than it should. Dimmer, too, the bright set lights replaced by the low ambient hum of backstage fluorescents. You rubbed your fingertips along your temple, trying to will away the strange buzz still dancing in your chest after the shoot.

Your badge swung slightly with each step as you wandered past stacked lighting gear and garment racks. A few of the stylists were packing up, their conversations soft and distant. Most of the boys had already vanished into dressing rooms or out the back exit.

You stepped into the green room without knocking — just enough to drop off the folder you’d been handed. Inside, it was quiet. A jacket draped over the couch, an open water bottle on the table. Jungkook was seated on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable until he glanced up and noticed you.

"Hey," he said, straightening slightly.

You held out the folder. "Call sheet for the weekend. You guys have a rehearsal slotted Sunday."

He set his phone down and took the folder from you, glancing at the cover. "Thanks."

"No problem."

You turned to leave, but his voice followed. "You know... you kind of crushed me today."

You blinked. "At Mario Kart?"

He let out a low chuckle. "I’m gonna pretend it wasn’t personal."

"Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’m just that good."

Jungkook tilted his head like he was considering that. "Dangerously humble. It’s a deadly combo."

You smirked, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make your heart feel a little too aware of itself.

“How’s your recovery from trying to beat Sana in drinking?” He asked casually.

Your eyebrows shot up. "How do you—"

His grin widened. "Let’s just say... death by soju doesn’t go unnoticed."

You narrowed your eyes, trying not to smile. "I’m going to start interrogating people."

"You won’t need to. I’m very susceptible to guilt. And bribery."

You laughed despite yourself, glancing down at the call sheet again. Something about this was easier than it should’ve been.

Then footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Taehyung appeared, slowing as soon as he saw the two of you. He stopped a few paces away, taking in the scene without saying a word.

You braced for something.

He didn’t disappoint.

"You know," he said, pointing between the two of you, "if you’re gonna stand that close and smile that much, at least try to look a little less obvious."

Jungkook groaned, head tipping back with a dramatic sigh. "Hyung—"

Taehyung raised both hands, backing away slowly. "Hey, hey. Don’t mind me. I’m just an innocent bystander. An observant one. But innocent nonetheless."

Then, just before turning the corner, he added over his shoulder, "Cute, though. Seriously."

You stared after him.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, then looked at you with something caught between amusement and apology.

"He’s going to milk that for weeks."

You sighed. "Guess we’re doomed."

"Could be worse," Jungkook said.

And the way he looked at you — not teasing, not intense, just quietly sure — made it very hard to argue.

The studio floor had emptied out more than you realized. One minute you were dodging prop boxes and laughing with Yoshi while the post-filming chaos still lingered, and the next — you were standing by the stairwell with a half-empty water bottle in hand, waiting for the elevator that seemed determined not to arrive.

"You always disappear right before the fun part," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet like a familiar song.

You turned, half startled, half expecting him. He was already walking toward you, hoodie draped loosely over his shoulders, hair still damp from the earlier shoot, and something soft behind his eyes. Like he’d been waiting for a moment alone just like this.

You gave a weak smile. "Didn’t know there was a fun part."

He stopped in front of you, leaning a shoulder lightly against the wall. "There’s always a fun part."

The hallway buzzed gently with silence. A light flickered above you, casting slow-moving shadows. You tightened your grip on the bottle.

"Tired?" he asked, glancing down at your hands.

You shrugged. "A little. I think the last twenty-four hours finally caught up to me."

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than you were saying.

"Thanks for yesterday," you said after a moment.

"You already said that."

You looked up. "Well, I’m saying it again."

He smiled at that, then tilted his head slightly. "Want a ride home? I’ve got time."

You hesitated. For a breath. Maybe two. Then nodded. Why not?

The city passed in fragments outside the window, a patchwork of late-night haze and quiet. Yellow-tinted streetlights blinked over sidewalks. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly from the windows of half-closed stores. Inside the car, it was warm — too warm — and you didn’t bother removing your coat. You felt the press of it, like a shield. A weight you weren’t quite ready to shrug off.

Jimin didn’t put on music. You didn’t ask. The air between you hummed with an unspoken rhythm, one you couldn’t place.

"You’re quiet," he said, glancing at you as the car slowed at a red light. "I thought I’d at least get a dramatic monologue about the evils of filming variety shows in the cold."

You gave a soft huff, the corner of your mouth twitching. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to perform."

"I’m devastated," he said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest.

Your gaze drifted back out the window. You traced the fog from your breath with a fingertip on the glass. "It’s just been... an intense week."

"I know the feeling," he murmured. His tone didn’t shift. He didn’t offer advice. He just agreed, like it was the only thing worth saying.

"It’s not even anything specific. Just… the internship. The schedule. The pace of it all. Its been almost three months but feels like im here for much longer but at the same time much less. It’s weird." You gave a little shrug, as if brushing the weight off your shoulders could make it lighter. "Everything’s just a bit much sometimes."

He stayed silent. The hum of the car filled in what you didn’t say.

Then, his voice returned, lighter this time. "If it makes you feel better, I’m very impressed by how professional you looked while holding a bag of cucumbers today."

That pulled a laugh from your chest. You shot him a side glance. "Stop."

"Dead serious. Iconic. Might be the most glamorous thing I’ve seen all week."

The light turned green, and he eased the car forward. You leaned into your seat and sighed. Something about him — the way he let the serious and silly fold over each other — always managed to unravel you in pieces. Quiet ones.

"You’re good at this," you said softly.

"At what?"

"Disarming people."

He glanced at you, his smile widening. "You make it sound like I’m a spy."

"Maybe you are. The charming kind. Gets people talking when they don’t mean to."

"Ah," he said, mock-serious. "So I’m dangerously persuasive. Noted."

You lifted an eyebrow. "I’m saying you’re sneaky. Subtle. The kind of person who probably gets away with way too much."

He gasped in mock offense. "I’m wounded."

"You’ll survive."

He turned onto your street, the familiar row of buildings falling into place outside the window. But he didn’t stop in front of yours. Instead, he pulled up further, into a quieter spot shaded by trees and dim streetlight.

The engine ticked as he cut it. Neither of you moved.

You sat in the silence, eyes on your hands folded in your lap, while Jimin’s rested casually on the wheel like he wasn’t in a rush to end whatever this was.

"We’re okay, right?" he asked after a moment. Quiet. Careful.

You nodded slowly. "I think so."

He didn’t speak right away. You could feel his gaze, warm and open.

"You’ve seemed different lately. Not bad. Just… like your head’s somewhere else."

You traced another foggy line on the window. "Maybe it is. Everything just feels different, like something shifted and I haven’t caught up to it yet."

He didn’t press. Just waited.

"It’s not really about the job," you added quickly. "It’s nothing. And also… not nothing. I guess I’m still figuring it out."

His voice was low when he answered. "Want to know what I’m figuring out?"

You turned to him, surprised by the question. "What?"

"How long I can sit here before I do something really dumb."

Your breath caught.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "And it gets harder everytime you look at me like that. "

You didn’t look away. Your fingers tightened just a little in your lap. "Then maybe stop thinking about it."

He waited. A pause that felt like a held breath, long enough to ask without asking.

And then, slowly — like testing the weight of it — he leaned in.

The kiss was light. Barely a whisper between you. A question posed in silence. A warmth you hadn’t realized you were craving.

It wasn’t a hot or passionate kiss, but rather something soft, uncertain — like both of you were trying to remember how to breathe through it. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, didn’t burn its way through your chest, but settled there gently, like the warmth of a hand over your heart. It asked nothing but permission. It didn’t shout. It didn’t shake. It just… existed, tender and fleeting. Like a pause between thoughts. Like a secret neither of you had the words to speak yet.

But it didn’t last for long.

Because just as the moment settled — just as the softness of it bloomed in your chest — you pulled away.

The car felt too close now. Too still. Your hand reached for the door.

"I should—"

He nodded.

You stepped out into the cold. The night air stung your cheeks in a way that reminded you where you were. Grounded you.

The door shut behind you. Your boots clicked against the pavement as you walked towards the door of your apartment building.

And then—

Your name.

Spoken low. Firm.

You turned as he caught up to you.

No hesitation this time.

His hand found the back of your head softly but firmer. His eyes found your mouth.

And he kissed you again.

Fuller. Warmer. Still careful, but more certain — like he’d decided he didn’t want to let you walk away wondering. This kiss wasn’t rushed, but there was urgency beneath the tenderness. A silent insistence that said: I meant that. It carried something heavier than the first — not pressure, but presence. His thumb brushed along your jaw as the kiss deepened just slightly, grounding you where you stood.

Your breath caught somewhere between surprise and surrender.

For a moment, you let yourself sink into it. The world narrowed. The streetlamp above you flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn echoed and faded. But here — with his forehead resting lightly against yours — everything else disappeared.

You could feel your heart knocking against your ribs, too fast, too loud. Like it hadn’t caught up to what your body was already answering.

"I get to do dumb things sometimes too," he murmured resting his forehead against yours. You were with your eyes closed still trying to process what just happened.

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t let go either.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, Jimin’s warmth still lingering on your lips.

The street was quiet. Only the distant hum of a passing car reminded you the world hadn’t completely stopped. But in your body? In your chest? Everything felt like it had come to a sudden, terrifying standstill.

He kissed you.

He kissed you.

Again.

And then he—

He just turned around and left.

No last word. No clever tease. Not even a backward glance.

He walked back to his car like that kiss hadn’t just rearranged your entire central nervous system.

You were still standing there like a glitch in a simulation when the car engine started. It purred low, then faded as the wheels rolled down the block.

Only when the red taillights disappeared from view did you finally move.

You turned slowly, let yourself walk the last few steps to your building, and fumbled with the code on the door twice before getting it right. Your fingers didn’t work properly. Your brain certainly didn’t.

Inside, the air felt colder than you expected. Or maybe that was just your skin trying to forget the way his hand held the back of your head.

You dropped your bag at the entrance. Your coat somewhere near the couch. Your shoes half-on, half-off by the mat.

And then you just stood there.

Completely and utterly flabbergasted.

What the hell had just happened?

You touched your lips. Once. Lightly. Like you could still trace the shape of him there.

This was a joke. It had to be.

No.

This was your life.

You spun in place, hair swishing with the motion, like pacing would make your thoughts more manageable.

It didn’t.

He kissed you. Again. And it wasn’t some lingering almost-moment. Not some near miss like before. No. It was real. It happened.

And you let it happen.

You kissed him back. Oh God, what have you done? You should’ve kept your mouth shut. Never said anything. To anyone. Ever. In fact, you believe you should’ve just been able to speak ever again.

You groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch, muffling a scream into the nearest cushion.

What were you supposed to do now? Text him? Pretend it never happened? Throw your phone into the sea? Take a rocket and launch yourself into space and disapear forever?

You rolled over dramatically, now staring at the ceiling, limbs sprawled in defeat.

Should you call Evi?

No.

Yes.

No. Definitely not. She would ascend into a whole different plane of existence if she found out. You could already hear her voice in your head, pitch climbing with every syllable:

“YOU DID WHAT? With PARK JIMIN?! Girl, are you INSANE?”

You covered your face with both hands.

God. This was bad. This was… good? No. Complicated. This was very complicated.

And you were very possibly losing your mind.

You hadn’t even taken your makeup off. Your phone buzzed against your thigh, and you flinched like it had burned you.

But it wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

You lay there for another minute before sitting up and grabbing your phone anyway. You opened your notes app and typed exactly two words:

He kissed me.

Then you stared at them.

Then you deleted them.

Then you opened a new note:

What the fuck is happening.

You closed the app.

Typed Evi’s name in your contacts.

And stared.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

Right?

But why did it feel like your entire body was filled with static electricity?

You groaned again and launched yourself backward onto the couch. You needed to sleep. Or scream. Or invent a time machine.

Anything but this.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, not a message. A FaceTime.

  My one and only true love is FaceTiming…

You screamed.

Not a little gasp, not a startled “oh”—a full-on, sharp yelp that shot out of you like a reflex. The sound echoed off your apartment walls, and you instantly slapped a hand over your mouth.

Your thumb still hit "accept."

Evi’s face exploded onto the screen, perfectly framed and flawless. Hair smooth and curled at the ends, lips lined with something expensive and terrifyingly red. Her brows looked like they were carved by gods.

“Why are you screaming like someone broke into your house?” she asked, calmly sipping from a matcha glass.

You blinked at her. “I thought you were a murderer. Or my boss.”

“Charming. This is the welcome I get?”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“You scare easily for someone who’s been hiding a man in her apartment.”

Your soul left your body.

You coughed. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She leaned in dramatically. “I know that look. You’re flushed. Your hair’s doing that thing it does when you’re stressed but trying not to look stressed. Your eyes are twitchy. And unless it’s -3 degrees outside, that red on your cheeks isn’t from the cold.”

You adjusted your phone. “It is cold.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And yet you don’t look frozen. You look freshly kissed.”

You made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a protest—just a long, whimpering exhale.

“Y/N,” she said slowly. “Was someone at your place again since yesterday?”

You said nothing.

“Someone tucked your blanket,” she continued. “Someone made you ramen. Someone bought you Pocari Sweat. You don’t even like Pocari Sweat. You drink it once a year and call it a ritual. And today you are jumpy and blushing. Spill, bitch. ”

You buried your face in your hand. “You are so dramatic.”

“I am your best friend. I’m allowed to be. Was it someone from work?”

“Evi…”

“Was it one of the boys?” Her eyes widened, manic energy building. “Wait. DON’T tell me. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Scratch your nose if it’s complicated.”

You burst out laughing, but it was too late—your fingers had brushed your cheek.

“I KNEW IT!”

“That was not a signal.”

“Too late. Evidence locked in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned at you. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

You stared at her through the screen. Your cheeks still felt warm. Your mouth—God, your mouth—still tingled faintly. Like the memory of his lips hadn’t quite left yet.

She tilted her head. “Was it good?”

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Not a no.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m just saying—if someone kissed me and they were as hot as they sound, I would spiral, like, immediately.”

“Oh, I already spiraled.”

She beamed. “That’s my girl.”

There was a beat of silence, then her voice softened.

“You okay, though?” She dropped the subject just like that. She knew better then to press you. And she also knew when you were not jokinly freaking out.

You looked away. Then back. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t push. She didn’t fill the silence with noise like she normally would. Just… nodded. Like that was enough.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Of course,” she replied. Then, after a pause: “Can I complain about my neighbor now?”

You blinked. “Absolutely.”

She launched into it instantly. “So this morning? He started blasting Cupid at seven a.m. again. Not even the good version—the sped-up TikTok remix. While dancing. In a tutu. On his balcony.”

You snorted. “Still the same three songs?”

“On a loop. My brain is bleeding. My sanity is held together by two hairpins and a dream.”

You grinned.

She leaned closer to the screen. “I’m serious. If I disappear one day, avenge me. I’ll be the one under the floorboards of his playlist.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

You nodded. “I do.”

“And when you’re ready,” she said, “I want the whole story. Over wine. With snacks. And a cheap galaxy projector.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “Deal.”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

She gave you a long look, like she was reading every emotion off your face, then winked and hung up—leaving you in the quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel quite so loud.

Chapter Text

The next couple of days passed in a haze. Not the dreamy kind — the dense, disorienting kind that sticks to your skin like humidity, like the aftermath of something you can’t stop replaying. You went through the motions — meetings, fittings, coffee runs — but every time your mind wandered, it wandered back to that kiss. The second one. The one that made everything harder to ignore. You didn’t see Jimin again except in quick glances and passing moments, and neither of you dared to acknowledged it. Even though he still made sure to text you, call or randmly show up with a small bar of chocolate. But it sat there, unspoken, swelling in the space between. By the time the third day hit, the sky turned as indecisive as your chest — and just as prone to storms.

The drizzle had started soft enough — a few harmless drops tapping your shoulders like a warning. But by the time you were halfway down the street from HYBE, the sky cracked open like it had been waiting just for you. You guessed you deserved it after shamelessly kissing Jimin in the middle of the street three days ago.

You spoke to him in passing. His schedule too busy with the comeback to even stop for a moment. That means your schedule was also packed. He still managed for quick check-ins over messages that made you think you were developing heart problems.

Within seconds, your overcoat and shirt clung to your spine, hair soaked, your shoes squelching with every rushed step.

You turned on your heel and bolted back the way you came — breath ragged, vision blurred by water and soft streetlight glow. You barely registered the way people were ducking under storefronts or lifting umbrellas you envied with every cell in your body.

HYBE's glass doors appeared like a mirage. You slapped your keycard at the reader with a prayer, slipping through as the security guard gave a half-amused, half-pitying glance.

You didn’t stop.

You shivered hard as you reached the elevator and pressed the button with fingers that barely worked.

Your plan was to get to Yoshi, who you knew kept spare clothes in her locker at work in case of “last minute party plans”, and beg her to borrow them — even though one glance in your direction she might just offer it herself.

As the elevator door pinged you could only plea.  Please no one be in there. Please, please—

The doors slid open. And there he was. Of course.

Jungkook.

Headphones around his neck, hair messy like he'd just left the shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a single brow raised in your direction.

Your heart plummeted. “Shit.”

“Hi,” he said, looking you up and down.

Just that. Simple. Neutral.

Like you weren’t standing there dripping like a drowned cat.

You stepped in without a word, water pooling at your feet. You hugged your arms around your chest in a useless attempt to preserve whatever dignity you had left.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Just watched the numbers climb. The rain dripped audibly off your sleeves.

Then: “Rough day?”

You glared at him sideways, but your mouth betrayed you with a half-laugh. “You think?”

“Could be fashion,” he said, biting back a smile. “Very… aquatic.”

You groaned. “Don’t.”

“Okay.”

Silence again. Except it wasn’t quite silence. You could hear the low buzz of the elevator. Your breathing. His. The drop of water that hit the metal floor.

Then Jungkook leaned back slightly and looked at you fully.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t realized you still were. Your teeth were probably close to chattering.

“I’ll dry off.”

He nodded slowly. “Or you could use a towel. There’s always one in our dressing room.”

You paused. “I’m fine. I just need to find Yoshi.”

He shrugged. “They’re probably all gone by now.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

There was no smirk. No teasing glint. Just quiet concern beneath that casual shell of his.

When the elevator dinged open, he didn’t move right away.

“Come on,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “No one’s gonna bite.”

Your body hesitated. Your brain didn’t have time to catch up. But your feet followed anyway.

You followed Jungkook down the quiet hallway, your soaked clothes clinging to your frame with every step.

Your blouse was sticking uncomfortably to your back, and your jeans were damp all the way down to the lining. Every movement made the wet fabric shift against your skin, cold and awkward. You hated how small and out of place you felt, but at least the building was warm. And Jungkook hadn’t said anything since he’d glanced back at you in the elevator—just walked with his hands in his pockets like this wasn’t the weirdest moment you’d shared so far.

The BTS dressing room was empty, quiet, still lit by soft overheads and the glow of vanity lights dimmed to evening mode. It smelled like the end of a long day—residual cologne, shampoo, something clean and vaguely citrusy still hanging in the air.

Jungkook crossed the room without speaking, ducking down by one of the storage bins. He pulled out a hoodie—one of his, obviously. Black, oversized, broken-in. The cotton looked warm and smelled like whatever detergent he used that somehow made everything feel like a hug.

He held it out to you. You took it.

“I’ll give you a second,” he said quietly. “You can dry off by the mirror.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. Behind the divider, you peeled off your wet blouse, dried your arms with a spare towel he left out, and pulled the hoodie on.

It swallowed you.

The sleeves covered your hands, and the hem fell past your hips, almost like a dress over your still-damp slacks. You looked like you’d gotten caught in a hurricane and robbed your co-worker's closet. But for the first time since the storm started, you felt warm again.

When you returned, Jungkook was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees. He glanced up and blinked slowly.

“You look better.”

“I look like a raccoon in a hoodie,” you said flatly, tugging the sleeves down.

He grinned. “A warm raccoon.”

You snorted despite yourself and sat across from him. Your bag was still dripping slightly beside your feet.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Then—

“Kookie...”

You froze.

The door creaked open, and Ji-a stepped into the room.

Her voice slid in first—familiar, flirty, knowing. She stood in the doorway like a scene she had rehearsed: long camel coat cinched at the waist, dark red lipstick perfectly in place, umbrella tucked neatly at her side. Not a single hair out of place. Dry, styled, composed.

Her gaze landed first on Jungkook.

Then on you.

Then on the hoodie.

Her smile didn’t falter. “You didn’t text me back,” she added, stepping further in like she belonged there.

Jungkook stood slowly. “Ji-a?”

“I was nearby. Thought I’d stop in, see if you were around. Guess I got lucky.”

He blinked. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Oh, I figured you’d still be here.” She glanced at her phone. “Didn’t think you’d be entertaining.”

You stood. Quietly. The towel still hung from your hand.

Ji-a’s eyes dragged over you—head to toe, deliberate, lingering on the hoodie like it was something scandalous. Her expression didn’t change, but her posture shifted, chin tilting slightly, like she was working something out in real time and didn’t like the answer.

You quietly bowed, picked up your drentched bag and turned to leave.

Ji-a stepped to the side, giving you just enough room—but not without a final shot.

“I hope you’re not catching feelings, love,” she murmured as you passed her. “You’d be surprised how short his memory is when the weather clears up.”

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t stop.

You just walked out.

Your jaw ached from the way you clenched it.

You made it halfway down the hallway before you saw two familiar figures rounding the corner—Jimin and Taehyung, deep in conversation, drinks in hand. They were laughing at something—until they saw you.

Taehyung’s brows lifted immediately. “Whoa—Y/N?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed slightly, tracking your appearance in sharp, quick detail: the hoodie, the flushed cheeks, the damp cuffs of your pants.

You smiled, soft and tired. “Rain caught me. I’m heading out.”

Jimin stepped forward. “Is that Jungkook’s—?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Then Jimin glanced over your shoulder.

He saw her.

Ji-a.

Still in the dressing room doorway, eyes trained on your back, her arm looped lightly through Jungkook’s. His posture stiff, uncertain. Her fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket like they belonged there.

Jimin looked back at you. “I’ll take you home.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I’m good. I just need to catch a train before it gets worse.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, voice low. “Seriously.”

You gave him a small smile. “I know. But I’m okay.”

Taehyung looked between all of you, sensing something bigger beneath the surface.

Jimin didn’t argue further, but his hand gently touched your elbow. “I’ll walk you to the lobby at least.”

You nodded.

As you moved past them, Jimin fell into step beside you, his hand at your lower back gently supporting you. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But his eyes lingered on you—on your silence, the way you breathed too shallow, the hoodie that didn’t belong to you.

The elevator ride down to the lobby was quiet—heavy with the weight of unspoken words. You kept your gaze fixed forward, your thoughts tumbling over each other, trying desperately not to dwell on Ji-a’s pointed words or the conflicting warmth of Jungkook’s hoodie still wrapped around you.

“You don’t have to explain,” Jimin finally murmured, breaking the silence with a gentle yet firm voice, his gaze subtly protective.

You met his eyes briefly, feeling a pang of guilt twist sharply inside you. “It’s just… complicated. Really complicated.”

He nodded slowly, a shadow of understanding crossing his face. He didn’t push further, but his hand lingered reassuringly on your lower back as you exited into the lobby.

Outside, the rain had softened into a gentle mist, the night air cool but manageable. You paused briefly, feeling Jimin’s quiet, unwavering presence beside you.

“Text me when you’re home?” he asked softly handing you an umbrella you didn't even see him take. 

“Always,” you replied, offering a small, tired smile.

He gave you a gentle squeeze of your hand before stepping back inside, leaving you to walk toward the station alone, each step weighed down by the swirl of your emotions.

When you finally reached your apartment, your exhaustion had multiplied tenfold, both physically and emotionally. You peeled off your damp clothes, the hoodie feeling heavier than ever. It carried Jungkook's scent—comforting and painfully confusing at the same time.

Your phone buzzed as you changed into dry clothes. It was Jungkook:

[JK] : Can we talk tomorrow?

You hesitated only a moment before replying

[You] : sure.

The next day, work wrapped around you like armor. You clung to it, letting the chaos of schedules and outfit confirmations swallow your thoughts whole. If you stayed busy, you wouldn’t have to think. About Ji-a. About Jimin. About the way Jungkook had looked at you as you walked out the night before.

You hadn’t texted him again. You hadn’t texted anyone.

Until your calendar alert buzzed with a reminder you’d been trying to forget: finalize outfit notes with Jungkook.

Shit.

You stood outside his studio door longer than you needed to, clipboard in hand, wondering if it was too late to delegate.

You knocked.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open. Jungkook was sitting at his desk this time, hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, legs folded underneath him like he’d been in that same spot for hours. His laptop was open, a chaotic mess of tabs, lyric drafts, and videos paused mid-frame. He looked up, and his expression didn’t change—just quiet recognition.

“Hey.”

You nodded. “I just wanted to check the adjustments the stylists noted—jacket sleeve, shirt texture, accessory placement.”

He gestured vaguely to the couch. “Yeah. Sure.”

You didn’t sit.

“I’ll be quick,” you said.

He leaned back, gaze never leaving you. “You don’t have to be.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the clipboard. “I’d rather be.”

He didn’t argue.

You ran through the points—too fast, too mechanical. And he didn’t interrupt. Until the end.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“I should’ve said something. Last night. I didn’t know what she was doing until she was already there. And I didn’t know what to do when you walked out.”

You looked down at your notes. “You didn’t have to do anything.”

He shook his head. “You keep saying that like it’s true.”

You met his eyes then, and there it was—something raw and unresolved, burning just beneath the surface.

“I didn’t invite her,” he said.

You nodded, but didn’t speak.

You swallowed. The silence between you pulsed, thick with memory and restraint.

“I’m just trying to keep my head on straight,” you admitted. “And every time I think I’ve figured something out, someone stares at me like I’m supposed to have answers, that spoiler alert, I don’t have right now.”

“I don’t need answers,” he said. “Just honesty. If you hate me, say it. If you don’t want this—whatever this is—just say it. But don’t shut me out and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

You stared at him for a moment. “I don’t hate you.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it—quiet, careful, like it might disturb something fragile between you.

“But I also don’t know what I’m doing,” you added. “And I don’t want to break anyone in the process.”

Jungkook stood then, slowly, like approaching a wild animal. He stopped just a few steps in front of you. “You’re not breaking anyone.”

He meant it. You could tell.

But you weren’t so sure.

You left the studio with the hoodie still in your bag and a headache forming at your temples.

You didn’t go back to your desk right away.

Instead, you found an empty meeting room, the kind with cold lighting and forgotten post-its still on the whiteboard, and sat in silence with your thoughts.

Your phone buzzed once, then again.

[JK]: I meant everything I said.

You locked your screen without replying. Of course he did. That was the thing about Jungkook—lately, when he spoke, it was never careless. His words always carried weight, always threaded with that quiet conviction that made you want to believe him, even when it hurt.

Another buzz.

This time, a different name.

[Jimin]: Just double checking. Do you like more blueberries or strawberries?

You closed your eyes.

Somewhere between the storm and the silence, your walls were beginning to thin. You felt it in the way your throat stayed tight even when you were alone. In the way you kept typing and deleting the same message over and over again.

You were unraveling.

And there wasn’t a neat ending to tie it up with.

No Seo-Jun. No easy exit.

Just you.

And the two people who somehow saw through you before you ever knew you needed to be seen.

You pressed your fingers to your temples and breathed in slow.

One of them had kissed you. The other had let you walk out.

And you?

You were still holding on to both.

The storm had passed. But something far messier had just begun.

The day of the comeback began with an alarm that felt more like a gunshot. Your phone vibrated aggressively on the nightstand, and before your eyes even focused on the time—6:00 AM sharp—you already knew: today was going to be chaos.

Not bad chaos. Not the kind that coils in your stomach and makes you want to crawl under a blanket (and the one you’ve know a little too well lately).This was the good kind. The kind that buzzes in the air and makes your heart race with anticipation. This was comeback day.

You rolled out of bed, eyes still adjusting to the low dawn light creeping through your window, and made it to the shower in record time. You didn’t even need caffeine to jolt yourself awake. The adrenaline was already doing it for you.

By 7:30, you were through the glass doors of HYBE, where the energy was palpable. Staff were darting through hallways with phones pressed to ears, printers whirring nonstop, and boxes of last-minute delivery merch being wheeled in. You passed three different interns in the span of a minute—two of them wide-eyed, one nearly in tears. You definetly understood, not knowing exactly how you haven’t yet fled for the hills.

You didn’t blame them. Today wasn’t just any comeback. The boys had been working on this project for over a year, and tonight at midnight, the first single would drop. The concept was tight. The choreography brutal. The expectations even higher than usual.

You made your way upstairs to the team lounge where Sana, hair tied up and expression sharp, was already triple-checking the streaming countdown files.

"I thought you weren’t coming in ‘til nine," you said, plopping beside her with your tablet.

"I wasn’t," she replied, not looking up. "But I couldn’t sleep. My brain kept looping the backup plan folder."

You laughed. "You're a menace."

"So are you," she shot back.

By 9:00 AM, the full coordination floor was buzzing like a beehive. BTS’s performance team, stylists, tech crew, and managers were in full prep mode. Your job was somewhere between coordinator, emotional support human, and fire extinguisher. If someone forgot where they needed to be or had a panic attack over lost backup files, you were the person they called.

Around 10:15, you were summoned to the sixth floor by Manager Kim to assist with wardrobe finalizations. As you entered the BTS dressing room, the noise hit you like a wall—Taehyung arguing (playfully) with a stylist over a necklace, Namjoon pacing through lyrics under his breath, and Jin’s voice floating over everyone’s: "If my collar sits weird on camera, I swear to god—"

And then there was Jungkook. Cross-legged on the couch, a tablet balanced on one thigh, headphones hanging around his neck, eyes glued to a dance rehearsal video.

He looked up just as you entered, and something in his expression shifted. Softer. But he didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

Instead, you walked to the wardrobe rack, flipping through final tags and confirming sizes with the assistant stylist. Every now and then, you felt his eyes flicker back to you.

You focused on your clipboard.

Behind you, Jimin entered the room with a coffee in each hand and an easy smile.

"Delivery for the stressed," he grinned, handing one to you before even putting his own down.

You blinked. "How did you—"

"You skipped your usual stop this morning. I asked Sana"

Of course he did.

You tried not to read into it. Tried not to notice the way Jungkook’s jaw ticked slightly from the corner of your eye. But you knew he saw.

The morning passed in flashes—last-minute tech checks, microphone fitting chaos, minor crises with rehearsal screens. You barely had time to breathe, much less think about anything emotional.

Around 2PM, rehearsals for the next day’s performance kicked off. You stayed tucked into the side wings of the stage as they ran through blocking with the camera crew. The boys were sweating by the second run, focused and deadly serious. The energy was no joke.

You made it back upstairs by 5PM for final briefings. Sana handed you a printout of the stream schedule with a grin.

"Nervous?"

"For them? Always."

She nudged you. "You’ll be fine. And so will they."

The building buzzed louder as evening set in. The sun dipped low across the skyline, casting warm gold through the massive HYBE windows. People were cycling through shifts of coffee, energy drinks, and increasingly wild playlist choices in the break rooms.

You stood in front of one of the large windows, sipping the almost-room-temperature coffee Jimin had given you, when you heard footsteps.

"You always do that thing where you disappear when it’s loud," a voice said behind you.

You turned. Jungkook.

He stood a few feet away, hair damp from rehearsals, a towel slung over his shoulder.

You shrugged, offering a smile. "It helps me reset."

He nodded. "I get that."

A pause.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. Then nodded. "You?"

He smiled—just barely. "Ask me again after midnight."

You both grinned.

Back downstairs, chaos continued in the most beautiful way. There was a creative pulse in the air you could almost touch. Monitors were flashing updates, sound engineers making final tweaks, team leads barking updates to each other with the energy of a space launch.

Just before midnight, you found yourself standing backstage with a clear view of the central conference room, now converted into a countdown zone. The LED timer was ticking down.

5 minutes.

You spotted Jimin across the room, laughing with Taehyung and Yoongi over something on his phone. Then your eyes found Jungkook—leaning against the wall, quiet, but buzzing with anticipation. When he looked over and caught you watching, he didn’t look away.

And for a moment, you forgot everything else.

Then the timer hit one minute.

Everyone gathered around.

Jimin grabbed your hand for a second, squeezing it once before letting go. The room erupted into shouting, the kind that came not from panic—but from joy.

Three.

Two.

One.

The screen lit up.

The song dropped.

The cheers were deafening.

You had no idea who pulled you into a hug first. Might’ve been Hobi. Might’ve been a sound tech. You were laughing and yelling with everyone else, caught in the moment that felt years in the making.

Jungkook made his way through the crowd toward you. He didn’t say anything. Just bumped his shoulder into yours gently.

It was the most comforting thing he could’ve done.

This was just the beginning. And everyone knew it.

Tomorrow, the real madness would start.

But tonight?

Tonight was for their song.

And it was perfect.

Until the chaos started again—exactly three minutes after the drop.

Staff phones lit up with real-time chart data. The streaming numbers began climbing at an almost frightening pace. Someone shouted from the far side of the room, "They’re already trending number one globally!"

Cheers erupted again. Yoongi looked smug, muttering something about manifesting it with coffee alone. Taehyung immediately started organizing a celebratory group selfie. Jin kept trying to adjust the lighting.

Namjoon clapped his hands to quiet everyone. "Okay! Focus! This is just the pregame. We still have the live tomorrow. Get some rest, drink water, do not lose your voices!" He pointed a finger at Jungkook “No Karaoke lives”

Of course, no one listened. The energy was too high. Even the normally-reserved production team was celebrating. You watched Jimin hop on a chair to shout thank-yous to the digital staff, while Jungkook helped carry boxes of snacks someone had ordered last-minute. Everyone was buzzing.

By 1:30 AM, the floor began to settle—but barely. You ended up seated in the corner of the lounge with your laptop on your knees, fielding messages from press teams requesting official statements and content schedules. Sana flopped beside you, half-conscious, a bag of chips in her lap.

Across the room, Jimin was still awake, now sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor with his back against the wall, softly talking with Taehyung. He caught your gaze once, offering a tired but warm smile. You smiled back.

Jungkook appeared with two bottled waters. He held one out to you wordlessly.

You took it with a grateful nod. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Can’t sleep,” he said. “Not yet.”

You both sat there in companionable silence, listening to the buzz around you slowly dim to soft chatter and rustling snack wrappers.

“Tomorrow’s going to be crazier, isn’t it?” you asked eventually.

Jungkook looked at you, eyes calm but awake. “Yeah. But in the best way.”

You believed him.

By 2:30 AM, the HYBE building was officially quiet. The last group left the main area with half-finished iced coffees and the glow of early victory. You packed your things, stretched, and turned toward the elevators—only to find Jimin already waiting there.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Heading out?”

You nodded. “Trying to beat tomorrow’s version of myself to bed.”

He smiled. “Good luck with that.”

The ride down was quiet, but not heavy. Just tired. Good tired. A shared silence you didn’t need to fill.

As the doors opened, Jimin looked at you, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Biggest yet,” you said.

He tilted his head. “You ready for it?”

You weren’t sure. But you nodded anyway.

"See you in a few hours," he said.

But just before stepping away, he paused. The hallway was completely empty now, the elevator doors beginning to slide closed behind you.

He turned back, his smile widening into something almost disbelieving, almost giddy. He glanced over his shoulder once, confirming the hallway was completely empty, then looked at you again with a spark in his eyes you hadn’t seen in a while—something wild, electric, and brimming with the high of everything that had just happened.

“Come with me for a sec,” he said.

You blinked. “Where—?”

“My studio. Just for a second.”

The elevator doors closed again behind you, sealing you in your own quiet universe. You followed him a few hallways down until he swiped open the door to his studio. It was dim and still smelled faintly of peppermint tea and cologne, the monitors all on sleep mode, the mood weirdly cozy despite the late hour.

He turned to face you as soon as the door clicked shut.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, breathless from the rush. “But tonight everything felt so... right. And I didn’t want it to end without—”

Then he leaned in.

It was quick. A press of his lips to yours that wasn’t planned or perfect but full of heat and adrenaline and gratitude and nerves. His mouth was warm and hesitant, but full of intention, like the words had run out and this was all he had left to offer.

You didn’t pull away.

In fact, your body moved before your mind caught up—your hand finding his chest, steadying yourself as you kissed him back. Just once. Just enough. Not hungry, not dramatic—just a quiet answer. A yes. A “I felt it too.”

His hand brushed your waist lightly, barely there, like he didn’t trust the moment to last. But it did. For a second longer. Then two. And then it ended—because it had to.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Not with confidence. With disbelief.

“I’ve wanted to do that again since I saw you this morning,” he whispered.

You stared at him, heart hammering.

And then—quietly—you smiled back.

He didn’t push for anything more. He just reached for your hand, squeezed it once like it grounded him, and then said, “Let’s both get some sleep. We’ve got a stage to crush in a few hours.”

You nodded, still a little breathless, and followed him back to the elevator in silence.

You didn’t move for a solid minute after he stepped out.

You weren’t sure you even could.

You smiled to yourself as the doors closed.

And when you finally got home—feet sore, body aching, eyes stinging from screen time and joy—you sat on the edge of your bed, phone in hand.

There were already hundreds of comments under the video. Fan edits were going viral. Streams hitting records. And in the midst of it all, one quiet message sat unread:

[JK 1:58 AM]: Thanks for everything today. Really.

You stared at it.

Then typed:

[You 3:04 AM]: You’re welcome. You guys were awsome.

Paused.

Then added:

[You 3:05 AM]: Get some rest. Tomorrow’s your day.

You hit send. Set your phone down. And let yourself smile in the dark.

The next morning hit faster than you were ready for.

HYBE was already buzzing when you arrived—earlier than your shift, earlier than common sense—but the nerves had dragged you out of bed before the alarm. You barely recognized yourself in the mirrored elevator as you checked your phone for the hundredth time.

Jungkook’s message still sat at the top of your thread:

“Thanks for everything today. Really.”

You had replied. But that didn’t stop you from reading it again and again—like maybe something else would reveal itself between the lines if you looked closely enough.

When you stepped out onto the performance floor, the energy was already peaking. The boys were scheduled for final rehearsals, a press run, and the livestream later. Every hallway hummed with purposeful movement, the air alive with caffeine, hairspray, and adrenaline.

You passed by the practice room, arms full of call sheets and water bottles, when you nearly collided with Jungkook.

He’d just come from upstairs—sweaty, towel around his neck, hair pushed back under a beanie. He looked like he’d been up for hours.

“Oh—sorry,” you muttered, trying not to drop anything.

His hand steadied your arm for half a second. “You okay?”

You nodded, giving him a quick smile. “You?”

He nodded too, then hesitated. “Did you sleep?”

You shrugged. “Enough.”

Another beat passed.

“Thanks for the cheer yesterday” he said quietly, then immediately followed it with, “Not that I needed one. I just… liked that it was you.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. And that’s when someone shouted your name from down the hallway— Sana, waving a clipboard like a bat signal.

You gave Jungkook a tiny, apologetic smile. “I have to—”

He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

But as you turned to walk away, you felt it.

His eyes on your back.

Lingering.

The morning hit faster than you were ready for.

HYBE was already buzzing when you arrived—earlier than your shift, earlier than common sense—but the nerves had dragged you out of bed before the alarm. You barely recognized yourself in the mirrored elevator as you checked your phone for the hundredth time.

Jungkook’s message still sat at the top of your thread:

“Thanks for everything today. Really.”

You had replied. But that didn’t stop you from reading it again and again—like maybe something else would reveal itself between the lines if you looked closely enough.

When you stepped out onto the performance floor, the energy was already peaking. The boys were scheduled for final rehearsals, a press run, and the livestream later. Every hallway hummed with purposeful movement, the air alive with caffeine, hairspray, and adrenaline.

You passed by the practice room, arms full of call sheets and water bottles, when you nearly collided with Jungkook.

He’d just come from upstairs—sweaty, towel around his neck, hair pushed back under a beanie. He looked like he’d been up for hours.

“Oh—sorry,” you muttered, trying not to drop anything.

His hand steadied your arm for half a second. “You okay?”

You nodded, giving him a quick smile. “You?”

He nodded too, then hesitated. “Did you sleep?”

You shrugged. “Enough.”

Another beat passed.

“Thanks for the cheer yesterday” he said quietly, then immediately followed it with, “Not that I needed one. I just… liked that it was you.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

You turned, and this time, you faced him fully.

He stepped a little closer—not too much, but enough for you to feel the shift in the air between you.

“I know it’s going to be a wild day,” he said, voice low but steady. “But I’ve been looking forward to the after party tonight. It’s going to feel good to breathe for a second.”

You smiled, the comment catching you by surprise in the best way. “You planning on actually relaxing for once?”

He grinned. “Might even let someone drag me to the dance floor.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Now that I have to see.”

There was a pause—just enough to notice how close you were standing.

“Anyway,” he added, a little more seriously now, “whatever happens today… you’ve done more than enough already. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Your smile softened.

Before you could say more, your names were shouted from opposite ends of the hallway.

Jungkook took a step back, his smile still lingering. “See you in the chaos.”

And with that, he jogged off.

You watched him disappear around the corner, your chest a little lighter.

And for the first time that morning, you didn’t just feel steady.

The performance unfolded like a thunderstorm—loud, precise, impossible to ignore. From the side, you watched it all with your heart lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach. Every move hit with deadly precision, every lyric landed like a pulse. They were magnetic. Jungkook’s raw energy, Jimin’s fluid control—each of them poured fire into the stage, turning practiced choreography into something that felt entirely alive.

The screens caught every drop of sweat, every perfectly timed glance between them, and the crowd fed off it like oxygen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Your fingers were clenched around your earpiece, mouth dry, knees locked. You weren't even dancing, but your body was reacting like you were—coiled with tension, wired with secondhand adrenaline.

And when the final beat dropped and the lights snapped off, the explosion of cheers was deafening. The entire arena shook. Your chest cracked open with the release of it all. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until that exact moment—it was like finally exhaling after being underwater for too long.

The boys didn’t stop moving. They slipped offstage and were immediately engulfed by a wall of staff—producers, stylists, managers, all flooding in with congratulations, happy tears, and camera flashes. There was shouting, laughter, someone tripping over a cable, and still, somehow, no one missed a beat. It was chaos, but the kind everyone lived for.

You were still planted in the same spot, heart thudding hard and uneven, when Sana appeared beside you. She’d already ditched her staff blazer and slipped into a silky black blouse that clung to her like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Let’s go,” she said, tugging at your sleeve with a glint in her eye. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to stop looking like someone who just survived a small apocalypse.”

You blinked at her. “The after-party’s already started?”

“Half the company’s there,” she replied with a grin. “The boys are changing upstairs. And you, my dear, look one sigh away from collapsing. So up, and lets get moving."

Chapter Text

You stepped into the rooftop chaos with a quiet inhale, the buzz of the crowd wrapping around you like static. The Hybe rooftop gym had transformed—warm lighting strung between poted trees, sleek white couches against the edges, fire pits flickering at the corners. Champagne towers gleamed beside long tables lined with food that looked too pretty to eat. There were velvet ropes loosely guiding the crowd and bursts of laughter escaping from every side. The HYBE and BTS logo glowed from a corner screen looping the music video.

Someone handed you a drink before you’d even made it three steps in. You thanked them without catching their face, focusing instead on the pulse of the evening. Everyone looked like a polished version of themselves. Like stars playing pretend as people for a night.

You caught Hobi’s voice first, somewhere by the speakers, already convincing someone from TXT to try dancing barefoot. Namjoon was deep in conversation with Woozi from SEVENTEEN, both holding half-finished glasses of red wine and gesturing like they were planning to fix the world by midnight. Jin was surrounded by a group of stylists, telling a story loud enough for those two tables over to laugh.

A flash of silver caught your eye—it was Yoongi, slipping through the crowd with a quiet confidence, hair pushed back and drink held loosely like it had no hold over him. Taehyung leaned into a corner couch beside someone you could not recognize, sipping something dark, eyes gleaming under the soft lighting.

Sana waved at you from across theroom, already out of her work outfit and wearing a satin top that said she had no intention of staying in staff mode. She mouthed “two drinks in” and gave you a wink.

A familiar feeling bloomed in your chest—a little excitement, a little dread. Parties had always made you feel both.

And then there was Jungkook. Near the DJ booth, shoulder pressed to wall drink in hand. Black button-up half undone, rings catching the light. His hair wasn’t styled anymore—just soft and natural, like he hadn’t meant to be this distracting. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

But he didn’t have to. You felt it.

A familiar pull in the air. The kind that never needed words. Like the pre-chorus of a song you already knew.

You wandered toward the refreshment table, your heels clicking softly against the deck floor. Someone from the digital content team bumped your elbow with a cheerful, “You made it!” before disappearing into a conversation. A dancer you vaguely remembered from rehearsal week waved and offered you another glass of Champagne. You smiled, declined politely.

The night had just begun, and already your heart felt louder than the music.

You were hyper-aware of your clothes now— jeans but with a neat black top, simple, elegant. The one Sana said walked the line between effortless and unforgettable. You didn’t want to be unforgettable tonight. You wanted to blend in, float beneath the surface.

Too late.

Jungkook was laughing at something someone said near him now. The sound reached you even across the gym.

You turned away downed your current drink and reached for another — something sparkling and pink with a lime wedge. Your fingers were slightly trembling as they closed around the glass.

This wasn’t your world. Not really.

But you were in it.

And somewhere just outside your peripheral vision, you knew Jungkook was watching now.

You caught glimpses of them everywhere.

Jungkook and Jimin weren’t crowding you — but they didn’t need to. One look from across the bar, one brush of Jimins fingers past yours at the drinks table, and your spine straightened. Each interaction was fleeting, yet left a trail of sparks that burned long after.

Meanwhile, Jimin danced in and out of groups, bright and magnetic, never quite reaching you. It felt deliberate — and somehow worse than if he had. There was a brief second when he met your eye across the dance floor, but someone called his name, and the moment dissolved like smoke.

Later, when you stepped away for air near the edge of the rooftop, you felt him again.

“You look like you’re trying to escape,” he said behind you, offering you a drink you hadn’t asked for.

“I might be,” you admitted, taking it anyway. “It’s loud.”

He bumped your shoulder with his gently. “You get used to it. Or you dance it out.”

You turned your face slightly, catching the way his eyes lingered. “You haven’t danced with me tonight.”

He smirked. “And here I thought I was playing it safe.”

You looked away with a smirk before you could answer. Before he could finish what that sentence meant.

You found yourself beside Mitsuki for a few minutes afterward, both of you watching the crowd while pretending to comment on drinks. “I swear if I have to pretend to understand one more comeback strategy pitch tonight—” she muttered.

You laughed softly. “You’re not even on the team.”

“Exactly.” She winked, then tilted her glass in Jungkook’s direction. “He’s been watching you since you arrived. Just so you know.”

Your stomach dipped, but before you could reply, Sana slid in from nowhere, all cheekbones and chaos. “Oh my god, are you two just going to stand here whispering like witches or—wait, Y/N. Don’t look now.”

You didn’t have to. You already new it.

Behind you, Seo-Jun hovered again. He wasn’t being pushy — not exactly. But he was close, always. Like a shadow that meant well but weighed too much.

“You look amazing tonight,” he said simply. “I was going to say that earlier, but you disappeared.”

You offered a small smile. “Thanks.”

He nodded, but the air between you prickled with things unspoken. He looked like he wanted to say more. Maybe he would’ve, if Yoshi hadn’t grabbed your hand and pulled you into the dancing crowd with a dramatic flourish.

You let yourself go then, a little. Let the beat soak into your bones, let the night smear its energy over your skin. Even then, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Not in a creepy way. Just intensely.

By 11:30, the rooftop was swaying with bodies and alcohol. The DJ had picked up the tempo, the crowd more daring with each beat. But you felt still. Waiting.

You didn’t know who you were dancing with.

Not really. Not at first.

The music had shifted—darker, heavier, the kind of bassline that sank straight into your spine. You’d let yourself move, letting the rhythm take over as bodies blurred around you. Someone pressed in close behind. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. It felt good to not think, not decide, just let it happen.

The rhythm had taken you fully now. You leaned back slightly, letting your head tilt, your lips part. The energy between you and this stranger was unmistakable—hot, electric, charged with something you didn’t name. Fingers skimmed the skin in your arms, dancing near the hem on your shoulders. A touch familiar, confident. And still, you didn’t turn.

They moved with you. Close, too close, but perfectly in sync. A hand grazed your waist—not possessive, just steady. Like they knew exactly how to keep you from falling without making it look like they were trying.

It was… hot.

Your breath hitched once, but you didn’t stop. If anything, you leaned into it. Just for a moment.

Then, the touch was gone.

You turned your head, heartbeat still echoing in your ears.

Gone.

No trace of who it had been. Not even a glance back.

And maybe it was the music or the heat of it all, but your skin was flushed, your thoughts jumbled. You needed air. Clarity. Anything.

So you stepped off the floor.

Past Mitsuki and Sana, who were tangled in their own laughter. Past Seo-Jun, who was mid-conversation with someone from the visual team and barely noticed you slip by.

You pushed open the balcony door.

Cool night air kissed your face like a wake-up call. You stepped out, exhaling hard, palms braced against the railing as the noise behind you dulled under the closed door. Below, the city sparkled in perfect indifference, too far away to care.

Your heart was still racing.

From the dance. From the mystery. From everything.

And then—

The door opened again.

You didn’t look.

You knew.

You heard it in the way the door clicked shut softly. In the pause behind you. In the way the air changed.

You let out a breath. Braced yourself.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked forward until he stood beside you, close but not touching. You could feel the heat rolling off him even now.

And then his voice—low, steady, laced with something sharp underneath:

“You keep showing up like that…”

You turned, slowly, gaze lifting to meet his.

Jungkook’s expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight. His eyes searched yours, the quiet fury in them barely held back.

You stepped back instinctively, but he followed, slow, calm, like a tide. His eyes stayed locked to yours.

“…and then I have to find out you let Jimin kiss you.”

You flinched. Just slightly. But your mouth parted, stunned. You didn’t get a chance to respond.

He stepped closer.

“Bad move, Y/N.”

And before you could form a single word—before logic or reason could catch up—his fingers hooked into the front belt loop of your jeans.

The move was effortless. Practiced. Dangerous.

He tugged once. Just enough to pull you to him.

Then he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

But with every ounce of frustration and hunger and maddening silence he’d held back until now.

And you—

You didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

Your knees buckled a little from the force of it, from the heat of his hands on your waist, the way his mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about it every goddamn night since you got off that plane.

There were too many thoughts and not enough sense between them. Your hands fisted in the front of his shirt before you even knew they had moved.

He pulled back just slightly, lips barely brushing yours, breath warm on your cheek.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Deeper.

As if he was making up for every second he’d waited.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed it like a secret.

This wasn’t the kind of kiss that asked questions. It was one that knew. Knew your body, your mind, your silence. Knew every time you looked at him and pretended not to. Every time you flinched from how badly you wanted to give in.

His hand gripped your waist, while the other hooked on the back of your head, keeping you close—tight. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.
You didn’t want him to.

Your hands moved without permission, sliding up his chest, bunching into the soft fabric of his shirt. He felt like heat and muscle and something dangerous you didn’t want to escape. You pulled him closer anyway.

When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t for long. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

You could barely think. “You didn’t seem like it.”

That earned you a low laugh. The kind that curled at the edges.

“You think I’m that good at hiding it?”
His fingers skimmed along your waist, dragging slowly. “I’ve been dying to touch you since that plane.”

The way he said it—slow, rough, like it physically pained him—sent a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him, eyes hooded. “Is that what that was? In there?”

“Mm.” His eyes darkened. “That was me losing patience.”

You bit your lip before something slipped out that couldn’t be taken back. But he noticed. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to your mouth like he owned it.

“You didn’t even look,” he added, voice softer now, almost teasing. “Didn’t care who was touching you?”

“I was just dancing.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear this time. “You were mine.”

Your breath caught. And that was all he needed.

He kissed you again— even slower. A hand slid up your back this time, fingers dragging against bare skin beneath your shirt. You made a small sound, and his lips curved into a smirk against yours like he heard what that meant.

“Jungkook…” You whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. You honeslty forgot that this was absolutey insane and that all of this, with him and Jimin should not be happening. He liked that you were breathless. So he didn’t mind that you dind’t stop it.

His thumb grazed just under the waistband of your jeans, dragging over sensitive skin. “You gonna pretend that didn’t drive you crazy too?”

“I’m not pretending anything,” you said, voice a little breathy, a little too honest.

His grin was slow. Dangerous.

“Good.”

And then he tugged you in by the belt loop again—rougher this time, like he couldn’t get enough. Your chest met his, heat sparking instantly between you like a livewire. There was no room to think anymore. No space between bodies, no filter between thoughts and touches. Just him. Just this.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, pausing at your neck but never quite landing. Just letting you feel the threat of it.

“You keep running,” he murmured. “But somehow you’re always right here when I want you.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Maybe I like the chase.” You don’t know what came over you but that did it for him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted slightly, expression wrecked in the best way.

“Then don’t be surprised when I catch you,” he said.

And then the door opened again—interrupting the moment like a slap of reality. Music and voices flooded the balcony.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Just stepped close again, barely brushing your lips with his.

“We’re not done,” he said, quiet and low.
A promise.
A threat.
A guarantee.

And then he slipped back inside, leaving you out there with your heart pounding, your lips swollen, and your thoughts completely undone.

You were definitely not pretending anymore. And you were so so so much more trouble.

You stayed on the balcony just long enough for your pulse to slow down.

But not long enough to forget the way Jungkook’s lips had felt on yours.

Your hand skimmed your waist where his fingers had been, and it still felt hot, branded. Like something had happened that couldn’t be undone. Like your body was still playing catch-up with your brain.

When you slipped back into the room, it felt louder. Warmer. Brighter. Or maybe you were just all wrong now — lips swollen, breath not quite steady, skin tingling in all the places he touched.

You hadn’t even fully closed the door before you heard—

“You disappeared.”

Your stomach dropped.

Jimin. Shit.

“You look flushed,” he says, voice warm, teasing — but curious.
“Too much dancing,” you reply.
“With who?”
You pause — half a beat too long.
Jimin’s smile doesn't fade, but it sharpens like he would just check mate you.

He was leaning against the bar like he’d been waiting for you. Casual. Relaxed. But his eyes told a different story.

You schooled your face quickly. “Just needed some air.”

“Air,” he repeated, eyes flicking toward the door you just came from.

You nodded, willing yourself to sound normal. “Too hot in here.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Funny. You look even hotter now.”

Your breath caught, but he didn’t let you respond.

Jimin took a step closer, casually placing his drink on the bar. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

He didn’t move. Just looked at you like he was trying to read something on your skin.

There was a flicker of silence, then—

“Your lips,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. “They’re…”

“Glossy? I just put lipstick again.” you offered, blinking.

“Swollen,” he replied, his eyes on you, licking his own lips.

You blinked again.

Before the tension could slice any deeper, a voice cut in like a life raft thrown too late.

“Y/N!”

You turned — probably too fast.

Yoshi barreled toward you, hair a mess, heels slightly askew, cheeks flushed with champagne and glee.

“I’ve been looking for you! Come—come here,” she grabbed your hand like it was a lifeline and pulled you a few feet away from Jimin, who watched the whole thing with that unreadable smirk.

Yoshi leaned in close, dropping her voice like a conspirator.

“Okay, spill. You were gone for way too long. You good?”

You nodded. Too fast again.

“You’re so not good,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. “Oh my god, who was it?”

“Yoshi—”

“No, I know that look. That’s the ‘I just got wrecked against a balcony railing’ look.”

“Yoshi.”

She gasped, gripping your arm. “Was it Jimin? Wait. No. No… was it—”

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced at the screen.

[JK] : Come downstairs. Studio B.

You stared at the message, heartbeat kicking back up like it had just been waiting for permission.

Yoshi leaned over your shoulder and saw. Her jaw dropped.

“Holy shit.”

“Say nothing,” you whispered.

“Oh, I won’t,” she said, already fanning herself. “But girl—go.”

Chapter Text

You weren’t supposed to be doing this.

Your heels clicked against the hallway floor, too loud in the late-night hush of HYBE’s upper levels. The further you walked from the rooftop party, the heavier everything felt. Guilt. Heat. Confusion. It all stuck to your skin like static.

This wasn’t a good idea.

You weren’t going there to see Jungkook. You weren’t going there to finish what happened on the balcony.
You were going to end it.
You came here because you had to put a stop in this madness. Jimin and Jungkook are just insane. They lost their minds. Everyone has. And you were going to lose your head. Literally. 

That’s what you told yourself.

Because you couldn’t keep doing this — not after Jimin. Not after that kiss. Not when your chest still fluttered remembering the way Jimin looked at you earlier, voice soft, concern hidden under his teasing.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

And now, what? You were sneaking off to Jungkook’s studio because of a text?

You paused in front of the door, heart hammering.

This is insane.

You had kissed both of them. You had no idea what you were doing — with either of them. You were supposed to be smarter than this. More composed.

You weren’t supposed to want them both.

But the moment Jungkook had pressed you against the balcony, kissed you like it cost him everything to wait—
You were already ruined.

Still, you curled your fingers around the door handle, tried to steady your breathing, and pushed the door open.

The room was dim, quiet, thick with heat that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

And Jungkook was standing there — waiting. Like he knew you’d come.

Black shirt. Chain glinting faintly. Jaw set. He didn’t move. But he didn’t have to.

Because your legs did.

“You came,” he said.

You shut the door behind you. Carefully. As if slamming it would admit too much.

“I shouldn’t have,” you said quietly.

But you had.

You’d walked all the way here with a hundred reasons to stay away and still hadn’t listened to a single one.

Now your back was against the wall, and he was walking toward you like gravity.

“You shouldn’t let me get this close,” he murmured closing the little distance you had between you.

“You’re already here,” you whispered.

He smiled — slow and sharp. “That’s on you.”

And then he kissed you.

Your breath caught instantly. It was nothing like earlier. It was worse — deeper. Hotter. There was no hesitation this time, just the steady, devastating press of his mouth to yours and the explosion of nerves that followed.

You kissed him back.

Because you couldn’t not.

Because your body remembered what your mind kept trying to forget — how he tasted, how he felt, how easily he stole your reason.

His mouth moved against yours with infuriating purpose. Like he knew exactly how to make you forget every excuse you’d rehearsed over and over. Your hands rose on instinct, gripping the front of his shirt as if it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, breath rough. “It’s fucking exhausting.”

Something cracked inside you.

Because you had tried. Tried to forget him. Tried to focus on anything else. Jimin. Work. Yourself.

And it hadn’t worked.

His hands slid under your shirt — warm, sure, steady. Your stomach jumped beneath his touch, every inch of your skin suddenly too aware of itself.

“You’re so soft here,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now. “You think I haven’t imagined touching you like this? You think I haven’t fucking ached for it?”

A soft sound left your throat, humiliating in its honesty. His lips caught yours again, deeper this time — tongue brushing yours, breath hot and full of hunger.

Your mind scrambled.

This was wrong.

This was so wrong.

You were supposed to stop him. Say something. Anything.

But when his hand dipped lower, down to the top of your jeans—
Your body didn’t listen.

“Wait—” you gasped, the word barely audible.

He froze instantly. “I won’t take anything you don’t give me.”

His voice was ragged. But honest.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart punching inside your chest.

You should have turned around. Said this has to stop and walked back out.

But instead, you nodded.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered. He kissed your temple. Soft. Almost sweet.

Then his hand slid inside your jeans.

The moment he touched you — even through the fabric — your whole body locked up. Your breath hitched violently, fingers digging into his shoulders. You were already wet. And when he groaned softly into your neck, it made your skin burn.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re—”

You couldn’t think.

The heat between your thighs was sharp and liquid and dangerous, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. He moved slowly — maddeningly so — brushing his fingers over the soaked fabric of your underwear like he had all night to tease you.

And maybe he did.

He kissed your neck, jaw, the edge of your collarbone. Your body shook.

“You like that,” he whispered.

You whimpered. Quiet. Raw.

He smiled against your throat, and that alone made you tremble harder.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmured. “You think Jimin made you feel like this?”

The name snapped through the fog like a whip. Jimin.

You had kissed him.

You liked him.

Your stomach flipped. Your chest ached with something you didn’t want to name.

But Jungkook didn’t stop. “You though I  wouldn’t know?” he murmured, dragging slow, deliberate circles over your clit. “That you kissed him?”

You gasped — not from the words, not entirely — but from the way your body reacted anyway. Betrayed you.

“And you still came here,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “To me.”

Your hips lifted into his hand without meaning to.

“You like this. Me touching you. You want more, don’t you?”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Because the answer was yes.

And it was killing you.

Then he moved — pulled your underwear aside and pressed two fingers against your bare heat.

You cried out. Just once. But it was enough. The contact was devastating.

The drag of his fingers against you — smooth, slow, circling like he was memorizing the shape of your want — made your knees buckle. You gripped his shirt, held on like it might save you.

Then one finger slipped inside.

Your whole body clenched.

“Holy fuck,” he hissed, his voice cracking. “You feel like heaven.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t add another. He didn’t give you anything more.

Instead he pulled back.

“Jungkook—” you whispered, already aching.

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at you — then at his hand — and brought his fingers to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Slow.

Eyes never leaving yours.

You felt your legs tremble.

Felt the emptiness like a void.

Then his mouth brushed your ear.

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

The sound that escaped you wasn’t even human. A whimper. A gasp. please.

“I want to,” he added, like it hurt him to say it. “So fucking badly I can’t think straight.”

He kissed your jaw. Gently. Cruelly.

“But if I do, I won’t stop. And you deserve better than the way I’d take you right now.”

Your throat tightened.

His hands had claimed and branded you like no one ever had.

And he was walking away.

“I hope you’ll think about this,” he whispered, stepping back. “Every time you try to sleep. Every time you look at me. Because I will.”

He turned toward the door, already smoothing down his shirt like he hadn’t just left you shaking.

Then he paused.

Looked back.

“Next time,” he said, voice low. “I’m not walking away.”

And the door shut behind him.

You were alone.

Heart pounding. Skin still burning. Core still aching.

And Jimin’s name still on your conscience.

You slid down the wall, legs too weak to hold you, hand pressed over your own mouth like that could trap the sound of what had just happened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You had gone there to stop it.

But now—

Now, you didn’t know how to stop wanting him.

And you didn’t know what that meant for you anymore.
Because this wasn’t over.
Not even close. And you didn’t even know how to end this before it consumed you whole.

You woke up feeling like you’d run a marathon in stilettos through an active warzone of bad decisions.

Every part of you ached — your thighs, your stomach, your soul. Your sheets were tangled around your legs, your phone was face-down on your chest, and your brain was already chanting one word on a loop:

Jungkook.
Jungkook.
Jungkook.

You groaned, flipping over and burying your face in your pillow.

This was fine.

This was totally fine.

You had definitely not let Jeon Jungkook finger you in his studio after promising yourself just minutes earlier that you were going to "be rational" and "set boundaries." No, surely that was someone else. Some other girl with poor impulse control and a soft spot for chain necklaces and warm, tattooed hands.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

Unfortunately, all it had was a light fixture and the echo of your own voice moaning into Jungkook’s mouth like a starved lunatic.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to no one. “What is wrong with me?”

And because the universe was cruel and had a flair for timing, your brain gifted you a very clear, very high-definitionreplay of the moment he looked you in the eye and sucked his fingers clean.

You screamed into your pillow.

You hadn’t even gotten off. He had barely touched you. And yet, your body had been vibrating all night like it had been plugged into a speaker system on full blast. You’d dreamt of hands and mouths and the smug, infuriating way he whispered Next time, I’m not walking away.”

Yeah.

Sure.

Because of course he had to say that — like he hadn’t just wrecked you and left you against a soundboard looking like someone unplugged your soul.

And for what?

You needed a reset.

You needed grounding.

You needed—

Jimin.

You flinched at the thought. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You shouldn’t have thought of him like that — like a warm place to hide from the mess you’d created.

But still…

[Y/N]: Are you still at HYBE?

The reply came quick.

[Jimin]: Just finished rehearsal. What’s up?

You hesitated. Then typed:

[Y/N]:
Do you have a second? I just… I need a breather.

He didn’t ask questions.

[Jimin]:
Practice Room 3. I’ll unlock it.

Your hands were already shaking before you’d even stepped out the door.

30 minutes later, you were padding barefoot into the cool, quiet hush of Practice Room 3 — sneakers in your hand, heart in your throat.

The room was empty, save for Jimin, who sat on the floor near the mirrored wall with a half-finished water bottle and a towel draped around his neck. His hair was damp. His shirt clung a little. He looked tired in the most devastatingly softway.

“Hey,” he said, smiling when he saw you. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

You sat down across from him, dropping your shoes with a thud. “Yeah, I didn’t expect to be here either.”

“You okay?”

You forced a breath out. “Define okay.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward — just weighted.

You stared at your knees for a while. “I didn’t really come to vent,” you said, even though your brain was begging to offload all the emotional garbage piled on top of it. “I just… needed not to be alone.”

Jimin nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad you’re here.”

You glanced up. He was watching you — quiet, careful, his eyes softer than usual.

And that made it worse.

Because he wasn’t asking anything of you. He wasn’t pushing, or teasing, or trying to figure you out. He was just there. Like he has been for almost the entire time you know him. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You sat in silence again, only now your fingers were playing with the hem of your shirt, and your thoughts were spiraling.

He kissed before.
He hasn't brought it up.
You kissed Jungkook last night like you wanted to crawl inside him and never leave.
And now you're sitting here like none of it happened.

You exhaled sharply.

“I think I’m messing everything up,” you blurted.

Jimin blinked. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of it. With you. With Jungkook.” No taking it back now.

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t flinch.

Just nodded. Slowly.

“I’ve been trying to be professional,” you went on. “Trying to stay neutral and calm and like… emotionally balanced or whatever. And then I kissed you. And then he kissed me. And now I don’t know how to exist in a room with either of you without feeling like my skin’s on backwards.”

Jimin let out a soft breath. Then leaned back on his hands.

“You’re human,” he said.

You huffed. “I’m a disaster.”

He smiled. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

You laughed — helplessly. Your eyes burned.

He scooted a little closer, slowly. Not reaching for you. Not trying anything. Just being there.

And that? That nearly broke you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“Of what?”

“That if I choose one of you… I lose everything.”

He tilted his head. “And if you don’t choose?”

You looked at him.

“I still lose.”

That hung between you — suspended and quiet.

Then he moved.

Slowly.

He reached out — not grabbing, not pulling — just brushed a knuckle along your cheek. His touch was feather-light, almost like he was asking permission without speaking. Hi gaze carefull on you, like if he was not carefull he would drop you and that was the last thing he wanted.

You didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

“You always look like you’re somewhere else,” he said softly. “But when you’re here with me… you let all your walls down.”

Your breath caught.

And suddenly you were leaning in.

You didn’t think.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t justify.

Just pressed your mouth to his — tentative and unsure.

But he responded instantly. Not with heat or hunger — but with warmth. Tenderness. A slow press of lips that made your chest ache.

His hand slid to the back of your neck. His thumb stroked your jaw.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t panicked.

It just… was.

Jimin’s eyes searched yours. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk.

He just said, “I’m here. Whenever you are.”

And somehow, that felt worse than any kind of pressure. Because you were still full of someone else’s touch. Still wearing someone else’s want like a bruise.

You nodded once, eyes burning again.

And he let you sit there, close and quiet, until the world stopped spinning.

Chapter Text

You were not a mornitng person and the worst thing about mornings was that they always came.

And this one came with a headache and your spine still buzzing.

Not from caffeine. Not from sleep. From him.

From them. God, what are you even doing?

You stood in front of your closet for an embarrassing amount of time before settling on the safest thing you owned: a boxy black blouse, the one that didn’t cling anywhere, and beige pants with zero appeal. You even skipped perfume. What were you going to do, wear the scent of shame?

Your reflection looked neutral. Corporate. Perfectly bland. You hoped it lied better than you did.

Because the second you stepped inside HYBE, it started — the flashbacks. His voice at your neck. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin you slowly. Then Jimin. The softness. The way your name sounded in his voice like it was something to be cradled.

You pressed your lips together, hard. It didn’t help. They still felt swollen. Like someone had kissed the truth out of you and left the lie behind. A brand for everyone to know what you did wrong.

You passed through security like a ghost in sensible shoes. No one batted an eye. Not even Seo-Jun, who gave you a sleepy wave and turned back to his phone. You murmured something in return and kept walking, eyes locked on the floor.

The third floor hallway always felt a little too echoey in the mornings. Today it was a whole cathedral. Every footstep louder than your dignity.

You were fine.

Fine.

Totally, completely, nothing-to-see-here fine.

Except—

“Y/N.”

Your whole bloodstream paused.

You turned your head slowly. Like you hadn’t just spent the last twelve hours trying to bury every memory of the way he said your name.

Jimin.

He stood just outside the makeup lounge, already in his first outfit of the day. Casual streetwear, perfectly styled like he hadn’t even tried. But it wasn’t the clothes. It was his face.

The way he smiled when he saw you.

Gentle and sweet.

Your heart squeezed — not because you weren’t happy to see him, but because it was too easy to fall into that warmth. And you were already on fire.

“Hey,” you said, voice too soft.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question landed too heavy. You weren’t ready for real words yet. But you nodded anyway.

He tilted his head slightly. Like he didn’t buy it but wouldn’t push.

“Long night?” he added quietly.

“Something like that”

But your whole body flashed warm.

He wasn’t going to say it out loud. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of last night in every syllable.

You nodded again — grateful, guilty, confused.

“I’ll see you later,” he said gently, and disappeared back inside.

You turned, fast, nearly slamming into someone coming from the hallway.

“Whoa—sorry,” a voice said.

Your eyes snapped up.

Jungkook.

Of course.

He was in joggers and a hoodie, hair pushed back with a headband. His water bottle was swinging slightly at his side. And his eyes—

His eyes went straight through you.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t stop.

Just looked.

And while Jimin was a softer flame, that simmered you, Jungkooks fire was going to consume you whole.

You stepped aside quickly, nodding a hello like a normal person who didn’t still feel the echo of his hands up her shirt. But your pulse betrayed you. It skittered like your body was trying to launch into space.

He didn’t say anything.

He just walked past.

But not before his hand brushed against yours — just barely, so light it could’ve been an accident. But It wasn’t.You felt it.

And when you turned your head slightly, you caught it — the smallest tilt of his mouth. Like he’d meant for you to feel it. Like he knew exactly what it would do to you.

You hated him.

You hated him and his hoodie and his smug half-smile and the way your heart climbed into your throat every time you saw him. You hated him because he said he wasn’t going to walk away next time. And somehow, that had become your problem.

You ducked into the styling prep room before anyone else could ruin your grip on reality. The moment the door shut, your back hit the wall.

And you whispered to yourself:

“Get a grip.”

You did not have a grip.

You had exactly zero grips.

And unfortunately, the day was just beginning.

-------

You told yourself it was just a rehearsal. Their new album was not even close to being done but the songs they already had they already started to practice as you came to find out that this album would result in a tour. No time to spare now.

But this was not a performance. Not a war zone.

Just a normal pre-album run-through of formations, cue timing, mic tests. No one should be touching anyone. Everyone should be minding their own damn business.

So when you got called in last-minute to help with outfit adjustments, your heart only stuttered a little. Not enough to panic. Not until you stepped inside the Practice Room and saw him.

Jungkook. Drenched in sweat. Sleeves rolled high. Hair pushed back with a black headband. Tattooed hand fisting the hem of his tank to wipe his face.

You should’ve walked out.

You should’ve faked a phone call or a small fire.

But you didn’t.

Because one of the stylists waved you over with the most unfortunate sentence ever spoken: “Can you just double check his straps? They keep slipping mid-choreo.”

You blinked. “Sorry—who?”

The stylist pointed. “Jungkook.”

Of course. The other members were either sprawled on the floor, on their phones or not even there. Which you immediately noticed that Jimin was the later.

He was adjusting his in-ear when you approached, oblivious for half a second — until he wasn’t.

His gaze lifted. Locked on yours. And something passed between you. Not a smile. Not a smirk.

Something you couldn’t quite place and you werent sure you could either.

Slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse from rehearsing. “Need something?”

“Straps,” you said, voice impressively steady. “They said they’re slipping.”

He lifted his arms without question.

And that was the problem.

Because as soon as you stepped closer—into the space between his arms, into his scent and his warmth and his everything—your entire body betrayed you.

You could smell him.

Not cologne. Not soap. Him.

Clean sweat, cotton, and something sharp underneath. Like heat and adrenaline and memory. Your fingers hovered near his shoulders, unsure where to touch first. He watched you. Not helping.

You cleared your throat. “Hold still.”

He didn’t move.

Except for the way his eyes dragged down your face.

“You’re wearing your hair different,” he murmured.

You froze.

“It looks good.”

Your pulse spiked. “Stop talking.”

“Why?” he asked softly. “ I thought you liked it when I talk.”

Your hands fumbled with the strap along his collarbone.

His skin was warm under your fingertips. Way too warm. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said.

“You see me every day.”

“Not like the other night.”

You almost dropped the pin.

Your jaw clenched, fingers moving faster. “That didn’t mean anything.”

His chest moved with a slow breath. “No?”

You finished the adjustment and stepped back. “Fixed.”

But he didn’t lower his arms.

He stepped closer instead.

One hand dropped to your waist. Light. Barely there. But enough.

“Jungkook,” you warned.

He leaned in just enough for his breath to graze your ear. “I can still taste you.”

Your body lit up.

From your scalp to your knees.

But your face stayed frozen. Carefully blank. You backed away another step. “This is not the time.”

He tilted his head. “When is?”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but the Sana called your name across the room. You stepped away fast, like his touch had branded you.

He let you go.

But not without one last look.

A promise tucked behind his lashes.

Next time, I’m not walking away.

You didn’t turn back.

Couldn’t.

But your body kept the memory. Every nerve still echoing his heat. Every cell remembering how it felt to stand that close. To feel wanted. Craved. Obsessed over.

And as you crossed the floor, trying to focus on anything else, you realized something awful:

You didn’t want him to walk away next time. You weren’t sure you’d be able to let him.

-----------

You spent the day trying to avoid everyone. Even though it didn’t completely worked. Sana, after Jungkooks incident, raised an eyebrow and asked if everything was fine with his microphone and because you brain was in an Error Screen, you mumbled something that probably just made her look at you with an even bigger interogation mark.

At the time you were clocking out, everyone had already left. You may or may not have hidden in the dressing room for an extra 15 min so you wouldn’t catch anyone by mistake. Nevertheless, you decided to leave through the back exit by the garage so you would thin even more your chances of seeing anyone.

But you definetly didn’t expect him to be waiting.

Not by the side entrance. Not this late.

But there he was — leaned against the black Porsche, coat open, hair soft, phone tucked in his palm like he hadn’t just stood there for at least 20 minutes. And when he looked up and saw you, his smile was instant.

It knocked the air right out of you.

“I figured you’d sneak out the back,” Jimin said, voice low and warm. “So I did too.”

You blinked. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I wanted to.”

God.

You should’ve said no. Should’ve walked. Taken the subway. Thrown yourself in traffic.

Instead, you nodded.

And let him open the car door for you.

----

The drive was quiet.

Not in the awkward way.

But the kind of quiet that felt… whole. No buzzing tension. No rapid thoughts ricocheting around your skull. No danger.

Just Jimin’s profile, calm and lovely in the dashlight. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift.

The music was low — something jazzy, familiar. His scent floated in the space between you: florals and something soft you couldn’t name.

You glanced over at him, and before you could think, you spoke.

“the last few days were intense”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pretend to misunderstand you.

Just nodded, eyes still on the road.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

You exhaled. Not relief exactly. But something close.

Your walls weren’t just lowered with him — they were gone.

“I think I did something stupid,” you admitted.

His fingers tapped the wheel once. “Did it feel right?”

You looked out the window. The city moved past in soft neon streaks.

“Too right.”

Jimin nodded again. “Then maybe it wasn’t stupid.”

Your stomach twisted. Not from guilt. From how easy it was to tell him this.

He smiled — that slow, crooked thing that made your heart ache.

A beat passed.

He glanced at you briefly, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other tapping idly against the gearshift like he was still riding a rhythm from earlier.

Then, without warning, he extended his hand. Not in a pointed way. Not demanding. Just… offered. Palm up. Fingers curled slightly.

You looked at it like it was a question. One with too many answers and none of them simple.

But your fingers found his anyway.

He closed around them with a smile so soft it nearly cracked you open. “You made a mistake,” he murmured, eyes still on the road. “Now I’ll never let go.”

You laughed before you could stop it. A quiet, breathless sound that didn’t belong in the quiet car. But it was real, and he heard it, and that made it worse. He didn’t let go.

The way his fingers curled into yours was easy. Confident. Like he’d been waiting for that exact moment all night.

You stared down at the way your hands fit.

“Have you always been like this?” you murmured. “This…”

“Charming?” he offered, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Comfortable,” you corrected softly.

He chuckled. “Not with everyone. I’m like this with you.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not with Jungkook. Not with this. Not with any of it.

But with Jimin, everything felt less like drowning and more like floating.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

And then, so casually it almost felt like nothing—

“I’ve got this brand dinner thing tomorrow,” he said. “They let me bring someone.”

You blinked. “Someone?”

“Well,” he glanced sideways, lashes catching the streetlight, “you do technically work with us. So no one could say anything.”

You paused.

He didn’t push.

Just waited, thumb brushing soft against your knuckles.

“You want me to go with you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His grin turned secret.

“I want to sit next to you. Maybe, I just want to spoil you with a nice dress that will arrive tomorrow morning at your house. And maybe I just want to kiss you when I drop you back home.”

Your jaw dropped.

Jimin burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” you said, smacking his arm. “You were doing so well!”

He only laughed harder, and you couldn’t help but join him.

It was ridiculous.

The whole day. Your whole life. The mess of it all.

-------------

When he pulled into your street, there were no spaces in front of your building.And when you thanked him and said he could just briefly stop so you would get out, he sighed theatrically and turned into the side alley, finally parking between two faded lines under a flickering streetlamp.

He unclasped your hands to get out of the car, but only to jog around and open your door again. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he held out his hand once more.

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You walked with him up the sidewalk. Slowly. No rush. His hand was warm and solid in yours with contrast agains the cold night. He wasn’t talking much, but the silence was so easy it made you want to lean into it. Made you want to say things you weren’t sure you should.

When you reached the front door, he didn’t let go.

He just stood there with you. Eyes gentle. Thumb brushing the back of your hand in lazy circles.

“Listen the event it’s boring, honestly. Pretend-to-smile, drink-expensive-champagne kind of thing. But I have to go,” he said softly.

You tilted your head. “And you want me to suffer with you?”

He only smiled.

You tried to reason with him even though you knew it was probably not going to work “I don’t own anything Dior.”

That made him pout. Actually pout.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m hopeful,” he said, brushing a strand of hair off your face.

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to do with a boy who always made you feel chosen without asking for anything in return.

You looked at him for a long time. His hand in yours. The ease in his smile. The patience in his eyes. The way your walls felt lighter when he was near.

Maybe this wasn’t right.

Maybe none of it was.

But it didn’t feel wrong.

And you were tired of pretending you didn’t want to say yes.

“…Okay,” you said.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

And that’s when he kissed you.

Quick. Soft. Like he couldn’t help it. Like it burst out of him the moment you said yes.

And then he grinned, thumb still rubbing your knuckles. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”

You looked up at him, stomach flipping in slow motion.

This was so different. So calm. So good.

And still, your lips remembered Jungkook’s name like a secret.

But you didn’t say it.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you said yes to Jimin.

--------

The next day passed in a blur of meetings, styling schedules, and half-drunk coffees that never seemed to stay warm long enough.

You barely had time to think, let alone process what had happened the night before.

Not the part where Jimin picked you up in his stupidly expensive car, hand wrapped casually around yours while he drove like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not the part where he walked you all the way up to your apartment just to say goodbye like someone who had absolutely no intention of letting you slip away unnoticed.

And definitely not the part where he invited you to a Dior event like it was a normal Thursday night suggestion.

Because it wasn’t normal.

None of it was.

And you were trying really hard not to act like the girl who had just been kissed speechless at her front door by one of the most famous men on the planet.

You worked with idols. You were used to this. (You were not used to this.)

By the time you wrapped up your final report for the day, the sun had already started setting — low golden light casting long shadows across your desk. You were one of the last people in the office when you finally packed your things and turned toward your locker…

The sleek black garment bag, draped over the metal bench like it had always belonged there.

Attached was a small envelope, your name written in ridiculously neat handwriting.

You opened it slowly.

“Manager cleared it. You should wear the HYBE lanyard — it’ll keep everyone from asking questions. Just stay close to me.

See you at 7.

— J”

Your heart flipped.

Then dropped.

Then flipped again.

You didn’t even know where to start with what this meant.

Technically, yes — staff members did occasionally accompany idols to events, especially when PR or styling was involved. But not like this.

Not wearing Dior.

Not with him.

You unzipped the garment bag, trying to ignore the little voice in your head screaming that this was a terrible, reckless idea.

The dress was simple. Understated. Perfect.

A soft silk fabric that skimmed over your fingers like water, in a muted shade of navy that would look striking under the warm lights of a fashion event. Elegant, tasteful, just a little sexy.

You swallowed.

He picked this?

There was a pair of shoes tucked inside the garment bag too — heels that matched the dress exactly. Even a small box with silver earrings and another card that said, simply:

“Wear your hair up.”

Your knees went a little weak.

Because of course he thought of that.

Of course he thought of all of it.

You sank onto the bench, dress draped across your lap, heart pounding like a warning bell. This was happening. You were really going with him. As his… what? Guest? Secret date?

You hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t offered a label.

And maybe that was easier.

Maybe that was safer.

Except your reflection in the mirror looked exactly like someone who was about to fall — and fall hard.

------

You didn’t own anything this beautiful. Not even close.

The fabric clung softly to your curves, modest enough for a fashion event but cut in a way that made you feel — not hot, exactly — but seen. Like every line of your body had been considered and appreciated.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment too long.

It wasn’t just the dress.

It was the fact that you looked like someone who belonged next to him.

That terrified you.

You leaned closer, blending a bit more eyeshadow with shaky fingers, lips slightly parted in focus. The lighting was too harsh, and your nerves were too loud, but somehow, by the time you stepped back, it worked. You worked.

You looked… beautiful.

And not in a soft, gentle way.

You looked like a problem.

You picked up the lanyard — black with HYBE branding and your staff ID tucked neatly inside — and slung it around your neck like armor. A reminder. A line drawn in silk and plastic.

Still staff.

Still trying not to implode from whatever this thing with Jimin was turning into.

You walked the hallway toward the private elevators on the lower floor where the company vans usually idled. The building was quieter now — most people had gone home. Except for one very important exception.

He was already there.

Leaning against the oposite wall of the corridor, dressed in a sleek tailored suit and a dark silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your stomach twist.

Jimin looked up when he heard your steps.

And he stopped breathing.

You didn’t need him to say anything. It was all over his face — wonder, pride, just the barest flicker of something you couldn’t name.

He pushed off the wall like gravity meant nothing, his steps unhurried but focused, eyes scanning you head to toe like he was imprinting it.

“You’re…” he exhaled, and it actually looked like it hurt, “...unreal.”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but no sound came out. Because he was looking at you like he wanted to steal time. Like there wasn’t a single thing in the world he needed right now besides you.

He stepped closer and gently brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“Up,” he said softly. “Good choice.”

You nearly melted.

He offered his arm—elbow out but relaxed, a little playful.

And you hesitated.

Because this meant something.

Not officially, not out loud. But it was there.

You slid your fingers into the crease of his arm, and his smile deepened like you’d handed him a secret.

You both went into the elevator, when you reached the bottom was a silent understanding that mayeb that was too close for staff and idol so you let it go.

You didn’t even hear the other car pull into the garage and the second elevator open behind you.

The sound of the engine was quiet, but not quiet enough.

You turned just as the headlights cut across the wall — silver SUV, sleek, familiar.

Your stomach dropped before you even saw him.

Jungkook.

He stepped reached to the door of the driver’s seat, hoodie pulled over his head, gym bag slung over one shoulder, clearly on his way home from practice. He didn’t look like a fairytale.

But he looked real.

And his eyes locked on yours the moment he turned.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there — frozen for half a breath — then slowly looked down the length of you.

And whatever he had been about to say?

It vanished.

His jaw clenched.

His eyes darkened.

And then they slid to every curve the dress made on you then they parted to check Jimin with the same intensity.

That was the moment.

That was when you knew he wasn’t over it.

Over you.

You shifted instinctively, guilt flaring hot across your chest like a brand.

But Jimin was reaching for the door of the car to even notice the way Jungkook eyed him.

He just curled his fingers a little tighter around yours and lifted your hand as you stepped forward.

“Careful,” he said, like no one else was watching, helping you into the car with all the gentleness in the world.

You settled into the seat, the door closing softly beside you. The tinted glass separated you from Jungkook’s line of sight, but it didn’t stop your heart from racing.

Jimin climbed in next to you, completely unbothered, his attention already shifting as the driver started the engine.

“Ready?” he asked, smile slow and sincere.

You nodded, barely managing to find your voice.

“I think so.”

He reached over and took your hand again as the car pulled out of the garage.

“I know so.” He winked.

And just like that, you were on your way — dressed like a dream, tangled in a reality you didn’t know how to escape, and seated next to a man who looked at you like you were already his.

But your heart?

Still hadn’t stopped racing.

And the ghost of Jungkook’s stare lingered, burning in places even silk couldn’t cover

Chapter Text

JUNGKOOK

He should’ve turned back the second he saw her.

Should’ve just put his head down, thrown the car in reverse and peeled out of that garage like a coward — like the mess he clearly was — instead of standing there like some idiot watching her hold someone else’s hand.

Watching her look like that.

Like that.

He wasn’t sure which part hit harder.

The way the dress fit her like it had been painted onto her skin.
The delicate curve of her neck where the fabric stopped, just low enough to drive him fucking insane.
Or the way Jimin’s fingers curled around hers like they’d always belonged there.

He didn’t look like he stepped out of whatever fantasy book he would image on her bedside table.

Not with his hoodie damp from practice and his sweats creased from sitting too long in the studio.
Not next to her.
Not next to Jimin — pristine, polished, every inch of him screaming Dior ambassador.

The air in his chest felt like it had turned to smoke.

You didn’t even flinch when you saw him. You just froze.

That should’ve meant something.

But Jungkook couldn’t read anything past the fact that you looked good enough to make him burn.

He got into the car and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles popped.

Then he sat there.

Breathing.

Or trying to.

It didn’t work.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache, and for one irrational second, he imagined throwing the door open, marching across the garage, and ripping Jimin’s stupidly perfect hand off yours.

You looked up at Jimin like you trusted him.

Like you were safe.

Like he was the one who got to touch you in front of the world.

Jungkook’s chest tightened. He wished he could be right there with you.

He knew about the event — of course he did. It was on the calendar. Brand obligations. Light attendance. One of those “show face, drink champagne, leave early” things. He hadn’t cared. He never did.

Not until now.

Now he cared so much it hurt to sit still.

The van door slid shut.

You disappeared behind tinted glass.

And that was somehow worse.

His hand slipped off the gearshift, fingers clenching into a fist.

You were gone. Again.

He slammed the door shut and took off fast — too fast — like motion could erase what he just saw.

It didn’t.

It followed him down every streetlight-streaked road, burned behind his eyes like a movie he couldn’t stop replaying.

You in that dress.

You next to Jimin.

Jimin helping you into the car like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like this was just another evening with his girl.

But you weren’t his.

You weren’t anyone’s.

Except… maybe you were?

Maybe that’s what this was turning into. And maybe Jungkook had been too busy pretending he didn’t care — didn’t feel anything — to realize someone else had stopped pretending first.

And the problem, he realized somewhere between the second red light and the next turn he missed, it wasn’t Jimin.

It wasn’t the way Jimin looked at you — though that alone could kill.

It wasn’t his hand in yours, or the smug little tilt of his mouth that Jungkook had seen a thousand times and somehow hated more than ever tonight.

It wasn’t even the suit, the event, the stupid matching energy that made you look like you belonged on some kind of luxury ad together.

It was that he wasn’t there.

That was the part that gutted him.

That it was someone else’s hand guiding you into the car.
That it was someone else’s breath you’d feel beside you when you sat down.
That it was someone else who’d have the right to whisper something close into your ear — to make you laugh, maybe — and see you light up in a way that no one else could touch

You looked so calm. Like none of this even touched you the way it touched him.

But maybe that was just what heartbreak felt like. Cold from the outside. Scorching from within.

He didn’t realize he was gripping the steering wheel again until the leather creaked beneath his palms.

He wanted to burn.

Wanted to reduce every ounce of frustration and silence and longing he’d swallowed to ashes.

Wanted to claw his way back from the wreckage and take what he’d been too afraid to reach for before.

But he didn’t.

He just kept driving.

Past his turn.

Past the lights.

Because he couldn’t walk back into his own garage.

And he couldn’t make you unsee the way Jimin looked at you — like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

He’d never felt smaller.

And maybe that was the worst part.

He could live with the mistakes. The denial. The pretending. That was on him.

But not being the one beside you?

Not even getting to try?

That was the part that would kill him.

Because he didn’t want to win. Not over Jimin. Not over anyone.

Your voice. Your scent. Your laugh when you were trying not to let it out. Your stupid work lanyard. Your breath in his mouth. Your fingertips in his hair like they’d always belonged there.

He wanted your chaos.

Your stillness.

Your everything.

And you were already gone — in a van, in a dress he wouldn’t have the chance to unzip, with a man who didn’t have to beg to be near you.

Jungkook didn’t blink as the green light changed.

He just sat there.

Burning.

YN

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Well — you were, technically.
Your name had been cleared. Your badge had been double-checked. You had a very polite email sitting in your inbox confirming your attendance as “support staff.”
But standing here, ten paces behind Park Jimin as he stepped onto the blue carpet with two black-suited bodyguards flanking you like bookends?

You felt borrowed.

The kind of presence that didn’t belong in photos. A silhouette in the background. Something carefully placed behind the star so no one would get confused.

You kept your head down, mostly. Your HYBE lanyard was clearly visible, slung just right across your chest — a little too obviously.

That was the point.

You weren’t with Jimin.
You were just arriving… at the same time. Because you work for him.

But that didn’t stop you from watching him.

From letting your gaze trace every movement as he paused at the event’s edge, waiting for his cue. His body shifted naturally into poise, hands relaxed at his sides, head slightly tilted as if the lights didn’t faze him — as if he was built for this.

And maybe he was.

Park Jimin was…
Beautiful.
Not in the obvious, cliché kind of way. Not in the way that felt simple or safe.

There was a softness to him, sure—the delicate slope of his nose, the generous curve of his mouth, the way his eyes seemed to melt when they found yours. He had that kind of gentle beauty people wrote poems about: the kind that felt like quiet spring mornings and warm hands wrapped around yours.

But then there was the other side of him.
The side that made your stomach knot and your breath catch in your throat.
Park Jimin, the man.
The one who owned every room he walked into—not because he tried to, but because he couldn’t help it. His shoulders carried a quiet strength, his movements deliberate and devastatingly fluid, like a predator that didn’t need to chase because the world came to him.

And God, he was famous. Not just famous—adored. Revered. The one that even before he left the van, the entire venue lit up with flashes to catch every single angle of him. He was the man entire stadiums screamed for, the man who could turn his voice into silk and fire in a single note, whose smile could shatter hearts and rebuild them in the same breath.

There was nothing timid about him—not really. That softness in his gaze wasn’t weakness. It was control. He knew exactly what he was doing when he tilted his head like that, when his fingers brushed yours just long enough to make you crave more, when his lips curved in a way that felt both sweet and knowing.

Park Jimin was a contradiction you could never hope to resolve.
A boy wrapped in honeyed warmth.
A man who could ruin you without lifting a finger.

There was nothing soft about the way he looked tonight, not really. His jawline was sharp, his shoulders set, his gaze focused and unblinking beneath the camera flashes.

But even then, he was graceful.

A man carved out of contrast.

Sharp angles in a delicate frame.
Warmth behind icy spotlight eyes.
A tailored navy suit — sleek, understated — that still managed to outshine every gem dripping down the staircase behind him.

Like his body knew this language better than words.

He stepped into the lights. Paused.
Tilted his chin just slightly.
Looked left.
A subtle curve of the mouth.

The cameras loved him. Of course they did.

And for a moment, with the glass doors still sealed behind you and the flashes crackling like static in your ears — you couldn’t breathe.

Because this man — that man — had held your hand an hour ago like you were the only thing worth looking at. Had waited for you in the back of a parking garage like he had all the time in the world. Had touched your hair like it was the edge of a tea cup .

And now?

Now he was untouchable.

He took a final step to the center of the carpet, offered one last gaze to the left — then turned slightly.

And his eyes found you.

Just for a second.

His smile — soft, real, just yours — cut through every layer of glass and distance between you.

He tilted his head — let’s go.

And just like that, you followed.

Still ten paces behind.
Still not supposed to be there.
Still wanting him anyway.

JIMIN

You’d worn your hair up.

Strands pinned delicately, that smooth line of her neck exposed like a secret. Eyes lined in soft gold. Lips just shy of gloss.

And the dress—

God, the dress.

He hadn’t known exactly which one would arrive. He just told the stylist what he liked between the thousands of options the same had promptly sent him, and had the case delivered to her, and hoped. But this…

This had left him speechless.

He’d been waiting on you before heading downstairs, hands in his pockets, rehearsing something charming to say. A joke. A tease. Something light. Anything.

Then you appeared.

And the words went poof.

He didn’t even remember blinking — just that you stood there, smoothing the hem awkwardly with both hands, saying something about how you weren’t sure if it was too much, and that maybe it was—

“It’s perfect,” he’d interrupted. Too fast. Too desperate. Voice a little too low.

Now, inside the event, he still hadn’t recovered.

You was a few steps ahead now, weaving politely through the clusters of photographers, assistants, models, ambassadors. No one knew your name — not here — but everyone looked. Just briefly. Then looked again.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

She stood out like soft light in a room of diamonds. Too warm to ignore. Too elegant to explain.

And yet you still had that lanyard. That stupid, official HYBE staff badge, like it meant something more than you’re not allowed to sparkle here.

He hated that badge.

Not because it was ugly. But because it reminded him of how much you still thought you had to blend in.

He drifted toward the bar — an angular setup of black lacquer and chrome — and scanned the bottles.

Of course they were serving the best.
Cristal. Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque.
And there — Dior’s darling choice for the night — Salon 2008. A fucking unicorn.

The bartender handed him two tall, stemmed flutes with practiced grace, and Jimin turned, already looking for you .

You were standing near one of the back walls now, slightly tucked beside a tall LED screen flashing muted campaign visuals. Not hiding. But not not hiding either.

He joined you slowly, handing one glass over without ceremony.

You blinked at it.

“Oh—no,” you said, already pulling your hands back. “I shouldn’t. I’m technically—”

“Not technically drinking,” he finished, offering a lazy grin. “Just holding.”

Your brow arched skeptically.

Jimin shrugged. “One sip won’t get you fired. Dior wouldn’t serve this if they wanted it wasted.”

You glanced at the glass, then at him. You had no idea the way this tasted. It was soft ans sharp all at once — like stars dripping over cold stone, with just enough sweetness to make you want more. And he couldn’t stand the idea that you probably never will taste anything like it.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I’m fine, really.”

He held his own glass up to the light, swirling it slightly so the golden bubbles clung to the crystal like they were reluctant to let go.

“You know,” he murmured, tilting the flute between his fingers, “if you say no, I’ll just buy a bottle and bring it to your place. And then you’ll have to drink it with me on your floor, in pajamas, with that little candle you always light when you’re trying to focus.”

Your eyes flicked to his, and for a moment, he swore the rest of the room faded. God, he loved catching you off guard like that—loved how you froze just enough to let him in.

The image he painted felt dangerously soft, too intimate for the room you were in—the thought of him cross-legged on your carpet, sleeves rolled up, next to you like this, sent a quiet rush through his  chest he didn’t know how to name.

He smiled, sipping once. “It’s not even about the champagne anymore.”

You bit back a smile. He caught it—he always caught it. And it undid something in him every single time.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re breathtaking.”

That slipped out. Just… fell.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even feel the usual flicker of nerves that came with saying too much. It felt too natural, too inevitable.She didn’t either.

Her mouth parted like she wanted to argue, or joke, or change the subject, but none of those came out. And he liked that. That he could still steal her breath a little, even in a room where every other person had a stylist, a manager, and a brand name stitched into their collar.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You do realize no one here is looking at me tonight, right?”

“You’re literally the reason they’re here.”

“And yet,” he said, barely brushing her arm, “and yet they’re all too busy wondering who the girl in the blue dress is to care about me..”

There it was—the faintest flush in your skin. He’d caused it. He always could, and he loved that.

Events like this didn’t faze him anymore—not really. He knew how to move, how to pose, how to charm in half-coded phrases designed for cameras and press clippings. It was a dance he’d mastered long ago.

But this—standing here, feeling the tension coil tighter between you every time you exhaled—this wasn’t a dance. This was dangerous. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to step back.

Events like this didn’t faze him anymore—not really. He knew how to move, how to pose, how to let his smile flicker just enough to seem effortless. He’d mastered the language of half-coded phrases, the ones designed to sound charming in press clippings without revealing a thing. It was all a dance—a shallow, glittering routine he could do blindfolded by now.

But tonight, he wasn’t dancing for them.

He was dancing for you.

Every glance. Every step. Every quiet moment when he let his gaze sweep the room, pretending it was casual when all he was doing was checking to see if you were still there.

You didn’t look at him like they all did.

You looked at him like you saw him—the cracks, the patterns, even the jagged parts he thought he’d hidden too well. The parts he sometimes refused to see in himself.

And God, he’d burn this whole place to the ground if it meant keeping that look.

But instead, he lifted the glass toward you again. Wordless this time. A silent invitation.

You hesitated, just for a breath, and then your fingers brushed his as you took it.

It was nothing. It was everything.

Maybe no one else in the room noticed, but to him, it felt like a promise.

He didn’t need you to be his date. Didn’t need you to stand beside him in photos, or smile for a headline, or say you were his.

He just needed to know you chose this. Chose him. Even if it was only for tonight.

And when you raised the glass and took that sip—eyes locking with his over crystal and gold—
he knew you had.

“You know,” he said softly, tilting his glass so the golden bubbles spiraled upward like they were trying to escape. “When I was younger, I thought nights like this would feel… different.”

You stayed quiet, your gaze steady on him, and that alone made the words come easier.

“These parties used to feel like proof,” he murmured. “That we’d made it. That all the years of rehearsals and sleepless nights had built to something. I’d stand in rooms like this, with glasses I didn’t know how to hold properly, wearing clothes I couldn’t afford, and think, this is it. This is success.”

A faint laugh left him—dry, quiet, with no real humor.

“But now?” he said, swirling the golden liquid in his flute. “Now it feels like noise. Everyone smiling but no one seeing each other. Conversations that sound rehearsed even when they’re not. Even the champagne tastes dull most nights.”

It wasn’t a rehearsed confession. He hadn’t planned to say any of this—not to you, not to anyone. But standing here, watching the soft light catch in your hair, it felt… safe.

“I’m not ungrateful,” he added after a pause. “We’ve been given everything. More than we could have dreamed of. But sometimes…” His thumb brushed the rim of his glass. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s still a version of me underneath it all. Someone smaller. Quieter. I’m not sure I’d even recognize him anymore.”

You let the silence settle, and for a moment, he thought you might say nothing at all. But then—

“I think he’s still there,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked to you, caught off guard.

“Maybe not in the way you remember,” you continued, your voice careful, thoughtful, “but in pieces. In how you notice the details no one else does. In how you still care about the way these rooms feel, even if they don’t feel good anymore. That’s him, isn’t it? The quiet version of you. He’s still in there.”

Your fingers tightened faintly on your glass, and for a heartbeat, Jimin swore the rest of the room fell away.

“You’ve been carrying so much for so long,” you said, your eyes meeting his. “It’s no wonder he feels far away. But I think… the fact that you’re still asking about him? That means you haven’t lost him. Not really.”

The words settled over him like a slow rush of warmth, filling cracks he didn’t realize were open.

And God, you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t saying these things to earn a smile or a compliment. You were just… seeing him. Quietly. Clearly.

It was terrifying. And it was magnetic.

“You make it sound simple,” he murmured finally, his voice lower now.

“It’s not,” you said. “But simple and easy aren’t the same thing.”

A soft laugh escaped him, unexpected but real.

You didn’t laugh with him. You just kept watching, like you weren’t afraid of the weight of his gaze.

And that was the moment. The exact one he’d remember later—the stillness, the glass in your hands, the soft gold light catching in your lashes.

He didn’t want the room.
He didn’t want the music or the chatter or the endless, hollow smiles.

He wanted this.
Just this.

But the world never let him have just this.

“Mr Park?”

The voice cut through the low thrum of the room—smooth, assured, the kind of tone that didn’t raise itself but still commanded attention.

He didn’t flinch, though something taut in his chest drew tighter, pulling at the rare stillness he’d found standing next to you.

“Ah, Park Jimin.”

A Dior executive. Flanked by at least 4 people, one of which he was sure it was her translator.  She was one of their global leads—he remembered her from a dinner in Paris last winter, the kind where every word spoken felt like it could be printed in a press release. Her suit was impeccable, her sharp heels silent on the floor.

“You’ve been impossible to catch tonight,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’re gathering some of the Paris team near the main display. They’ve been hoping for an introduction.”

She wasn’t asking. Not really.

And this was Dior.

This was part of the job.

Even so, he hesitated for half a second.

His gaze slid to you—still standing in the quiet alcove by the LED screen, fingers resting delicately on your glass.

He wanted to stay. Wanted to plant himself there and let the world dissolve again like it had moments ago.

But that wasn’t how this worked.

“Of course,” he said finally, the words soft and smooth, the idol mask slipping back over his face like a second skin.

“Just a few minutes,” she said, already angling her body for him to follow. “I know how in-demand you are.”

❀

He followed.
Because that’s what Jimin did.

And because if he didn’t, there would be questions. About Dior, about professionalism, about why Park Jimin—a global ambassador—couldn’t manage to charm a handful of executives for five minutes.

He didn’t have the luxury of staying planted in his own quiet moment.

So he walked.

❀

But his eyes…
His eyes betrayed him.

They flicked back—once, twice, a third time—drawn like a tide to where you stood.

And that’s when he saw him.

A man.

Not abrupt, not clumsy—no, this one moved with a certain practiced ease, the kind that suggested he knew how to fill a room before his words even landed. His suit was charcoal, perfectly tailored, his hair styled neatly back. Handsome in the way magazines liked: sharp but warm, with that effortless European confidence Jimin had seen a thousand times before.

He didn’t recognize him.

And that—more than anything—made his chest tighten.

The man leaned in slightly to speak, and you blinked, startled for only a fraction of a second before offering a small, polite smile.

A laugh followed.
Not loud. Not intimate.
Just warm enough to make something coil low and sharp in Jimin’s gut.

He didn’t know what you were talking about.
Didn’t let himself imagine.

But the quiet weight in his chest didn’t ease.

❀

It caught him off guard—this feeling.

Because if it were Jungkook standing there…
If it were Jungkook’s shoulder angled toward you, his grin tugging one of those soft, reluctant laughs from your lips…

He wouldn’t feel like this.

Not even close.

Jungkook was different.

He was family in every sense of the word—equal parts chaos and calm, someone whose presence felt so steady it was almost a part of him.

There wasn’t a single corner of Jimin’s life Jungkook hadn’t been in. They’d shared stages, secrets, victories. Late-night phone calls where neither spoke for minutes at a time, content with the silence.

And there had been… other things, too. The ones they never talked about—not because they were shameful, but because they didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Nights when exhaustion and adrenaline bled into recklessness. Hotel suites dimly lit, music still thumping faintly through the walls. Girls in their laps, lipstick smudged, hands wandering freely. There were nights where Jimin had kissed someone’s skin with Jungkook’s laugh in his ear, where boundaries blurred but it didn’t matter.  because nothing between them had ever felt possessive. Never about holding on.

It had been easy. Natural.
Something shared, and then let go.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

This wasn’t easy.

This wasn’t familiar.

This was sharp and heavy in his chest, a quiet pull that wouldn’t loosen no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even name it.

His gaze flicked to you again, unthinking, and caught the faint curve of your mouth as you nodded politely at something the man beside you said.

The smallest gesture.
But it lodged deep anyway.

The realization didn’t hit like a lightning strike.

It came softly.

Like an ache blooming slow and deep, settling in a place he hadn’t realized was vulnerable until now.

God.

I’m in so much trouble.

The words didn’t even sound like his own.

But they fit.

And there was no unthinking his way out of it now.

❀

His smile didn’t falter as he raised his glass, the golden bubbles clinging delicately to the rim. The Dior executive to his left was saying something about Paris, about expanding their Asia campaign, about how faces like yours make a statement without words.

Jimin nodded, his expression soft, gracious, the kind of smile people remembered.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “It’s an honor to carry that vision forward. Dior’s elegance has always spoken louder than trends.”

He took a measured sip of champagne. Cool, crisp, perfect.

But his eyes drifted—just briefly.

Across the room, Adrien leaned closer to you, his hand gesturing lightly toward something near your lanyard.

You smiled—polite, reserved, the kind of smile you gave when you didn’t want to seem rude.

The executive beside him chuckled at his earlier comment. “Your versatility is what makes you so magnetic, Jimin-ssi. You shift effortlessly between Dior’s classic line and its avant-garde collections. Not many can do that.”

“You’re too kind,” Jimin replied, his voice even, warm.

But inside, the quiet tension under his ribs refused to ease.

❀

You didn’t notice him at first.

Jimin had a way of moving through rooms like this—quietly, without drawing attention until he wanted it.

But you felt him before you saw him, and when you turned, there he was.

“You’re back,” you said softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he murmured.

From your side, Adrien glanced over, a flicker of amusement passing across his face.

“Ah,” he said lightly, his accent curling warm and smooth. “And here I was starting to think she might run off with me while you were busy charming half the room.”

Jimin’s mouth curved, a soft, amused smirk. “That sounds ambitious.”

Adrien’s smile deepened. “Well,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly between you and Jimin, “one has to try.”

“Adrien.” He extended a hand, his fingers long and precise, his presence somehow both easy and deliberate. “Consulting for Dior Homme this season.”

“Jimin.” The handshake was firm, steady—Jimin’s dark eyes holding Adrien’s just a moment longer than necessary. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” Adrien said, his tone light but weighted with something else. “They didn’t warn me I’d be meeting Dior’s most dangerous man tonight.”

Jimin laughed softly, his smirk lingering as he tilted his head just slightly. “Dangerous?”

“Charming,” Adrien clarified smoothly, though his gaze lingered with a warmth that suggested he wasn’t in any rush to pull away. “It’s a hazard.”

“You’re too kind.” Jimin’s voice stayed low, his words threaded with easy confidence. He wasn’t rattled—Jimin never was.

But he noticed.

The way Adrien’s attention didn’t seem to discriminate between you and him, like he didn’t care where his charm landed.

“You two make quite the pair standing here,” Adrien added after a moment. “If Dior had planned this, they couldn’t have staged it better.”

Jimin chuckled. “You’re flattering both of us now.”

“Can you blame me?” Adrien’s lips curved faintly, and for the briefest moment, Jimin caught the edge beneath the smoothness.

It wasn’t overt. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But he noticed.

Because he’d seen this before—the way some people moved through rooms, casually weaving warmth into every glance and word, testing to see where it landed.

Adrien wasn’t careless. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“I should let you enjoy your evening,” Adrien said finally, his tone soft but deliberate.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Jimin replied, his smirk subtle, still lingering as Adrien stepped back.

But not before Adrien’s eyes flicked between you and Jimin once more.

“Try not to break too many hearts tonight,” Adrien said lightly, his gaze settling on Jimin just long enough to make the words feel heavier than casual.

“We’ll try,” Jimin murmured back, his voice low, edged with something Adrien couldn’t quite place.

Adrien’s smile widened faintly before he finally turned away, his stride as easy and deliberate as the rest of him.

❀

After he told the driver over the correct address — that by this time he had basically memorized —The car ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

He could hear his own heartbeat over the low hum of the engine, steady and deliberate, even as his mind refused to match the calm his body projected.

You were sitting next to him, close but not close enough, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Every now and then, the hem of your dress brushed his trousers when the car hit a turn, and every time it happened, something deep in his chest pulled tighter.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.

Not until he could be sure no one was watching.

❀

The elevator ride up felt worse.

You pressed the button for your floor, then stepped back.

Jimin followed you in, his hand shoved casually into the pocket of his coat. At least, it looked casual.

The doors closed with a soft hiss.

And just like that, the air changed.

He could smell your perfume—something faint and warm, a little sweet. It clung to the small space like a memory he shouldn’t want to keep.

His eyes stayed fixed on the numbers above the door.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

But he wasn’t counting floors.
He was counting seconds.
How many more he could go without reaching for you.

❀

The soft chime of the elevator cut through the silence.

You stepped out first, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

Jimin followed, his own footsteps quieter, slower—though not by choice.

Every move felt deliberate now. Heavy, like his body had become too aware of itself.

The air in the hallway was cooler than the elevator, but it didn’t help. Not when the heat in his chest wouldn’t settle.

You walked ahead of him, your keys already in hand, the faint jingle setting his teeth on edge—not because of the sound itself, but because it felt like a countdown.

The back of his neck prickled.

It wasn’t nerves. He didn’t get nervous.

It was… something else.

Something coiled low in his stomach, sharp and electric, tugging at every part of him that had been strung too tight all night.

God, he could still smell your perfume.

It clung to the air between you—warm, sweet, subtle—and every inhale felt dangerous. Like the longer he breathed it in, the closer he was to losing the last thread of control keeping him steady.

He shouldn’t feel like this.

He’d held entire arenas in the palm of his hand. Smiled through flashing cameras. Brushed off compliments from people far smoother than Adrien would ever be.

But this—
This quiet stretch of hallway with you just a few steps ahead—
This was undoing him.

Your fingers brushed over the ridges of the key, searching for the right one, and for some reason, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from your hands.

Small. Delicate.
Hands that had been clutching your champagne glass earlier, knuckles pale because you were holding it too lightly.

He wanted those hands on him now.

And the thought sent a hot rush through him so sharp he almost stopped walking.

The door opened with a soft click.

You stepped inside, leaving the faintest trace of warmth in the air behind you.

He followed.

And the sound of the door closing—final, absolute—snapped something in his chest.

Chapter Text

JIMIN

The sound of the door shutting behind him felt louder than it should’ve. Like the click echoed straight through his chest and lodged there, vibrating against his ribcage.

It was quiet now. Too quiet.

You didn’t turn around. Not right away. You set your keys down on the little dish by the door, fingers brushing the edge like you couldn’t quite focus, and the motion made his mouth go dry.

He swore he could still feel the warmth of your body from the elevator, the faint brush of your shoulder when you’d shifted to the side. The ghost of it burned along his skin like a brand.

He swallowed hard. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

You finally turned then—slowly, like you weren’t sure what you’d find—and the second your eyes met his, it was over.

The air between you pulled taut.

Jimin didn’t even realize he was moving until his feet carried him across the room. His hands came up on instinct, one curling around your jaw so gently it almost hurt, the other sliding to your waist like he needed to anchor himself or risk floating right out of his body.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, “what you’re doing to me right now?”

Your breath hitched. He felt it—felt the way your body tensed under his palm, the way your lips parted ever so slightly.

And then your hands—those hands—came up, fingers gripping the front of his jacket.

That was it. The thing he was holding on so carefully lately broke.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was hungry. Starving.

His lips crashed into yours like he’d been holding back for years, not hours. Like he couldn’t remember a time he didn’t want this—didn’t want you.

God, you tasted sweet.

Sweet and warm and so addicting it made his head spin.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, half growl, half groan, as he backed you into the wall without breaking the kiss. The thud was soft, but the impact sent a jolt of heat straight down his spine.

Your fingers fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, and he went willingly—pressing his body flush against yours until he could feel every curve, every breath, every frantic beat of your heart.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your mouth, pulling back just far enough to look at you.

Your lips were already swollen. Your eyes blown wide.

He had to close his own eyes for a second. Had to breathe before he lost himself completely.

But the second he opened them again and saw you staring up at him like that—like you wanted him just as badly—he was done for.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered hoarsely.

Your breath came out shaky. “Jimin—”

“Angel.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. Soft. Reverent. Like it had always belonged to you.

His angel.

The thought alone made his stomach clench, made heat curl low and tight in his gut.

He kissed you again, slower this time but no less desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste you properly. One hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, while the other gripped your hip so tight he wondered if you’d bruise.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your lips. “If you don’t want this—if you don’t want me—”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you tugged at his jacket, breathless and shaking. “Don’t stop.”

Something got loose in his chest at that.

He kissed you harder, hips pressing into yours as his hands roamed—greedy now, tracing the line of your waist, the curve of your ass, until he could barely think straight.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he muttered against your neck, teeth grazing the skin there before sucking gently.

You gasped. “Then show me.”

His fingers dug in harder.

“Angel, you don’t get it. I’ve been holding back all—”

“Then don’t.”

Fuck.

That was all it took.

In one fluid motion, he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist like it was instinct. Your back hit the nearest wall again, and his mouth found yours in a kiss so deep, so consuming, he thought he might actually lose himself in it.

Your nails scraped down the back of his neck, sending sparks shooting through his veins, and he groaned into your mouth—low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathed. “You’re going to fucking kill me, Angel.”

And he didn’t care.

If this was how he went out—burning alive in you, for you—he’d die smiling.

❀

Your legs tightened around his waist as he carried you through the apartment, and Jimin swore he could feel every inch of you against him.

The soft press of your thighs.
The warmth of your breath fanning across his neck.
The faint tremor in your fingers where they clutched his shoulders like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

And fuck—he never wanted you to push him away.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever.

But the need—the all-consuming, burning need—was too much now.

Too sharp. Too heavy.

It clawed through his chest like an animal, demanding release.

“Bedroom,” he muttered, voice hoarse, but his legs kept moving without thought because he already knew where to go.

Your apartment smelled faintly of you—sweet, soft, and warm—and it made his head spin even more than the champagne had earlier.

When he finally reached your room, he shouldered the door open, barely aware of it clicking shut behind him.

And then he set you down on the bed.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your fingers lingered on his shoulders, and his hands stayed on your hips, thumbs stroking over the fabric of your dress like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Your lips were kiss-swollen. Your chest rose and fell too fast.

He wanted to slow down. He really did.
Wanted to memorize every detail, every sound, every breath—

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were looking up at him like that.

Not when the tension coiling in his stomach threatened to snap at any second.

“Angel,” he said again, softer this time, like he needed to hear the word to ground himself.

Your lips parted. A flicker of something passed over your face—surprise, maybe, or heat—but it didn’t matter because all he could think about was kissing you again.

And then you whispered, “Say it again.”

That was it.
That was the end of him.

“Angel.”

The word came out rougher this time. Desperate.

His hands slid up your sides, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your dress, and before he knew it, he was pulling it up, over your head, and tossing it aside.

“Fuck.”

You were even more beautiful like this—half-undressed, hair mussed, lips kiss-bitten, staring up at him like you wanted him as badly as he wanted you.

He leaned down, catching your mouth in another kiss, and his hands roamed freely now. Over the curve of your waist. The slope of your breasts. The softness of your thighs.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured against your lips, voice wrecked. “Tell me to stop if—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered back.

His teeth grazed your lower lip. “Say it again.”

“I want this. I want you.”

“God.”

He kissed you harder, hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer until your hips pressed flush against his. The friction made his head spin, and a groan ripped from his throat before he could stop it.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” he asked hoarsely, pulling back just enough to look at you.

Your pupils were blown wide. Your lips were parted.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because you’re doing the same to me.”

His control shattered completely.

He hooked his fingers under the band of your underwear, tugging them down slowly—too slowly—and the sight of you beneath him, skin bare and flushed, nearly undid him on the spot.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, almost to himself. “So fucking perfect.”

His hands roamed over your thighs again, then slid up to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks.

“You’re mine tonight.”

“Tonight?” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Don’t tempt me, Angel,” he growled softly.

But the way your hips shifted under him—the way your nails dug into his arms—said otherwise.

His lips curled into a dark smile.

“You’re going to regret that.”

He leaned down, kissing a trail from your jaw to your collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make you arch into him.

Your breath hitched when his tongue flicked against your nipple, and the sound made his cock twitch painfully in his trousers.

He worshiped every inch of you with his mouth—slowly at first, then with growing hunger, until you were squirming beneath him and clutching his hair like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

“Please,” you breathed.

“Please what?” he teased softly, fingers sliding lower, ghosting over your inner thigh.

“Please… touch me.”

His lips brushed your ear. “Where, angel? Here?”

His fingers finally slipped between your thighs, and the soft, slick heat there made him hiss through his teeth.

You let out a soft whimper when his thumb brushed your clit, and the sound went straight to his cock, making him grind against the mattress in search of friction.

“Jimin—”

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

He worked you slowly at first, teasing, circling your clit until your hips jerked up in frustration.

“More,” you gasped.

“God, Angel, you’re going to kill me.”

He slipped a finger inside you and nearly lost his mind at how tight and warm you felt.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, adding another finger and watching the way your body arched off the bed. “So fucking perfect like this.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he worked you open, his thumb never leaving your clit, and the sight of you coming undone beneath him nearly made him lose it.

“Jimin—oh my God—”

“That’s it, Angel,” he groaned. “let go.”

And when you finally did—body trembling, lips parted in a silent cry—he swore he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your temple, kissing you softly as he pulled his fingers away.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Because as much as he loved watching you fall apart, he needed more.

He needed everything.

“Do you want me?” he asked roughly, already fumbling with his belt.

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Say it.”

“I want you, Jimin. Please.”

He let out a low, broken laugh as he finally freed himself from his trousers.

“Angel, you have no fucking idea what you’re about to get.”

And then he was pressing into you—slowly at first, letting you feel every inch of him—and the heat, the tightness, the way you clung to him made his vision blur.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel… so fucking good.”

You gasped his name, nails scraping down his back, and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

His hips snapped forward, and the sound you made—half moan, half sob—sent fire shooting down his spine.

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrusting harder now, faster, until the only sounds in the room were skin against skin and your shared, ragged breaths.

“Say it, Angel. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

“Fuck.”

He kissed you again—sloppy, desperate—his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit as his pace quickened.

“You’re going to come for me again,” he panted. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my girl.”

It didn’t take long.

You came with a cry of his name, clenching around him so tightly he almost saw stars.

“Angel—fuck—”

He buried his face in your neck as he came hard, hips stuttering, emptying himself into you with a groan so raw it almost startled him.

And then there was silence.

Heavy, warm, breathless silence.

The world had narrowed down to the sound of your ragged breathing, the pounding of his heart, and the faint tremble in his arms as he held himself above you.

Jimin’s forehead pressed to yours as he tried to steady his breathing, his lips brushing the tip of your nose when he exhaled.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and low. “You’re...”

Your fingers threaded weakly through his damp hair, tugging him closer. He went without hesitation, nose nuzzling against your cheek before pressing a lingering kiss there.

His body slumped against yours, his nose buried in your hair, and for the first time all night, the fire in his chest dimmed into something softer.

Something that felt dangerously close to peace.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured hoarsely, pressing a kiss to your temple. “My angel.”

❀

Your breathing was still uneven when he finally pulled back.

Jimin kept himself propped on one arm above you, his thumb brushing faintly over your cheek as he stared down at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

Your lips were kiss-swollen. Your skin flushed. And your lashes fluttered against your cheeks with every shaky inhale.

“Are you okay?”he murmured, softer now. The word felt heavy on his tongue—like it had sunk into his bones and carved itself there permanently. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, and gave him the smallest, sleepiest smile. “Mm. Tired.”

Something in his chest clenched.

God, how was he supposed to let you go now?

“Alright,” he whispered, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Carefully—like you were something fragile he didn’t dare break—he slid out of bed and pulled his dress shirt off the back of a chair. It still smelled faintly of his cologne, that warm, clean citrus note, and for some reason, the thought of you wearing it made heat curl low in his stomach again.

He helped put it on, gently tugging the fabric over your head and slipping your arms through the sleeves.

The shirt dwarfed you instantly, hanging loose around your frame, and the sight made his throat tighten.

There.
That was better.

You looked like you belonged to him.

Jimin’s fingers lingered on the collar, smoothing it softly before he let his hands fall back to his sides.

“Lie down, angel,” he said quietly.

You obeyed, curling onto your side, and he couldn’t help but smile as he joined you, sliding under the covers and pulling you close.

The weight of your body against his felt grounding. So grounding, he didn’t realize how tightly his chest had been wound until it began to loosen.

Your head nestled into the crook of his neck, and your hand—small, delicate—rested lightly over his heart.

“Stay,” you mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

“Always,” he whispered.

His arm came around your waist, drawing you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you.

And for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist.

No flashing cameras.
No whispers.
No guilt.

Just you.

Just this.

Your breathing began to slow, evening out in the quiet.

Jimin pressed one last kiss to your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo, and let his eyes fall shut.

“Goodnight, angel,” he murmured.

And with your warmth seeping into him, the tightness in his chest eased completely.

He didn’t realize when sleep took him.

Only that it was the first time in months he’d felt truly at peace.

YN

The first thing you noticed was the smell.

Clean. Warm. Subtle cologne clinging faintly to fabric.

The second thing you noticed was the weight.

A heavy arm draped across your waist. A solid body pressed against your back. Steady breathing fanning over your neck.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh God—

You didn’t dream it.

Your eyes flew open, and for a moment, you just stared at the faint light bleeding through the curtains. Your heart thudded wildly in your chest.

Jimin was in your bed.

Park Jimin.

His shirt clung to your skin—soft cotton, slightly oversized, smelling unmistakably like him—and the memory of last night hit you like a freight train.

All the things you let happen last night.

The elevator. The wall. His hands. His mouth.

Angel.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Nope. No, no, no. You could not think about that right now.

You had to go to work.

Work.
Where he would be.
Where Jungkook would be.

Oh God, Jungkook.

Panic bloomed in your chest, sharp and fast.

What have you done?

What were you going to do?

You inhaled shakily and tried to sit up without disturbing him, but the arm around your waist tightened.

Shit.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

His voice was low and gravelly, still thick with sleep, and it rolled through you like warm honey.

You froze.

Slowly—too slowly—you turned your head just enough to see him.

And it was unfair.

So unfair.

Jimin was sprawled on your bed, hair a mess of soft strands falling into his eyes, lips curved in the faintest of smiles.

He stretched lazily, arms reaching above his head, and it was obscene how beautiful he looked. Like a flower blooming in slow motion.

Golden. Effortless. Utterly dangerous.

Meanwhile, you were having a category-five internal meltdown.

“I—I have to go to work,” you stammered.

“Mm.” His eyes cracked open just enough to look at you. Dark and warm and devastating. “You’ve still got time.”

“No. I really—”

He rolled onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face, and his bare chest came into full view.

Oh God.

You were going to combust.

“What time is it?” you whispered, voice shaky.

Jimin grabbed his phone off the nightstand and glanced at the screen.

“8:43.”

Your stomach sank.

You had to leave at 8:30 to make it on time.

You were late.

“Oh my God.”

You bolted upright so fast you nearly knocked into his chin.

“I’m late. I’m late. I’m so late—”

“Relax, angel.” His voice was smooth, unbothered. “You’re fine.”

“I am not fine!” you cried, already leaping out of bed. “I’m wearing your shirt, I’m late for work, and I just—”

You froze mid-sentence, realizing what you’d almost said out loud.

“Just what?” he asked, lips curving.

“Never mind.”

You shot him a quick glare and scrambled toward your dresser, yanking it open so hard it nearly came off its track.

Jimin rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand as he watched you with an amused smile.

“Why are you acting like I’m going to bite?”

“Because you’re distracting!” you snapped, tugging a clean bra from the drawer.

His smile widened. “I wasn’t last night.”

“Stop talking!”

You hopped into your jeans, nearly falling over in the process, and he made no move to help. He just stretched out on your bed like he owned it, his smirk deepening.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

“Stop saying things like that!” you groaned, fumbling with the buttons of your new blouse.

“Why?”

“Because it makes this worse.”

“This?”

“Everything!” you hissed. “I just had sex with you and I have to go to work! Work I’m late for!”

He chuckled lowly. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“Because it is—wait—no, it’s not—” You slapped a hand over your face with a groan. “God, I don’t know what it is. I just know I’m late!”

“You’re with me. You’re allowed to be late,” he said smoothly.

“That’s not how it works!” you cried. “You can be late. You’re Park Jimin. If I’m late, I’m dead.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood in one smooth motion, padding across the room to where you were frantically shoving things into your bag.

“You could just wear my shirt,” he said casually, getting of the bed. “I think it suits you.”

You spun on him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

And promptly short-circuited.

Because he was still shirtless. In broad daylight.
Golden skin. Tousled hair. The faintest trace of last night’s kisses still marking his neck.

Your brain bluescreened.

“Jimin,” you managed weakly, “wear it yourself.”

His brows lifted in amusement. “Why?”

“Because I don’t need your shirt to think about you all day,” you snapped, yanking your blouse closed like it might protect you from the sight of him.

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and your face burned hot enough to leave a mark.

Jimin grinned like the devil himself.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and your face burned hot enough to combust.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping closer. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

You tried to dart past him toward the bathroom, but he followed like a shadow, trailing lazily behind you as you ran a brush through your hair.

“Do you need help?” he asked, voice teasing.

“I need you to stop existing for five minutes,” you muttered under your breath.

“Too late for that.”

“Ugh!”

You darted back into your room to grab your bag, and he followed again, picking up your wallet from the floor.

“Wallet,” he said, holding it out.

You snatched it from him. “Thanks.”

“Keys?”

“They’re in my bag,” you said, double-checking frantically.

“Phone?”

“Shit—”

He held it up between two fingers, smirking.

“Jimin!”

“You’re welcome,” he said, utterly unbothered.

You yanked it from his hand and stomped toward the door, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you said over your shoulder.

“Why would I break anything?”

“Because you’re you,” you shot back. “And if you do, you’re paying for my security deposit.”

He laughed softly, following you all the way to the door.

“Deal.”

“ Just… don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, clearly not taking you seriously at all.

You tugged your jacket on and yanked the door open, heart still hammering in your chest.

“Go,” he said with a lazy smile. “Before I change my mind and keep you here.”

You didn’t dare look back.

Because deep down, you knew if you did, you wouldn’t leave.

♡

The moment you stepped into the HYBE lobby, you felt it.

That sharp, nauseating sense of imbalance. Like the ground had shifted under your feet overnight and you hadn’t found your footing since.

Your fingers gripped the strap of your bag as you crossed the marble floor, head ducked just enough to avoid eye contact.

You could do this.

You could be normal.

You’d spent the entire cab ride rehearsing it in your head: smile at the security guard, swipe your badge, say good morning to two or three people in the elevator. Laugh if someone makes a joke. Don’t think about last night.

Do. Not. Think. About. Last. Night.

Not about the way his voice rasped in your ear.
Not about how your thighs still ached faintly from where he’d—

You blinked hard.

Normal. You’re normal.

♡

By the time you reached your floor, you felt almost steady.

Almost.

But then Sana’s voice cut through your fragile calm.

“You’re late,” she said gently.

Your head snapped up.

She was standing by your desk, coffee cup in hand, her expression soft but amused.

“Traffic,” you said quickly, forcing your mouth into something like a smile.

Sana tilted her head slightly, her eyes warm but assessing.

“That’s not like you.”

“I know.” You laughed awkwardly, ducking behind your monitor as you set your bag down. “Rough morning.”

“You don’t say.” She sipped her coffee and leaned a hip against your desk. “You look like you didn’t sleep much.”

Your fingers tightened on your bag.

“I slept fine,” you said too fast. “Just overslept a little.”

“Mm. That happens.” Her smile softened. “You’re always so responsible, Y/N. You deserve a break sometimes.”

Her tone was light. Kind, even.
But for some reason, it made the back of your neck prickle.

You swallowed. “Thanks. Yeah. Just… rough start today.”

“Well, don’t let it throw you off,” she said, pushing off your desk. “You’ll need your energy for the BTS meeting in twenty.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I—I thought that was later?”

“Moved up.” She tapped her phone. “Didn’t you see the message?”

You hadn’t. You’d been too busy fleeing your own apartment like a criminal.

“Right,” you said faintly. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good girl.” Sana’s smile was warm again. “Don’t stress. You’ve got this.”

♡

You did not have this.

You were standing in the small conference room clutching a clipboard like it was a life raft, your stomach in knots as you went over the agenda in your head.

Fifteen minutes. You just had to make it through fifteen minutes of standing in the corner while the boys talked. No one would look at you. No one would notice the sheer level of unhinged energy vibrating off you in waves.

You’re fine. This is fine. You’re so fine.

The door clicked open.

Taehyung strolled in first, his boxy blazer hanging loose over a white tee. He gave you a polite nod, his mouth curling into a small smile.

Hoseok followed, all warmth and sunshine, tossing a cheerful “Morning!” to the staff as he passed.

Yoongi shuffled in behind them, looking vaguely irritated at being awake before noon, while Namjoon trailed with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder.

And then Jungkook walked in.

Your breath caught.

His sticking slightly to his forehead under the hood of his sweatshirt. He tugged at one sleeve absently, his eyes scanning the room with casual focus—until they brushed over you.

A flicker. That’s all it was.

But it made your pulse lurch violently.

He didn’t linger. His gaze moved on like nothing happened.

You wished yours could.

But before you could even collect yourself, Jimin walked in.

And it was worse.

So much worse.

He was perfectly put together in a pale blue button-down, a very familiar button-down, the sleeves cuffed just enough to reveal his forearms, his hair brushed back like he hadn’t spent last night absolutely dismantling your sense of self.

Your mouth went dry.

He didn’t even look at you—not really. Just a cursory glance as he entered, his expression smooth and professional.

But you swore—swore—you saw the faintest curve of his lips as he passed.

♡

“Y/N?”

You flinched so hard you nearly dropped your pen.

Sana was suddenly at your side, her voice low and warm.

“You’re really quiet today.”

“I’m focused,” you muttered.

“That’s good.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, her smile soft.

“You know, I worry about you sometimes,” she added lightly. “You never seem to take time for yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice a little too tight.

“Mm.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes flicking to Jimin across the room. “You’re not… seeing anyone, are you?”

You froze.

“What?”

“Just curious,” she said quickly, laughing softly. “You’re so pretty, and everyone here likes you. I just wondered. Specially with the entire thing with Seo-Jun... I thought maybe after the last few days you guys… reconected?”

You forced a laugh. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Right.” Her tone was still warm, but for some reason, you couldn’t shake the slight unease curling in your stomach.

♡

“Can we adjust the photo shoot timing?” Namjoon was saying. “We’ll need more buffer between end of concerts and that..”

“Yes, I’ll update the schedule,” you said quickly, scribbling a note even though your hand shook.

Jimin’s voice followed, calm and clear.

“And Y/N—”

Your head snapped up too fast.

He was looking at you now, his expression unreadable.

“Could you confirm the catering order? Can you make sure they have muffins?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice a little too high. “I’ll check.”

“Thanks,” he said, his tone perfectly polite.

♡

By the time the meeting ended, you felt like you’d run a marathon.

You slipped out of the room as soon as a Manager dismissed the group, clutching your clipboard like it might hold you together.

You needed air. You needed water.
You needed to scream into a pillow.

And above all, you needed to stop thinking about Park Jimin.

But then your phone buzzed in your pocket.

[Jimin]: You look cute.

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

You are going to kill me, you thought. Actually kill me.

♡

You stared down at your untouched lunch in the HYBE cafeteria, chopsticks in hand but no actual will to eat.

The rice and vegetables blurred in front of you as your brain screamed:

You slept with him.

You SLEPT with him.

And now you’re sitting here like you didn’t commit the world’s most unprofessional, heart-palpitating act of insanity.

Your phone buzzed for the fourth time in two minutes.

You flipped it over face down on the table.

But it vibrated again.

Evi.

You snatched it up like a lifeline, opening the chat with “my one and only true love ”.

[You]: 💀 help
[You]: i’ve done something irreversible

The reply came almost instantly.

[My one and only true love]: 😂 babe what did you do
[My one and only true love]: “oops i accidentally sent a meme to my boss” bad?
[My one and only true love]: or “oops i married a stranger in vegas” bad?

You bit your lip, typing furiously:

[You]: worse.
[You]: like… life altering. cataclysmic.
[You]: Plus I am not even close to vegas

[My one and only true love]: 😦 omg
[My one and only true love]: CATACLYSMIC??
[My one and only true love]: you didn’t kill someone right??

[You]: no.
[You]: but i might have ruined my life

[My one and only true love]: oh god.
[My one and only true love]: wait.
[My one and only true love]: is this about That Guy™??

Your thumbs froze.

[You]: …maybe?

[My one and only true love]: OH MY GOD

Buzz.

[My one and only true love]: babe you didn’t.

Buzz.

[My one and only true love]: you DIDN’T??

Buzz.

[My one and only true love]: you DID 😱

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from making a noise.

[You]: stop. texting. me. so much.
[You]: my phone’s going to explode

[My one and only true love]: DUDE

Buzz.

Buzz.

You groaned, shoving your phone under your thigh and picking up your chopsticks again.

Okay. Deep breaths. You’re normal. You’re fine. You’re not a complete disaster—

Buzz.

Buzz.

♡

“Y/N?”

Your head jerked up so fast you nearly dropped your phone.

Taehyung. Jungkook. Jimin.

All three of them walking casually down the hallway as you stepped out of the cafeteria.

Your phone buzzed 4 more times in your hand, loud in the quiet corridor.

Taehyung’s eyes flicked to it and back to you, his mouth curling into a grin.

“Your boyfriend must really want your attention,” he teased.

You laughed—too high, too fast. “Oh—it’s not—no. Just my best friend.”

But you didn’t miss it.

The microscopic shift in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to your phone briefly, then back to your face.
His expression didn’t change—not really.

But there was something in his gaze. Quiet. Observant.
Like he’d just noticed how tightly you were gripping your phone.
How your shoulders stiffened when Taehyung spoke.
Like he was filing it away for later without even meaning to.

Your pulse spiked.

He knows. He doesn’t know, but he knows.

Jimin didn’t react—not outwardly.
But you could’ve sworn you caught the faintest flicker in his jaw before his face smoothed over again.

Your heart hammered so loud you thought it might echo in the hall.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you said too quickly, laughing it off and clutching your phone tighter. “Really, it’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say at first.”

Taehyung’s grin widened, clearly enjoying himself.

Buzz.

The sound made you flinch.

“Better answer before they send a search party,” Tae teased, oblivious to the silent chaos detonating in your chest.

You forced a smile that felt like it might crack your face in half. “Right. Yeah. I’ll… do that.”

As they walked past, Jimin didn’t look at you—not directly.

But you felt it.

The faintest curve of his lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

And Jungkook—

You didn’t even dare to look properly.
But the weight of his subtle glance lingered like static on your skin.

He saw. He felt me panic. Oh my God, he knows something’s off.

♡

You darted into the stairwell and unlocked your phone with trembling fingers.

[You]: evi. i’m going to vomit.
[You]: they’re here. they all saw my phone blowing up.

[My one and only true love]: babe. breathe.
[My one and only true love]: did they actually SEE anything??

[You]: no but someone said “your boyfriend must really want your attention”
[You]: and i panicked.
[You]: i think one of them clocked me

[My one and only true love]: GIRL “””””THEY””””?????

[My one and only true love]: which one??

[You]: i don’t know 😭 maybe both??

[My one and only true love]: ok i need DETAILS tonight. you’re killing me

♡

The first thing you did when you got home was throw your bag on the couch, collapse face-first into a pillow, and scream.

A muffled, strangled, “my life is over” kind of scream.

You lay there for a full minute, motionless, until your phone buzzed for the dozenth time.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

… Incoming FaceTime from my one and only true love …

You groaned into the pillow.

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine.”

You swiped to answer and propped your phone against the couch cushion.

“Hi,” you said weakly.

“DON’T YOU ‘HI’ ME.”

Evi’s face filled the screen, her hair pulled into a messy bun and her eyes wide with unholy levels of curiosity.

“Start talking. Right now. No stalling. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t you dare say you don’t know. You texted me like you accidentally committed tax fraud.”

“I might as well have,” you groaned.

“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM, DIDN’T YOU?”

“Shhh!” you hissed, clutching the phone like she might accidentally broadcast your secret to the whole building.

Evi slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide.

“Oh my God. You did.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m an idiot. I’m the biggest idiot alive.”

“Oh my GOD.”

“Evi…”

“Y/N, you can’t just drop ‘I slept with my devastatingly beautiful secret guy who makes me ramen when I’m hungover’ and then expect me to be chill. WHO made the first move?”

“I—I don’t know!”

“LIES.”

“It just… happened.”

“Just happened? What is this, a Netflix K-drama?”

You groaned again, tugging at your hair.

“Was it good?”

“EVI!”

“WHAT?!” she howled, laughing so hard she nearly tipped off her chair. “Babe, I’m your best friend! I need to know if the world-shattering mistake was at least worth it!”

You grabbed a pillow and screamed into it again.

“That’s a yes.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

♡

It felt like the longest call of your life, with Evi bouncing between rambling about her day and then slamming back into, ‘Wait. Back up. You actually slept with Him?’ every time she remembered.

And it was the doorbell that plucked you out of her rambling.

You froze.

“What was that?” Evi asked.

“Nothing.”

Ding dong.

“...is someone at your door?”

“Nope. Definitely not.”

Knock knock.

Your blood ran cold.

“Y/N?”

That voice.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Evi leaned closer to the camera. “Wait. Was that—”

You scrambled off the couch and tiptoed to the door, holding your breath like that would make you invisible.

“Y/N, it’s me.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

Park. Jimin.

You panicked.

Your hand shot out on autopilot, twisting the knob.

And then—

The door was open.

Jimin was standing there in a black hoodie and jeans, hair slightly mussed, with beautiful plump lips and eyes soft but sharp all at once.

You froze.

He froze.

Evi, still very much on FaceTime, shrieked, “WAIT. IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?!”

“Oh my God.”

You slammed the door shut in his face.

“Y/N?!” Jimin’s muffled voice came through the door.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!” Evi shouted from your phone.

“I panicked!” you hissed, clutching your head.

“YOU OPENED THE DOOR AND CLOSED IT AGAIN?!”

“Yes!”

“OH MY GOD, BABE, OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW—”

“I gotta go,” you blurted,

“DO NOT HANG UP ON—”

You hung up, hitting the end call button before she could scream your ears off.

♡

You stared at the door, chest heaving like you’d just run a marathon.
Okay. Breathe. Just breathe.

Your fingers flexed uselessly against your sides as you smoothed down your shirt, though the fabric still felt wrong, clinging in all the places your skin was too warm. You ran trembling hands through your hair, trying to make sense of yourself—your thoughts, your body, everything.

And then you pulled the door open again.

Jimin was still standing there.

His brows lifted slightly, like he was amused but trying not to let it show.

“I—uh—you—hi.”

“Are you planning to let me in this time,” he asked lightly, “or are we doing the slam-the-door game again?”

The words caught in your throat. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat prickled up the back of your neck.
“I… panicked,” you managed weakly.

His lips curved into something dangerously close to a smile.
“Yeah. I noticed.”

You stepped aside reluctantly, heart hammering. He moved past you with a kind of ease that made your stomach twist painfully, like he belonged in this space. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, you realized how small your apartment felt with him inside—how the air seemed thinner somehow.

“I came to check on you,” he said simply.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmured, folding your arms in a poor attempt to make yourself smaller.

“Maybe not.” His eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. “But I wanted to.”

You hated how easily that unraveled something inside you. “You’re acting like nothing happened,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.

“Do you want me to act like something happened?”

The question hit you like a shove to the chest. You froze.
“I—I don’t know.”

“Mm.”

Jimin leaned against the wall, watching you like he had all the time in the world. That steady gaze made your hands itch with nervous energy.

“You’re overthinking again,” he said gently.

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“I’m not overthinking, I’m…” Your voice pitched higher. “Thinking appropriately for the situation.”

“Uh-huh.”

He took a slow step toward you. Then another.

Your breath caught as he closed the space between you, until he was close enough that the faint scent of his cologne curled around you like smoke—warm and a citrousy. It pulled at something low in your stomach.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

“I am breathing,” you shot back, too fast.

“Barely.”

Before you could argue, his hand lifted—warm and careful—and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

Your brain promptly shut down.

It was ridiculous how something so simple could short-circuit every rational thought you’d been clinging to. His touch wasn’t demanding, wasn’t even lingering. But the warmth of his fingers seared into your skin, and the static buzzing in your chest began to falter, softening into something quieter.

“I don’t regret it,” Jimin said softly.

Your stomach lurched. The words felt heavier than they should, and yet they anchored you, pulling you down out of the storm in your head.

“Do you?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You searched for panic in your body and couldn’t quite find it anymore—only a hollow ache where it used to be.

“…no,” you whispered.

“Good.”

His thumb grazed your jawline before his hand fell away, leaving behind a faint warmth you couldn’t stop noticing.

“Then stop punishing yourself.”

You wanted to argue. To tell him he didn’t get it. That he couldn’t possibly understand how loud your thoughts were, how badly you wanted to undo everything.

But the warmth in his voice left no room for your panic to take root.

“You’re trouble,” you mumbled instead, your voice faint.

Jimin smiled faintly, like he wasn’t taking you seriously. “Maybe. But you like trouble.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. Your palms were damp with sweat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re so…” You flailed for words. “Composed!”

He chuckled low in his throat, and the sound vibrated through you, uncoiling something tense and knotted in your chest.

“Maybe I’m only composed because you’re panicking enough for both of us,” he murmured.

The couch was behind you, and you sank onto it like your legs couldn’t hold you up any longer, tugging a pillow into your lap like a shield.

Jimin sat beside you—not too close, but close enough that the warmth radiating from him reached your skin.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said softly.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whispered.

“Then let me distract you.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.
“How?”

“By sitting here. Not talking about it.” His smile tilted. “Or I can think of other, more entertaining ways.”

“…you’re impossible.”

“Or brilliant,” he said lightly. “Depends who you ask.”

And just like that, you felt it—your pulse slowing, the noise in your head fading to something quieter.

You weren’t fixed. Not even close. But for the first time all day, you felt steady.

“You’re infuriating,” you muttered.

“And yet you let me in.”

You groaned into your pillow. “Shut up.”

“You’re cute when you’re like this.”

“Shut. Up.”

His low laugh rumbled beside you, and the sound lodged deep in your chest like a tether.

The weight you’d been carrying all day loosened, just enough for you to finally breathe.