Today's Document
Janaina Medeiros
roma★
Origami Around
Discoholic 🪩
blake kathryn
if i look back, i am lost
Not today Justin
todays bird
YOU ARE THE REASON
cherry valley forever
Monterey Bay Aquarium
occasionally subtle
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
trying on a metaphor
PR's Tumblrdome
Keni
ellievsbear
noise dept.
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Russia
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
@1luvpjm
masterlist
started ; 6/15/23' last uploaded ; 05/27/25
*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ**✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*
: park jimin + jungkook ୨ৎ⊹ ࣪˖ .ᐟ
ongoing stories: nevertheless + off the road oneshot stories: tell me it's over + after midnight, before you.
off the road chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 ✧.*
break from nevertheless!
after midnight, before you. (m) jjk oneshot.
part two (final part!) paring. jungkook x reader genre. strangers to lovers, toxic relationships, angst, slow burn word count. 5k+ summary. she’s the city: untouchable, too bright, and far away. he’s the stranger who starts to feel like a mirror. ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒ they leave tokyo without telling anyone.
just pack a duffel bag each, toss it in the trunk of jungkook’s beat-up skyline, and hit the road before the sky turns orange.
no plan. no maps. just miles.
it’s y/n’s idea.
“i just… need to not be here,” she says.
and jungkook, without asking questions, replies: “okay.”
they drive south along the coast.
windows down. salty wind tangling her hair. his hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, fingers brushing hers like he can’t help it.
neither of them speaks much.
there’s a safety in silence. a shared understanding that words would only bruise what they’re trying to heal.
they stop at a gas station two hours out. she buys canned coffee and seaweed chips. he buys cigarettes and a lighter shaped like a cartoon frog.
“seriously?” she asks, laughing.
“it called to me.”
they reach a quiet town by sunset. no neon lights. no noise. just the ocean, whispering to itself in the distance.
they find a cheap inn. small, faded, the kind with paper-thin walls and a single queen bed.
she raises an eyebrow when they walk in.
“we’re really doing the ‘only one bed’ cliché?”
“unless you want the floor.”
she looks at him.
“you’d sleep on it if i asked, wouldn’t you?”
he shrugs. “probably.”
she doesn’t ask.
that night, they walk barefoot on the beach.
moonlight painting her skin in silver. his jacket draped over her shoulders. the wind curling around their ankles like it’s trying to eavesdrop.
“did you love him?” jungkook asks quietly.
not accusing. just... wondering.
“yes,” she says. “but i didn’t trust him.”
he nods slowly.
“and me?”
she looks out at the sea.
its vastness. its calm.
“you terrify me,” she says. “because i do.”
he doesn’t say anything. just moves closer. rests his forehead against hers, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment.
“good,” he whispers. “because i’ve already fallen.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
they make love like they’re writing a letter with their bodies.
not rushed. not rough.
just real.
his hands are careful. hers are desperate. like she’s trying to crawl inside his ribcage and live there.
he kisses her like a prayer. and she touches him like an apology for every wall she ever built.
and afterward, she cries.
not from sadness.
but because it’s the first time she’s ever felt safe in someone else’s arms and not wanted to run.
the next morning, she wakes before him.
steps outside with one of his cigarettes and the cartoon frog lighter, watching the sun rise over the sea.
she thinks about the girl she was before jimin. and the version of herself she almost became after.
and then she thinks about jungkook — bare-faced and warm-voiced, the boy who let her fall apart and never once asked her to hurry up and heal.
she lights the cigarette.
takes one drag.
and lets the rest burn out in the sand.
when he finds her, she’s sitting on the hood of the car, barefoot, eyes red.
“bad dream?” he asks.
“no,” she says. “i think it was a goodbye.”
“to what?”
she pauses.
“to the part of me that thought love had to hurt to be real.”
he nods. climbs up beside her.
“and what now?”
she leans against his shoulder.
“now we drive until we forget why we were ever afraid.”
they come back on a tuesday.
not on purpose. not planned.
just… when the world feels steady enough to try again.
the skyline creeps into view as the sun dips low behind the towers. tokyo blinks awake like it never missed them. like the neon never noticed their absence.
but y/n feels it — the shift in the air.
like the city is holding its breath.
waiting.
watching.
remembering.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
jungkook parks outside her apartment but doesn’t turn the engine off.
she looks over at him.
he’s chewing on the ring in his lip again. a nervous habit. one she’s only seen three times — once when he kissed her for the first time. once when he met jimin. and now.
“you okay?” she asks.
he nods. then shakes his head. then shrugs.
“what if it’s not enough?” he says. “what we had out there. what we found.”
“it wasn’t enough,” she says quietly. “not for this city. not for everything waiting for us inside.”
his jaw tightens.
“but it was enough for me.”
she leans over the console, presses her forehead to his.
“so we don’t try to bring that back with us. we build something new. right here. with all the mess.”
he closes his eyes. breathes her in.
“okay.”
they fall back into a rhythm, but not the same one.
she goes back to work at the shop. he gets called in for more late-night shifts at the bar. their days stretch thin and their nights get quieter — but not colder.
he sleeps over more. she drinks less. they talk in small ways, in glances, in how her hand always finds his under tables and blankets and dreams.
but the quiet isn’t peaceful.
not all the time.
sometimes it feels like the calm before another kind of storm.
the first time she sees jimin again, it’s by accident.
she’s walking home from the store, bag of tangerines in one arm, when she sees him standing at a crosswalk.
he doesn’t see her.
he’s smiling at someone else. a girl. unfamiliar.
and something in y/n’s chest loosens. not out of relief. not jealousy.
just… release.
like she can finally stop holding her breath around his name.
she keeps walking. doesn’t say anything.
but when she gets home, jungkook notices the shift in her.
“you okay?” he asks, handing her a glass of water.
she nods.
“i saw him.”
he doesn’t ask who. he already knows.
“did it hurt?” he asks.
“no,” she says. “and i think that’s what surprised me.”
they fall asleep on the couch that night. legs tangled. hearts a little lighter.
but she dreams of rain.
of wet streets and empty train stations and voices she can’t quite make out.
when she wakes, jungkook is watching her.
“you talk in your sleep,” he says.
“what did i say?”
he hesitates.
“you said, don’t go yet.”
she doesn’t know if it was about him.
or someone else.
maybe it doesn’t matter.
because he’s still there — warm and real and looking at her like she’s the only thing worth staying for.
and that?
that’s more than she’s ever had.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
the night starts ordinary.
takeout on the counter. music low. her feet in his lap.
he’s reading something on his phone, brows furrowed. she’s picking vegetables out of her noodles and tossing them onto his plate.
he lets her.
he always does.
“you okay?” she asks.
“yeah.”
she doesn’t press. but his jaw is tight. his answers shorter.
so when he pulls away slightly, she feels it like a cut.
“jungkook,” she says slowly, “what’s going on?”
he sets his phone down.
doesn’t look at her.
“jimin messaged me.”
silence.
sharp. total.
“…what?”
“a week ago.”
she blinks. the air shifts.
“and you’re just telling me now?”
“i didn’t know if it mattered.”
“you didn’t know if it—” her voice breaks. “jungkook, he was my everything. and you let me sit next to you for a week not knowing he reached out to you?”
his eyes flash.
“and what would’ve changed if i told you? what — you’d run to him again? fall into that mess one more time?”
her mouth parts. stung.
“you don’t get to decide what i do with the truth.”
“and you don’t get to punish me for trying to protect what we have.”
a pause.
then her voice, softer, but sharper too.
“you don’t trust me.”
his face falters.
“it’s not that.”
“yes, it is. you think i’m still half in love with him.”
“aren’t you?” he asks, and he hates himself for how bitter it sounds.
she steps back. like he hit her.
and maybe he did.
not with his hands — but with doubt. and that’s almost worse.
she grabs her coat.
he stands. “y/n—”
“i just need air.”
he watches her go.
and this time?
he lets her.
she walks for hours.
through alleys. down old streets. past the vending machine where jungkook first kissed her with trembling hands and too much hope.
everything looks the same.
but it feels different.
because now she knows what it’s like to be seen — really seen — and still feared.
to be loved and doubted.
to be held and let go, all at once.
when she comes back, the lights are still on.
he’s sitting on the floor.
eyes red. hair a mess. fists clenched.
“i’m sorry,” he says, before she even speaks.
“why didn’t you tell me?”
he exhales.
“because i’ve never had anything this good. and i thought — if i just didn’t mention it, it couldn’t break.”
“but love isn’t something you protect by hiding. it’s something you share. even when it’s ugly. even when it hurts.”
he nods.
“i know that now.”
she sits beside him.
leans her head on his shoulder.
“he was my past,” she whispers. “you’re my choice. do you understand the difference?”
his breath catches.
and then she feels it — the tremble in his chest, the way his fingers twitch toward hers.
he doesn’t kiss her.
he just holds her.
and this time?
it’s enough.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
three weeks pass.
they start slow, again.
like rewinding a film and watching it with new eyes.
this time, there are rules.
no secrets. no assumptions. and no walking out without saying goodbye.
they still fight sometimes — over small things. over nothing. over everything they’re afraid to say louder.
but now they stay.
now, they come back.
one night, she’s closing up the shop when a man in a clean suit and expensive shoes walks in.
he says her name like it’s been years.
“y/n.”
she stares.
“mr. hamada?”
he used to work for her father. one of the few who stayed after everything went quiet.
he smiles.
“you were always the one with fire.”
“what do you want?”
he hands her a card. the edges gold-foiled. on the back: a logo she recognizes instantly — project kasumi, a custom automotive design company based in osaka.
“we’re expanding,” he says. “we need a lead engineer. someone who understands not just machines… but how they move people.”
she stares at the card.
“and what do you need from me?”
“just a yes.”
her pulse thrums. somewhere between thrill and panic.
“i’ll think about it.”
he nods.
“not too long. this offer isn’t waiting.”
that night, she tells jungkook.
his mouth is slightly open the entire time. like the idea of her leaving — not forever, not even that far — was never one he let himself imagine.
“osaka,” he repeats.
“it’s not like i’d be gone forever.”
“but you’d be gone.”
“i haven’t said yes.”
he runs a hand through his hair. stands. starts pacing.
and then: “would you want me to come with you?”
she looks up.
freezes.
because she hadn’t let herself ask that question yet.
“i—i don’t know.”
honest. brutal.
he sits beside her again. quieter.
“i wouldn’t stop you,” he says. “but i’m not going to pretend it wouldn’t break me a little.”
her hand finds his. wraps around it.
“i’m just afraid,” she says.
“of what?”
“that if i leave, i lose the version of us that finally fits.”
he shakes his head.
“maybe we don’t lose it. maybe it just changes clothes.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
two nights later, temptation arrives in a leather jacket and a lazy grin.
her name is sola.
she walks into the bar and says jungkook’s name like a song — old, familiar, a little dangerous.
y/n sees it all.
the flicker in his eyes. the hesitation. the memory that comes uninvited.
“an old friend?” she asks when sola leaves.
he hesitates.
“we used to be something,” he says. “before tokyo. before you.”
“does she still want to be?”
he doesn’t answer.
he doesn’t have to.
that night, y/n lies in bed facing the wall.
he lies behind her, one arm around her waist.
but she feels it.
the space in his breath.
like he’s somewhere else.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
the next morning, she finds a note on the counter.
i need to clear my head. don’t wait up.
just that.
no “love, jk.” no heart. no soft postscript.
just space. again.
she goes to the beach.
sits in the sand for hours, knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the waves like they might answer a question she can’t form.
when she gets home, he’s there.
wet hair. bare feet. eyes rimmed in something raw.
“i saw her,” he says before she can speak.
“i figured.”
“nothing happened. i just… i needed to know i was really over it.”
her throat tightens.
“and are you?”
he doesn’t blink.
“yes. because i came home to you.”
a silence.
and then:
“but i won’t follow you to osaka.”
she stares.
“what?”
“not yet. i need to be here. finish some things. figure out who i am outside of us.”
a long, splintering pause.
then she nods.
“okay.”
and somehow?
that hurts more than if he’d begged her to stay.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
three weeks later, she accepts the job.
she moves into a tiny apartment with rusted pipes and an ocean view.
the first night alone, she cries harder than she has in years.
and the next morning, she builds something new.
because love didn’t die.
it just changed clothes.
it’s been two months.
the calls are less frequent now. the texts — shorter. sometimes unfinished.
miss you.
busy tonight.
you okay?
yeah.
sometimes she scrolls all the way back to the beginning of their message thread. back when he still sent pictures of his dinners and voice notes that ended in soft laughter.
now, she stares at a gray bubble that never turns blue.
and wonders when missing became mistranslation.
the challenge comes in the form of a phone call.
“we’ve had an offer,” hamada says. “someone wants to buy your father’s old patent. the engine redesign. the one that caused all the legal mess.”
her blood runs cold.
“who?”
“a private investor. anonymous. but the offer’s real.”
she swallows hard.
“can i think about it?”
“you have three days.”
when the call ends, she stares at the blueprint in her hands.
the one her father left behind. the one jimin burned bridges for. the one that wrecked everything, including her.
and now… jungkook isn’t here to ask what to do.
she doesn’t call him.
at first, out of pride. then out of habit. then because… maybe he wouldn’t answer.
meanwhile.
jungkook can’t stop staring at the cracked mirror in his bathroom.
he’d meant to fix it weeks ago. meant to replace the bulb that flickers. meant to repaint the ceiling stain that looks like a question mark.
but nothing gets done.
because everything reminds him of her. of how whole things felt when she was brushing her teeth beside him, half-asleep, humming songs under her breath.
he almost texts her five times.
“did you eat today?”
“i saw a car that looked like yours.”
“do you still sleep with your socks on?”
“i hate this city without you.”
but he never presses send.
because if he does, he’s afraid she’ll say what he already knows:
we’re not the same anymore.
he goes to the shop. starts working longer hours. fixes cars like he’s fixing something inside himself.
but every night, it gets quiet again.
and she’s not there to fill it.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
on the second night, she opens the box.
the one with the court papers, the designs, the photographs.
and at the very bottom — a note. scribbled in her father’s handwriting:
"you were always the one who knew where the engine really lived. not in the machine. in the way it made people move."
it wrecks her.
not because it’s beautiful.
but because she can’t remember the last time she let herself feel moved by anything.
she calls jimin.
it takes him three rings to answer.
“hey,” he says, wary.
“i’m not calling to fight.”
“then why are you calling?”
she closes her eyes.
“because i’m scared.”
a pause.
“you’ve never said that before.”
“i know.”
he listens.
and for the first time in years, he doesn’t try to fix it.
just hears her.
“do you still love him?” he asks quietly.
her breath catches.
“i never stopped.”
“then why are you letting it fall apart?”
she whispers, “because we forgot how to hold it.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
on the third day, she decides not to sell.
instead, she reworks the blueprint. stays up all night. coffee, grease, tears.
she turns it into something new — something faster, more sustainable, hers.
and when she’s done…
she sends it to jungkook.
no words. just the file.
and a single sentence:
“i want you to build this with me.”
he doesn’t reply that night.
or the next.
but on the third day, a knock on her door.
she opens it.
he’s standing there. soaked from rain. eyes heavy.
a thumb drive in his hand.
“i made some changes,” he says.
she stares at him.
and everything unsaid rushes in like floodwater.
“why didn’t you call?” she whispers.
“i thought you’d moved on.”
“and i thought you stopped trying.”
they look at each other.
and all the space between them… shrinks.
he steps in.
not with a kiss.
but with hands that shake when they touch hers.
“i still don’t know how to do this right,” he says.
“me neither.”
“but i want to try again.”
she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“then let’s stop trying to fix what we were,” she says.
“and start building what we could be.”
it begins softly.
coffee. shared notebooks. mornings with grease on their hands instead of regret.
they’re building something — the engine, yes.
but also something quieter.
something like trust.
he calls it the second try.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
she doesn’t name it. just presses her hand to his chest some nights to feel if his heartbeat still stutters when she’s close.
it does.
they work out of a quiet garage outside osaka.
the air smells like old paint and rain.
he sketches. she rewires. they argue over millimeters and voltage.
and at night, she cooks and he cleans, and they pretend that none of it is fragile.
but it is.
god, it is.
and then it happens.
she gets a call from hamada while she’s at the market.
he doesn’t waste time.
“we got a letter. anonymous. claiming the patent design is still your father’s property. they’re threatening to sue if we launch.”
her blood runs cold.
“do they have proof?”
“only if someone gave it to them.”
her mind spirals.
jimin? no — he’d never. not after everything they lost.
but someone else knew. someone who had access.
and then she realizes: only two people have the updated design.
her.
and jungkook.
she doesn’t accuse him right away.
she just… watches.
his hands. his words. how he avoids her eyes the next morning when she brings up the leak.
he says all the right things.
but his voice has that tightness — the one he gets when he’s not saying something.
she finally asks:
“did you send the file to anyone?”
he stills.
“…i showed it to someone. an old friend from seoul. just for feedback.”
“why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“because i didn’t think it mattered.”
her voice breaks.
“everything matters now.”
he looks at her.
and in that second, she sees it.
the fear. the shame.
the undoing.
“i wanted to help,” he says. “i thought if i could show someone how brilliant you are, maybe they’d back us. maybe you’d get the credit you deserve.”
“so you shared the one thing i asked you to build with me?”
he opens his mouth.
closes it.
“i was scared you’d leave again,” he says finally. “and i needed to know i could still do something that mattered.”
her heart fractures.
not because he hurt her.
but because he still doesn’t see that he already mattered.
she packs a bag that night.
just one. small. not everything. just… enough.
“i’m not leaving for good,” she says.
he nods. but doesn’t look at her.
“i just need to remember who i am without you for a second.”
his voice is a whisper:
“and if you forget what it felt like to be us?”
she blinks. something catches in her throat.
“i won’t.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
she drives all night.
ends up at a hotel by the ocean. the same one her parents once took her to before everything fell apart.
she lies in bed. staring at the ceiling.
crying so hard her chest feels like it’s caving in.
and then—
a knock.
soft. hesitant.
when she opens the door, she half-expects to see him.
but it’s a front desk clerk.
“someone left this for you.”
a package.
inside:
a sketch. the engine. with her notes scribbled in his handwriting.
a photograph of them at the garage, grease on their faces, smiling like the world couldn’t touch them.
and a letter.
"you once told me love isn't a thing you protect by hiding. i didn't listen. but i’m listening now. if you never come back, i’ll understand. but if you do... the key’s under the flowerpot. and the lights will be on."
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
she drives home at dawn.
she doesn’t knock.
just opens the door.
he’s asleep on the couch. curled up. small in a way she’s never seen him.
she drops her bag.
sits beside him.
and when he stirs, she whispers, “i didn’t forget.”
his eyes open.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes.
“i know.”
she touches his face.
and this time — when they kiss, it’s not out of fear, or desperation, or need.
it’s a quiet, aching promise:
next time, we don’t break this.
they don’t talk about the letter.
not right away.
she comes back. unpacks her bag like she’s never left. puts her mug back on the shelf next to his.
and he doesn't ask for forgiveness. he just acts like someone who’s already forgiven himself.
which might be the most fragile thing of all.
but she doesn’t break it.
because something about this version of him — gentle, open, trying — reminds her of who she used to be.
not the girl with walls. but the one who built engines like poetry and believed in things like forever.
they work again.
side by side.
a few inches between them at the worktable. sometimes brushing hands. sometimes stealing glances.
there’s laughter again, too. hesitant at first. then easier. like their bodies remembered how to be soft around each other before their minds caught up.
he burns his hand soldering something. she calls him an idiot while blowing gently on his skin.
he laughs through the sting.
“worth it.”
she looks at him.
serious.
“don’t you dare disappear again.”
“not even if i’m scared?”
“especially not then.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
the launch is two weeks away.
they’ve been accepted into osaka drivetech expo — a big-name showcase that could change everything.
they work late nights. double-checking torque ratios and simulation outputs.
and one night, after sixteen hours in the garage, she collapses onto the couch, grease on her cheek.
“do you think we’re good enough?” she asks.
he sits next to her.
“you are.”
“i meant us.”
he doesn’t answer right away.
then:
“i think we’ve been broken. but not beyond repair.”
she turns toward him.
“what if we mess it up again?”
he shrugs, soft.
“then we try again. and again. until it sticks.”
the night before the expo, it rains.
not just a drizzle.
a storm.
the garage roof leaks in three places.
half their tools are soaked.
he throws a tarp over the engine. they both stand there in silence, watching everything they’ve built hang by a thread.
she sits down on the floor. defeated.
“maybe we’re cursed.”
he doesn’t laugh.
just kneels in front of her.
“maybe,” he says. “but even if we are… i’d rather be cursed with you than lucky without you.”
she closes her eyes.
lets that hit.
lets herself believe that even if they lose everything again… they won’t lose each other.
they make it to the expo.
barely.
the engine stutters during the first test.
jungkook swears under his breath. she adjusts the calibration in real-time with shaking fingers.
then—
it starts.
smooth.
flawless.
people crowd. ask questions. take photos.
someone from redline technologies pulls them aside.
“we’d like to talk about licensing this.”
her jaw drops.
jungkook just grins at her like she hung the stars.
that night, they don’t go out to celebrate.
they go home.
he pours wine. she puts on music. low, slow, something warm.
they end up on the couch. his head in her lap.
she plays with his hair.
“i still don’t know if we’ll make it forever,” she says.
he blinks up at her.
“me neither.”
a beat.
“but tonight feels close enough.”
and then—
quietly.
tentatively.
he slides his hand up her thigh, resting it there.
she doesn’t move.
just shifts so she’s straddling him, the wine long forgotten.
his hands find her hips.
hers trace the scar on his collarbone.
not out of lust.
out of memory.
out of all the things they lost, and all the things they’re learning to hold again.
“tell me something true,” she whispers against his neck.
he breathes her in.
“i’ve never wanted anyone the way i want you when you’re angry and messy and tired and still show up.”
her eyes sting.
not from sadness.
from the kind of joy that feels like grief in reverse.
she kisses him. slow. deliberate. unhurried.
and when they finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers.
“if we fall—”
“we fall together.”
the offer comes quietly.
a call. 9:42 a.m. from redline technologies.
they want her.
not the engine. not them.
just her.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
a position in tokyo — head of innovation. six figures. full creative freedom. a team of engineers waiting for her sketches.
"we want to invest in you, y/n. not just your design. full relocation. training. long-term."
she says nothing for a beat too long.
“i need time to think.”
when she tells jungkook, he doesn’t react at first.
just nods.
keeps tightening the bolt he was working on.
“and?” he says, voice too neutral.
“i haven’t decided.”
“but you want to.”
it’s not a question.
and that’s what makes it worse.
the next few days hurt more than any argument ever could.
they don’t yell.
they just… fade around each other.
breakfasts eaten at different times.
notes left on counters instead of conversations.
he sleeps on the couch again — not because they fought, but because the bed feels too intimate when the air between them is anything but.
“i didn’t ask for this,” she finally says one night.
he’s sitting on the garage floor, oil on his hands, silence in his eyes.
“i know.”
“then why does it feel like you’re punishing me for being wanted?”
his jaw clenches.
“because for the first time, someone else sees how brilliant you are — and maybe they won’t waste it the way i did.”
her heart cracks.
“you didn’t waste it. we built this.”
“and now you get to leave it behind.”
she steps forward.
“i don’t want to leave you.”
“then why does this feel like goodbye?”
jimin shows up the next morning.
just walks in, sets down two coffees, and says:
“you idiots are both miserable. figure it out.”
they stare at him.
he shrugs.
“you think love is always aligned? it’s not. sometimes it pulls you in two directions. the choice isn’t between each other and success. the choice is whether you take the leap together.”
he leaves.
and they sit in that silence.
each holding something sharp inside them they don’t know how to set down.
that night, she finds jungkook in the garage again.
he’s working on a replica of their prototype — smaller, cleaner, like a gift he hasn’t wrapped yet.
she sits beside him.
he doesn’t look at her.
until she places something on the table:
a copy of the offer. unsigned.
“they want me,” she says quietly. “but i want you.”
his throat works.
“so what are you saying?”
“i want both.”
“what if we can’t have both?”
“then we figure out a new way.”
a pause.
“you could come with me,” she offers.
he shakes his head. not no — just uncertain.
“i don’t belong in tokyo.”
“then i’ll split my time. or we open another garage there. or — i don’t know, jungkook. but i don’t want to do this without you.”
finally, he looks at her.
and everything unsaid rushes in again — but this time, it doesn't shatter them.
it holds.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
the next morning, they send an email to redline together.
she accepts.
but requests a delayed start.
“we’re finishing something first,” she tells them.
because they are.
not just a prototype.
but a version of themselves that doesn’t end when things get hard.
it's quiet when it ends.
no explosions.
no grand declarations.
just the soft click of the garage light being turned off one last time before they leave for tokyo.
they don’t sell the place.
they leave it like a memory — full of oil-stained rags, unfinished sketches, and sunlight that still filters in through the cracked window.
“we’ll come back,” she says.
he nods.
not like a promise. more like a prayer.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
tokyo is loud.
but they find pockets of quiet in it.
a tiny apartment with too-small windows and a too-soft bed.
a late-night diner with the best miso soup she’s ever tasted.
a rooftop that catches the sunrise just right.
he doesn’t work for anyone else.
just her.
fixes up old bikes. starts his own thing in the back alley of a neighborhood that barely notices — until someone hears the hum of the engine he built and starts asking questions.
by spring, he's booked months ahead.
she finds him there sometimes, in a sweat-streaked shirt, playing his music too loud and cursing at rusted bolts.
and when he sees her—
every single time—
he smiles like it’s still the first time.
some days are hard.
she misses the way jimin used to lean on her shoulder without asking. he misses the silence of their osaka nights.
some days she stares at the city lights and wonders if she’s chasing a version of herself that doesn't exist anymore.
some days he feels like a shadow walking beside her brilliance.
and still—
they stay.
not because it's perfect.
but because they chose this.
they are building this.
one night, a year in, he wakes up to find her gone from bed.
he panics. stumbles into the kitchen, heart pounding.
she’s there.
barefoot, in one of his shirts, eating ice cream out of the tub, staring out the window like the city might give her a sign.
“bad dream?” he asks.
she nods.
then: “what if it all falls apart again?”
he exhales.
walks to her.
presses his forehead against hers.
“then we build it again.”
a beat.
“and again,” she whispers.
and again.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
they never marry.
not because they don’t believe in it.
but because they don’t need the paper to mean “i choose you.”
instead, they build things.
engines. safe spaces. a life so messy and stitched-together that no one else could survive in it but them.
and somehow — that’s enough.
the story ends not with goodbye, but with a late drive through tokyo.
the windows down. the streets humming. her feet on the dash, his hand on her thigh.
music low.
a silence between them that feels like trust.
like everything they couldn’t say and everything they don’t need to anymore.
she turns to him.
smiles.
“you still glad you stayed?”
he doesn’t even look away from the road.
just squeezes her hand.
and says, “always.”
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
authors note. thank you so much for taking time to read this one shot! luv u guys all!! :3
after midnight, before you. (m) jjk oneshot.
part one. part two paring. jungkook x reader genre. strangers to lovers, toxic relationships, angst, slow burn word count. 7k+ summary. she’s the city: untouchable, too bright, and far away. he’s the stranger who starts to feel like a mirror. ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒
it’s raining the first time he sees her.
not the romantic kind. not the warm, movie-scene drizzle that softens the world or smells like something new.
this rain is merciless. unforgiving. cold. the kind that sticks to your skin like regret and won’t let go. it slicks the streets of tokyo in a harsh kind of neon, turning puddles into mirrors that reflect nothing true. red lights bleed into blue. headlights streak like memories he doesn’t want to revisit.
jungkook walks.
no umbrella. no direction. just his hoodie pulled low and his thoughts pulled lower. his boots slap against wet concrete, ignored by the world — just another shadow with tired eyes.
he wasn’t supposed to be here.
not in this part of town. not tonight. but the sound pulled him — low bass, pulsing like a second heartbeat — from somewhere beneath street level. a basement lounge. hidden behind a black awning, the entrance nearly swallowed by the city’s indifference.
he paused.
not because he was curious. but because the music made him stop walking.
and then—
he saw her.
not through some grand reveal. not under a spotlight or in slow motion. just... there. like she’d always been. like the city built itself around her and then forgot to tell her why.
y/n.
sitting at the edge of the bar like she belonged to the shadows.
a cigarette rested between two fingers — unlit, untouched, but burning anyway. the smoke curled like secrets from her knuckles, slow and steady, as if she didn’t care that it was wasting away in silence.
she wasn’t drinking. not really. there was a glass in front of her, half-full, untouched. she just stared ahead, the neon catching in her eyes, her hair damp and tangled from the storm, clinging to her cheeks like something she didn’t have the energy to wipe away.
and her eyes—
god, her eyes.
blank. unreachable. the kind of tired you don’t sleep off. the kind that comes from knowing too much, too young, and trusting too little, too late.
she didn’t look at him. no one did.
but something shifted.
like the moment before a car crashes. like when the elevator drops too fast and your stomach forgets how to hold you. he felt it in his ribs — that something.
maybe it was her silence. maybe it was the way she seemed untouched by the room, like she’d made herself immune to it. or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t look away.
jungkook sat down.
two stools over.
not beside her — he didn’t dare. close enough to watch. far enough to pretend he wasn’t.
he ordered nothing.
just sat there with his hands in his pockets and his chest full of something he didn’t have the words for.
and that became the pattern.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
night after night.
he returned to that bar he couldn’t name. always around the same time. always hoping, never assuming.
sometimes she was there. sometimes she wasn’t. but when she was — she was exactly the same.
hair still damp from rain. cigarette still burning but never touched. eyes that scanned the world like it owed her an apology it hadn’t delivered.
he never spoke to her.
not even the night she looked at him.
just once.
not long. not hard. just enough to know she saw him.
and then she turned back to the bar. finished nothing. paid for everything. and slipped out the door like she was made of smoke.
gone.
just like that.
and jungkook sat there, heart still holding the shape of her silhouette, realizing he didn’t know if he wanted to find her again — or just wait and see if she’d let him stay long enough to be noticed.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
a week later, it’s raining again. not a downpour, not the angry kind — but a persistent mist, fine as dust, sharp as memory. the city smells like metal and cigarettes, like rain-soaked pavement and long-forgotten promises.
she’s there. same place. same seat. but tonight she’s dressed in all black — not glamorous, not polished — just untouchable.
black leather. black boots. liner smudged under her eyes like she rubbed them raw, then decided not to care.
everything about her says “don’t ask.”
but jungkook stays anyway.
he doesn't sit beside her — not yet — just steps into the bar like he hasn’t been waiting for this moment since the last one. same quiet presence. same steady hands tucked into his pockets. same need he won’t name.
he watches her from the mirror behind the bar, the way her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes. the curve of her fingers around the glass, chipped nail polish catching the low amber light.
then—without looking at him, she speaks.
“you follow people often?”
her voice is low. dry. no trace of softness — just that edge people wear when they’ve been cornered one too many times.
jungkook blinks, surprised. he didn’t think she’d speak first.
“wasn’t following.”
“you sure?” her lips curve, but it’s not a smile. it’s something closer to a warning.
he nods once.
and then—she looks at him.
not glances. not that once-over people do when they clock your presence.
no — she sees him. eyes dark and too-clear, locking onto his like they’re searching for proof.
and something clicks.
not chemistry. not lust. something quieter. more dangerous.
recognition.
like he’s a familiar hallway she once stood in. like he’s the feeling of an old bruise, pressed gently under the skin. like she’s not sure if he reminds her of someone she knew —or someone she used to be.
“you don’t talk much,” she says after a moment, almost amused. almost curious.
he shrugs.
“don’t need to.”
she hums. then tosses back the last of her drink like she’s tired of pretending she needs that, too.
their conversations become routine.
quiet. sparse. unpolished. built out of fragments that don’t ask too much of each other.
they talk about music. about how the night sometimes stretches so long, it feels like it’s trying to tell you something. about the city — how it never sleeps, never waits, never forgives. how it devours people like them — the ones who move without maps. who feel too much but never say it out loud. who fall in love like a secret kept under the tongue.
she doesn’t ask what he’s running from. he doesn’t ask who broke her first.
there’s peace in that.
like two ghosts who’ve agreed not to haunt each other.
one night, she tells him, offhanded—
“i don’t belong to anyone.”
like it’s a line she’s said a hundred times. like it’s a truth she repeats until it stops tasting like loneliness.
and jungkook — he believes her.
he sees it in the way she never says goodbye, never stays long enough to finish her drink, never invites him into her world — but never pushes him out of it either.
still, he keeps showing up.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
after midnight. every time.
always wearing the same look — like he’s studying her without trying to. like he’s okay being the second thing she thinks about, as long as she thinks about him at all.
but even ghosts leave footprints if you know where to look.
and jungkook is starting to leave marks.
a hoodie left carelessly on her couch. his scent lingering in her sheets. the sound of his breath beside her replacing the hum of the city outside her window. the way he touches her — careful, unassuming, like she’s made of ash and he doesn’t want to blow her away.
and that terrifies her.
because it means she’s letting him in.
letting him stay.
and she never meant to.
so the next night—
she doesn’t show up.
no messages. no explanation. just absence.
like someone cut the power to a room he didn’t realize he’d grown used to sitting in.
the bar feels different. too loud, too bright. the music off-tempo. the drinks too bitter. he sits at the same stool, two down from hers, and feels the ache of almost.
the rain outside hits the glass in steady patterns. the neon reflects pink where it used to reflect blue.
and for the first time—
the city feels colder than usual.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
he waits. three nights. then four. then a full week.
no y/n. no cigarette burning slow and bitter beside untouched gin. no slight smile curling like a secret she’d never tell. just the city — loud, neon, and empty.
jungkook starts walking the streets like they might give her back. like maybe she slipped behind a ramen stand, waiting with her hood pulled low. or vanished into a cab no one else noticed. he checks the alley near the old record shop. waits too long at crosswalks. reroutes his nights like maybe she left a trail for him — smoke, cologne, something he could follow.
but the truth settles in slow, like a bruise: she’s gone.
until she’s not.
it happens on a wednesday. a gray, bleeding kind of evening — sky cracked open, air thick like something’s about to fall apart. he’s walking with no direction when he turns the corner into a back alley off shibuya. dim light. a flickering vending machine buzzing like it’s on its last breath. and there— leaning against the wall like the rain didn’t bother showing up for her.
y/n.
head tipped back, cigarette dangling between her fingers, smoke curling soft from her lips. she looks like she belongs to the city more than she ever could to a person.
she doesn’t look surprised to see him.
just… tired.
“thought i scared you off,” she says, voice scratchy like she hasn’t used it in days.
“thought you ghosted me.”
“i did.”
“why?”
she doesn’t answer right away. just stares at the puddle near her boot. kicks a pebble with the toe of her shoe.
“because you’re too good,” she mutters. “and i’m not.”
it hits harder than it should.
jungkook steps closer. one slow foot after another. like if he moves too fast, she’ll vanish again.
“i didn’t ask for good.”
she exhales smoke and regret.
“you should’ve.”
he laughs, once. a sharp sound that cracks the silence. not because it’s funny — because it hurts.
“you think i’m here because i want something perfect?”
she doesn’t answer. just looks at him — and this time, really looks. her mascara’s smudged under her eyes. lips chapped. face pale in the dim light. but god, she’s never looked more real.
“i’m here,” he says, softer now, “because even when you say nothing, it still feels like more than anyone’s ever given me.”
the words land heavy. like rain that doesn’t stop.
she blinks. doesn’t deflect. doesn’t run. doesn’t freeze.
just says —
“i missed you.”
it’s nothing. and it’s everything.
they don’t kiss. they sit on the curb, damp and cracked, knees pressed together. her head finds his shoulder slowly — not out of need, but out of trust.
and for the first time, the silence between them feels like a language.
he listens while she talks. not much, but enough.
about the first boy who said he’d stay and didn’t. about the friend who took more than they ever gave. about the night she learned needing is just a prettier word for losing.
“but i kept thinking about you,” she admits, voice barely there. “about the way you never asked me to be less.”
“maybe you don’t need fixing.”
she smiles, barely. a flicker of something fragile.
“you don’t know the whole story.”
“i don’t need it all. just the parts you want to give.”
later, at her apartment — it’s quiet. too quiet. like the air knows not to intrude.
she walks barefoot. slips into the hoodie he left behind. it hangs low on her thighs, sleeves bunched at her wrists. like it’s meant for her.
“stay,” she says. not pleading. not romantic. just honest.
so he does.
doesn’t touch her at first. just watches. as she folds laundry with shaky hands. as she pours tea and pretends her heart isn’t hammering.
when she finally sinks onto the couch beside him, legs tucked under her, eyes a little wary— he places his hand over hers.
gentle. steady. like asking for permission without words.
she leans in, rests her forehead against his.
“i don’t know what this is,” she breathes.
“it doesn’t have to be anything yet.”
but it is.
it’s something.
because when he brushes his thumb across her knuckles, she doesn’t pull away. when she lets him hold her, it feels like letting go of every wall she’s ever built. and when their lips finally meet — barely, like breath — it’s not a kiss.
it’s a confession in disguise.
the next morning, it’s raining again. but this time, it’s soft. comforting. like background noise to a life that finally feels still.
jungkook wakes to the sound of her breathing. not even. not deep. like her body’s still deciding if this peace is safe.
she’s curled into his side. wearing his shirt. hand fisted at the hem like she’s afraid it’ll disappear.
he doesn’t move. just listens. watches the rain bead against the window.
eventually, she stirs. doesn’t lift her head.
“you stayed.”
“you told me to.”
“you didn’t have to listen.”
he smiles into her hair.
“you didn’t have to mean it.”
she laughs — small and soft, almost startled by the sound.
he thinks he might be in love with the way her laugh feels like morning.
they don’t leave the apartment that day. coffee. silence. the occasional murmur of vinyl playing low in the background.
she learns he hums when he brushes his teeth. he learns she alphabetizes her spices.
at 3pm, the power cuts out.
the whole city goes dim for a moment. and inside, it’s just them — candlelight, shadow, and everything they’re too afraid to say.
“you keep letting me in,” he says, watching her trace circles on her mug.
“don’t know how to stop.”
he crosses the room. takes the mug from her gently. sets it aside like it’s fragile.
“then don’t.”
the kiss that follows isn’t heat. it’s gravity.
her hands in his hair like a question. his breath stalling in his throat as he memorizes the way she trembles.
“jungkook,” she whispers.
and he swears he could live inside that sound.
later — when the sheets are tangled and the candle’s burned low, when her back is to his chest and her breath’s catching in the hush between heartbeats —
“you scare me,” she says.
he brushes his fingers along her spine.
“why?”
“because you make me want to stay.”
“then stay.”
she turns. looks him in the eye.
“don’t promise things you don’t mean.”
“i’m not.”
“then say it.”
he leans in. kisses her temple like it’s sacred.
“stay. don’t leave.”
the city looks different now. not cleaner. not softer. just known.
the streets aren’t just streets anymore. they’re memory. every corner, every shadow — a map of how they found each other in a place that almost devoured them both.
and maybe she still doesn’t belong to anyone.
but tonight — with the scent of him on her skin and his heartbeat steady against her back —
she doesn’t feel lost anymore.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
she hasn’t called jungkook in two days.
not because she doesn’t want to. but because wanting feels dangerous in a way that being alone never did. wanting means hope. hope means risk. and risk is what broke her the last time.
still, she walks through her apartment like he’s there. his hoodie — still draped over the back of her chair — carries the ghost of him, worn soft by her grip. his cologne lingers on her pillow like a secret she’s too afraid to wash away. his voice — or maybe just the idea of it — echoes in the silence she used to crave.
meanwhile, jungkook waits. quietly. reluctantly. he told himself he’d give her space, and he meant it — but it doesn’t mean he’s okay. he spends his nights with the lights off and the window cracked open, as if the city might carry her voice back to him. as if she might be out there, whispering stay into the wind.
on the third night, it rains. again. like the sky knows how to narrate their story.
he almost doesn’t hear the knock — soft, hesitant, the kind you make when you're not sure you deserve to be let in. but when he opens the door, she’s standing there. soaked through. hair clinging to her cheeks. eyes red and swollen like she’s been arguing with herself for hours.
“i didn’t know where else to go,” she says, voice cracking open like a confession.
it undoes him.
he pulls her inside without a word. wraps a towel around her shoulders. brushes her hair back from her face like it’s instinct.
he doesn’t ask what took her so long.
but she tells him anyway.
“i think i’m broken,” she breathes, trembling. “and i don’t know how to be with someone who sees that and still stays.”
his arms go around her then — not in pity, not to fix. but to anchor. to prove she’s not slipping through his fingers this time.
“you’re not broken,” he says, his voice more breath than sound. “you’re just tired of pretending you’re not.”
they don’t sleep that night.
they lie tangled in each other on his bed — no distance, no masks, just skin and warmth and the quiet thunder of trust. his fingertips map the curves of her back, slow and reverent, like he's tracing a prayer.
“did someone tell you love was conditional?” he whispers in the dark.
“no,” she answers after a long pause. “they showed me.”
and it wrecks him. because now he understands — the recoil, the silence, the moments where she almost lets herself be soft before snapping shut again. she wasn’t taught love. she was taught survival.
so he pulls her closer, kisses the crown of her head. lets her fall asleep against his heartbeat. hoping maybe, just maybe, she’ll let it lull her into safety.
when she wakes, she expects the ache. the weight. the sharp pull in her chest that tells her to run before she gets too close.
but it’s not there.
he is.
lying beside her with his arm slung across her waist and his breath warm on her shoulder. looking at her like she’s something worth staying for.
“you okay?” he asks, voice heavy with sleep.
she hesitates.
then, honest: “i’m not okay. but i want to be.”
he smiles, slow and easy. “then let me help.”
and for the first time in years, she doesn’t flinch. she doesn’t build a wall. she just breathes — shaky but present.
he notices the cracks, still. the way she tenses when he brushes hair from her face. how compliments make her uncomfortable, like she’s afraid kindness is currency. how she clings to him in the dark, like she’s afraid morning will make him disappear. but he stays.
and he waits.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
one night, she sits by the window, wrapped in one of his old hoodies that swallows her whole. he never asked for it back — not once. the city behind her glows soft and blue, a blur of lights and loneliness. she turns a cigarette over in her fingers but doesn’t light it.
“what happened to you?” he asks gently.
not like he’s prying. like he’s offering space to bleed.
she’s quiet for a long time. then—
“you ever give someone everything,” she murmurs, “and watch them walk away like it never meant a thing?”
his chest tightens.
“i was nineteen. he was older. dangerous in a way i thought was romantic. he made me feel wanted. until i wasn’t.”
she swallows. hard.
“i gave him too much. pieces of myself i didn’t know how to ask back for. and when i stopped performing — when i was just me — he left.”
her voice trembles. “i broke myself trying to be enough for someone who only loved the idea of me.”
jungkook doesn’t speak. just kneels in front of her, eyes soft, hands open.
“so now i leave first,” she whispers. “i make it easy. i keep things physical. nothing deep. nothing real.”
she finally meets his gaze. and the vulnerability there is staggering.
“but you,” she says, voice almost breaking, “you didn’t leave.”
“you tried,” he says.
“i did.”
“but you’re still here.”
and that’s when it hits her — she is. despite the fear. despite every instinct telling her to bolt.
she’s here. in his hoodie. in his arms. in this moment where the air feels lighter because she stopped holding her breath.
and maybe she’s not ready to say the word for what this is. but it doesn’t matter. because she’s finally staying.
and that means everything.
they end up on the floor, somehow — all tangled limbs and cotton and the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.
not sex. not that kind of intimacy. this is something quieter. more terrifying. the kind of closeness that strips you bare without ever touching skin.
she’s lying on her back, hair fanned out across the old woven rug, cheeks still flushed from laughing too hard at something neither of them will remember in the morning. he’s beside her, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other tracing shapes across the space just beneath her ribs — featherlight and deliberate, like he’s mapping her into memory. his fingertips draw figure eights and broken circles, and she feels each one like a secret pressed into her skin.
he’s not asking for anything. not her body, not her story. just… this. this moment. this nearness.
and she lets him. because if she speaks, she might ruin it. if she moves, he might stop.
her voice is a whisper, more breath than sound: “do you believe in soulmates?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just turns his head to look at her. really look at her. like she’s a riddle he’s not trying to solve — just understand. his eyes are soft, endless. like dusk.
“i think,” he says slowly, “some people find you right when you’ve stopped looking. right when you’ve convinced yourself that no one will.”
her breath hitches. the kind of inhale that comes from something deeper than surprise — recognition. hurt. hope.
“you found me,” she whispers.
“you let me,” he says, and it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever spoken.
he leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead — nothing flashy, nothing rushed. just stillness. devotion in its quietest form. a promise written in skin and stillness and warm breath.
her voice shakes. not from fear, but from the weight of being known.
“please don’t break me.”
his arms curl around her, slow and certain, like he’s trying to hold her together.
“i won’t,” he murmurs.
then — softer — “but if you ever need to fall apart… i’ll be the place you do it.”
she tucks her face into the space between his jaw and his collarbone. he smells like sleep and shampoo and something softer, something hers.
time loses its shape after that. minutes melt. the rain returns, tapping against the windows like it’s trying to be let in.
she’s half-asleep when she says it.
“i think i love you.”
it’s so quiet, he almost misses it. and for a second, her breath catches, like she wants to pull it back — like naming it makes it real, and real things can be taken.
he doesn’t say it back. not because he doesn’t feel it. but because words like that — from her — deserve more than reflex.
so instead, he pulls her closer. presses a kiss to her temple. breathes her name into her hair like it’s a vow. stay. not spoken, but known.
because sometimes the most honest thing you can say is nothing at all. just this. just don’t go.
and for a while, she doesn’t.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
love feels different in the daylight. less like a secret. less like a dream. more like something that could disappear if someone looked too closely.
she wakes before him.
the light filters through the curtains in soft, golden bands, slicing the room into hush and warmth. jungkook is still asleep — on his back now, one arm bent above his head, the other resting across the space where she used to be. even in sleep, he reaches for her. even in stillness, he’s looking.
she watches him for a long time. quiet. unmoving. like she’s trying to memorize him the way he did her.
and all she can think is: how strange it is, that someone can make you feel like home and a threat all at once.
her chest aches with it. the wanting. the fear.
so she slips out of bed, slow and careful, like leaving too fast might wake the truth.
not because she wants to go. but because she needs air. and she doesn’t know how to breathe when he’s looking at her like that — like she’s worth something. like staying might be safe.
the floor creaks under her bare feet. the front door clicks closed behind her, soft and final.
jungkook wakes to cold sheets. the space beside him empty. the echo of her body already fading.
his chest tightens before his eyes even open. his hands find only fabric and absence.
don’t do this, he thinks, staring at the ceiling. not again.
but he doesn’t call her. doesn’t chase.
instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, and breathes through the quiet.
if she’s worth it, he tells himself, she’ll come back.
what neither of them knows is that the city is already pulling strings behind the curtain.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
tokyo, with its endless neon veins and quiet alleys that remember too much, is humming with ghosts. ghosts of past lives. ghosts of old names said in whispers. ghosts of the girl y/n used to be — before the leaving, before the silence.
and one of them has a face.
leather jacket. crooked smile. the kind of eyes she used to write poems about in the backs of notebooks and never show anyone.
jimin.
she sees him outside a konbini, just past midnight, under the flicker of a buzzing streetlight that can’t decide whether to stay on or die. he’s leaning against a vending machine like time never touched him. like the past two years were a blink. like he didn’t disappear with half her heart and not even the decency of a goodbye.
“y/n?” he says, like her name still belongs to him. like it doesn’t feel like a wound in his mouth.
she goes still. every part of her. blood. bone. breath. a reaction carved into her from a hundred memories she tried to forget. from a hundred nights she waited for a text that never came.
“what do you want?” she asks, voice flat, deadpan, practiced. it’s the only thing that keeps her from shaking.
he raises his hands, mock-innocent. like he’s a misunderstood character in a play he wrote and directed.
“i’m back in town,” he says. “thought maybe we could catch up.”
catch up?
like he didn’t ruin her. like he wasn’t the first boy to pull her inside out with gentle hands and then walk away when she had nothing left. like he didn’t teach her that loving someone means giving them the map to destroy you.
“you don’t get to just show up,” she snaps. her voice isn’t loud. but it’s laced with venom. with the kind of quiet fury that comes from surviving something you can’t even name.
but then he smiles. that same old smile. the one that used to mean safety before she learned better. the one that feels like a lie now — but still makes her knees feel like glass.
and that messes her up more than anything.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
she doesn’t tell jungkook.
not that night. not the next. not even when he wraps his arms around her in bed and whispers her name into the space between dreams.
she avoids his eyes. flinches when his hand brushes her cheek too gently. pulls away from kisses like they’re too much — too close. starts folding in on herself again.
he notices. of course he does.
but he doesn’t ask. not yet. he waits.
until the night she tries to leave.
again.
she thinks he’s asleep — his breathing steady, body warm against hers — so she moves quietly. steps into her jeans. pulls on a hoodie. creeps toward the door like she’s escaping a fire instead of a boy who only ever wanted to love her right.
but then—
“y/n.”
his voice cuts through the dark. sharp. not angry. but not soft, either.
she freezes. hand on the doorknob. heart a war drum in her chest.
he sits up. the sheets fall around his waist, exposing the tattoo just above his heart — the one she kissed last night like it meant something. and maybe it did.
“stop,” he says. his voice is lower now. but there’s steel under the velvet.
she doesn’t turn around.
“i don’t need perfect,” he says. “i don’t even need answers. but i need you to stop running.”
the silence after that is thick enough to choke on.
her hands tremble. she hates that he can see it. hates that he’s being kind. kindness has always made her want to disappear.
“someone from my past showed up,” she says finally. the words drag out of her like confession.
“who?”
“jimin.”
and just like that — everything stills.
his jaw tightens. she sees it, even in the dark. but he doesn’t explode. doesn’t throw furniture. doesn’t ask why didn’t you tell me?
he just says, “did he hurt you?”
“not with fists,” she says. “just… with the kind of love that feels like a promise until it’s a knife.”
he gets up. crosses the room in three slow steps. he’s bare-chested, barefoot, real. he stands in front of her like he’s not afraid of the mess.
“you don’t have to be okay all the time,” he says, voice softer now. “you just have to let me stay when you’re not.”
her breath shakes.
“what if i break you?” she whispers.
he cups her face in his hands, warm and steady.
“then at least it’ll be real,” he says.
and when he kisses her, it’s not gentle. it’s not polite. it’s desperate. the kind of kiss that says stay without saying anything at all. the kind that tastes like all the things they’re too afraid to name.
she sobs into his mouth — and he doesn’t flinch. he holds her tighter. not to silence her. but to carry her.
and when he lays her down again, into sheets that still smell like last night, it’s not about claiming. it’s about choosing.
choosing her. over and over and over. until she starts believing she’s someone worth being chosen.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
in another part of the city, jimin lights a cigarette with a hand that doesn’t shake.
he watches the smoke curl into the night sky and thinks of the way she used to look at him like he was a song. like he was worth something.
and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he made a mistake.
he finishes the cigarette. flicks the ash into the dark. and smiles.
because he’s not done.
not yet.
the city doesn’t stop for heartbreak.
tokyo keeps pulsing. cars keep moving. neon signs keep blinking out secrets in colors no one notices anymore. and people — they just keep walking, keep breathing, keep surviving.
but for one night — just one — she lets herself believe something softer.
that maybe love isn’t the thing that ruins you. maybe it’s the thing that remakes you. that finds you at your most broken and says, i see all your sharp edges, and i’m staying anyway.
she’s halfway between that thought and another one — a worse one — when she hears the knock.
three soft taps. a pause. then two more.
it’s nothing. and everything.
like a song from another life. a memory pressed into her bones, not her brain.
she freezes. the book in her lap slips sideways. her heart stutters.
no one knocks like that.
she opens the door — and the world shifts sideways.
“jimin?”
his name tastes different now. less like love. more like something that once mattered too much.
he’s standing in the hallway like it’s been five days, not two years.
he looks almost the same. same mouth. same lashes. same too-pretty sadness. but there’s something new in the way he stands — shoulders a little tighter, like regret finally learned how to wear his skin.
his hair’s lighter. his eyes, darker. and he’s holding a coffee cup — like this is just some casual wednesday afternoon, not the unraveling of everything she stitched shut.
“hi, y/n,” he says, voice low, like it might break if he says anything more.
it hits her all at once.
the nights they didn’t sleep. the quiet confessions made under the hum of broken air conditioning. the kind of pain you only feel when you’re young enough to believe forever is a promise.
the version of herself she buried when he left without a word.
she doesn’t speak. just steps back.
lets him in.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
he walks into her apartment like time folded itself in half. like the couch still remembers the shape of his back. like she still writes her name beside his in the margins of her notebooks.
“you look good,” he says, trying to smile.
she leans against the wall. arms crossed. armor up.
“you left.”
he nods. no apology. no excuse. just the weight of silence straining between them.
“i didn’t know how to say goodbye,” he finally offers.
her laugh cuts the air — bitter, brittle.
“so you said nothing.”
“i thought it would hurt less.”
“for who?” she spits.
and there it is.
the old wound. still tender. still bleeding, quietly, beneath years of pretending she moved on.
they stand in it. in the wreckage of their almosts. neither of them brave enough to touch it.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
when jungkook gets home that evening, the sky’s still the color of apology — soft grays and quiet pinks.
he has takeout in his hands and tired hope in his chest.
until he sees the shoes. by the door. black, scuffed. not his. not hers.
his throat tightens. his heart drops. somewhere, he already knows.
he walks in quietly. finds them in the kitchen.
jimin, seated on the stool he used to hate — the one jungkook fixed last week when it started to wobble. y/n, standing across from him like the ground’s about to fall out from under her.
she looks like she’s trying to hold herself together with muscle memory and spit.
jungkook sets the bags down gently. doesn’t say anything right away. just looks.
jimin turns.
“you must be jungkook,” he says. his tone is casual. his smile is tight. his eyes — sharp.
jungkook doesn’t flinch.
“and you’re the reason she hasn’t been sleeping.”
y/n flinches instead.
jimin raises an eyebrow, mock amused. “bold. you don’t even know me.”
“i don’t have to.”
the air grows dense. charged. like a storm pressed itself between their ribs and waited.
y/n stands between them, breath shallow.
they’re not yelling. they don’t have to. this isn’t a fight — it’s a reckoning.
and she’s standing right in the middle of it.
suddenly, she’s sixteen again. holding two hands and watching both slip through her fingers. trying to keep the peace with a heart that doesn’t know which war to lose.
“can you both not do this?” she says, voice trembling. “please.”
the word please lands like a bruise.
they both go quiet. but the tension remains. like a shadow that refuses to leave.
jungkook doesn’t look at her. not yet.
jimin does.
and god, the way he looks at her — like she’s still his. like time didn’t change her. like jungkook’s presence in this apartment is just an inconvenience, not a claim.
and jungkook knows. he knows this isn’t over. knows that whatever thread connects her to jimin — it’s frayed, yes, but not severed.
he picks up the takeout bags again. sets them on the counter. then looks at her, voice low:
“you should eat.”
and leaves the room.
but not before glancing back at jimin — not a warning. not a threat.
just a promise:
i’m not walking away. even if you already did.
especially because you did.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
later that night, she finds jungkook on the fire escape.
knees drawn up. cigarette burning between two fingers.
he doesn’t look at her when she sits beside him.
“i didn’t know he was back,” she says. “he just… showed up.”
“and you let him in.”
that hurts more than it should.
“you think i owe him something?”
he shakes his head. exhales slow.
“no. i think you still feel like you owe yourself something. for how it ended. for who you were.”
a beat.
“you don’t.”
she leans her head against the wall, closes her eyes.
“i hate that he still has that kind of hold on me.”
jungkook stubs the cigarette out and turns to her.
“then let me remind you what it feels like to be chosen.”
they don’t have sex that night.
they do something far more terrifying.
they talk.
he tells her about his childhood. the mother who always left the porch light on, even when he was hours late. the father who loved in silence. the scars that taught him how to stay soft anyway.
she tells him about jimin. how he was her first — her first kiss, her first heartbreak, her first lesson in you’re not enough when you’re not convenient.
jungkook listens. really listens.
not just to her words. but to her pauses. her breath. the way her voice cracks when she talks about the night he left without saying goodbye.
and then he touches her.
not to comfort. not to distract.
just to be there.
his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
his knee pressed gently against hers.
the kind of contact that says, i’m not afraid of your damage.
by morning, jimin is gone.
but the weight he brought with him lingers.
y/n stands in the doorway of jungkook’s bedroom, watching him sleep.
and she knows — finally — that she doesn’t love jimin anymore.
she just never forgave herself for what he left behind.
but with jungkook…
it’s different.
he’s not her first.
he might be her last.
a week passes like slow rain.
drip, drip, drip — until she’s not sure if it’s time passing or just her eroding.
she hasn’t seen jimin since that night.
but he’s everywhere.
in the jacket she finds stuffed at the back of her closet. in the old voicemail she didn’t know was still saved. in the way jungkook looks at her when he thinks she isn’t looking — not angry, not jealous. just waiting.
and somehow that’s worse.
because jimin left her without warning. but jungkook’s staying without a timeline. and she doesn’t know how to deserve that.
it comes out one night. not with shouting, but with stillness. the kind that creeps in like fog. the kind you notice too late.
they’re in jungkook’s apartment. his fingers are in her hair. her legs tangled in his lap. the tv’s on, but no one’s watching.
she says it quietly, like if she says it any louder it’ll make it real.
“i don’t think i know how to be loved.”
his hand stills. just for a second. then resumes. gentler.
“then i’ll learn with you,” he says.
and she wants to believe that’s enough.
but it doesn’t quiet the war inside her.
later, when he’s in the shower, her phone lights up.
[1 new message] from: jimin → can we talk? i need to say something i should’ve said back then.
she stares at it for a long time.
doesn’t reply. doesn’t delete it either.
the next day, she’s not at jungkook’s place.
she’s not home either.
she’s at a coffee shop on the corner of a street she used to love before it started feeling haunted.
jimin’s already there.
he stands when she walks in, like he still remembers how she used to shrink when people didn’t.
“thanks for coming,” he says.
she sits. doesn’t answer.
there’s an awkward pause — the kind that would’ve never existed between them before.
and then—
“i left because i was scared,” he says. “of how much i felt. of how much i needed you. and of what it would cost if i stayed.”
“so you ran.”
“yeah.”
“and now?”
“now i see you with him. and you’re not just surviving anymore. you’re... real. softer, maybe. still sharp, but not bleeding from it.”
a beat.
“i guess i needed to see what you looked like in love to realize what i lost.”
she almost laughs.
almost.
instead, she says, “you didn’t lose me, jimin. you gave me up.”
he looks away.
“does he know everything?”
“no,” she says. “but he knows enough.”
another pause. the kind that hurts.
“and you’re happy?”
she thinks about jungkook’s hands in her hair. his voice in the dark. his silence when she needed space. his touch when she didn’t know how to ask for it.
“i’m learning how to be,” she says.
and maybe that’s the most honest thing she’s ever said.
jungkook knows she met jimin.
he doesn’t say it. but he knows.
he sees it in her eyes. the heaviness behind them. the way she slips out of his arms a little faster. the way she kisses him slower, like she’s trying to say something she doesn’t have words for yet.
but he lets her have the space.
even if it feels like holding his breath in a burning room.
the fight comes quietly.
no screaming. just sharp truths said too softly to take back.
“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks one night, as they sit across from each other on the floor.
“because i didn’t want it to mean something,” she says. “and if i told you… it would.”
“but it does mean something.”
“not in the way you think.”
“then in what way?”
a pause.
“it reminded me of who i used to be,” she says. “and how hard i’ve been trying to not be her.”
he leans forward.
“but i like that version of you. i like all of them. even the broken ones.”
and she can’t help it — she starts crying.
because maybe that’s the real problem.
maybe she’s afraid that someone could love all the pieces, and still walk away.
he holds her that night like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.
she doesn’t.
but something in her cracks open — quiet and slow.
and when he whispers “i’m not going anywhere,” she finally lets herself believe it.
just a little...
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
authors note. omg hi! another oneshot for you guys! i couldn't fit it all into one page, so there will be another part! thank you so much, you guys!!
tell me it’s over. (m) jjk oneshot.
paring. jungkook x reader
genre. party, exes, fluff, agnst, slow burn
word count. 3.4k+
summary. at a lively party filled with old friends and new faces, two exes unexpectedly cross paths for the first time since their messy breakup. the air crackles with old chemistry and fresh frustration—because some fires never really burn out.
⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒
“why are you always dragging me to random-ass parties?”
i mumble the words into my pillow, half-asleep and already annoyed. but of course, she’s standing at the edge of my bed with her hands on her hips and that look in her eyes—the one that says i don’t really have a choice.
“i swear it’ll be fun,” she says, like dragging me to some stranger’s house to watch her flirt with her newest situationship is her idea of a good time for both of us.
i groan, pulling the blanket over my head. “you mean your new fuck?”
“same thing,” she shrugs, already rifling through my closet like i’m not halfway in dreamland.
before i can argue, she’s flinging a black satin dress onto the bed—something backless, slinky, and entirely not me. i stare at it like it’s a threat.
“you want me to wear that?”
“you’ll thank me later. now get up. we’re fashionably late and i need you there for moral support.”
“you mean so i can lie to your situationship and say you’re a great person?”
“exactly.”
i sigh like i’m dying, but eventually i cave. i always do. cut to twenty minutes later and i’m in the passenger seat of her car, half-frozen from the dress i didn’t choose, makeup slapped on in a hurry, watching the city blur by through the window.
i don’t even know where we’re going. some party. some guy’s place. she didn’t give me a name—just said i’d “probably know someone there.” i rolled my eyes at that. i doubt it.
but then we pull up to the house, music thumping through the walls, laughter spilling out onto the street—and my stomach twists. there’s something familiar in the way the windows glow, the way the porch light flickers.
and as soon as the door opens, i know.
because he’s standing there.
looking like a bad decision i thought i’d buried months ago.
and just like that, the night gets a hell of a lot more interesting.
he’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place—drink in hand, hair messier than i remember, eyes darker than they used to be. and when those eyes land on me, time does that annoying thing where it slows down just long enough to remind me exactly why i swore i’d never be in the same room as him again.
i freeze, one foot still on the porch, trying to decide if i should fake a phone call or walk back to the car. my friend breezes past me without noticing, already making a beeline for her flavor of the week. typical.
he smirks. that same goddamn smirk that used to make me forget why i was mad—until it didn’t anymore.
“didn’t think i’d see you here,” he says, voice low, almost amused. he’s always amused. like everything is some kind of joke he’s in on and everyone else is just trying to catch up.
i square my shoulders, refusing to let him see that my pulse just sprinted a marathon. “trust me, it wasn’t on purpose.”
his eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every inch he hasn’t touched in months. “backless,” he murmurs, cocking his head. “didn’t peg you for the dramatic entrance type.”
“i didn’t peg you for the kind of guy who throws house parties like a midlife crisis.”
he laughs—genuinely, like i caught him off guard. it’s disarming, the way it always used to be. and for a second, we just stand there. me in a dress i didn’t want, him in a house i didn’t expect, and the space between us thick with all the words we never said when it ended.
then someone calls his name from inside. he glances back, but before he disappears, he leans in just a little too close.
“you look good,” he says, barely above a whisper. “dangerously good.”
and just like that, he’s gone.
i step inside like i’m stepping into a memory i swore i deleted.
the music swells—something bass-heavy and dark, vibrating through the floor, through my bones. the kind of sound that drowns out your thoughts if you let it. the house is packed, bodies moving in slow waves, red plastic cups in hand, perfume and cologne clinging to the air like fog. it smells like trouble. it smells like him.
i shouldn’t have come.
but i have come. and now i’m in it. deep.
he’s nowhere in sight now, swallowed by the crowd. good. maybe if i avoid him for the rest of the night, i can pretend that whole doorway moment never happened. that my heartbeat isn’t still racing. that i didn’t notice the way his lips curved around the word dangerously.
i move through the room, slow and deliberate, like i’ve got somewhere to be even though i don’t. a few heads turn—whether it’s the dress or the look in my eyes, i don’t know. i keep moving, keep breathing, keep pretending i’m not scanning every face for his.
i find one of my friends in the kitchen, posted up against the counter with her boyfriend that’s practically fused to her side. she grins when she sees me, drunk on more than just alcohol.
“you came,” she beams, handing me a half-filled cup. “you look hot, by the way.”
“don’t remind me,” i mutter, sipping the bitter whatever-it-is she gave me. it burns all the way down. “he’s here.”
her smile falters. “wait… he?”
i nod once.
“oh, shit,” she says, eyes wide now, suddenly a little more sober. “he he?”
“the he-est he there is.”
“well, this just got interesting,” she mutters, before glancing around like she’s expecting him to jump out from behind the fridge. “you okay?”
i should say yes. i should lie.
but instead, i say, “i don’t know.”
because the truth is—i’m not. not even close.
i leave the kitchen, letting the crowd swallow me again. i don’t know what i’m looking for. closure? validation? a fight? a second chance i’ll regret in the morning?
maybe all of it.
and then i feel it before i see it—heat. not from the drink, not from the room, but from him. from the way he’s suddenly there again, behind me, close enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“i thought you left,” i say without turning.
“i thought you’d be harder to find,” he replies, voice low and unreasonably steady.
my breath catches, but i keep my spine straight. “so what? you’re stalking me through your own party now?”
he chuckles softly, and i hate that it still does something to me. “just wanted to see how long you’d avoid me.”
“not long enough, apparently.”
he steps closer. i can feel him now, the way his body heat wraps around mine like smoke. dangerous. familiar. infuriating.
“you still mad at me?” he asks, his tone dipped in something too soft, too careful.
i turn to face . big mistake. he’s even closer than i thought, and his eyes—god, those eyes—are locked on mine like they’ve been waiting.
“i’m not mad,” i lie. “i’m done.”
his lips twitch like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. “you don’t look done.”
“and you don’t look sorry.”
something sharp flashes in his gaze, something real. he opens his mouth to say something—but someone bumps into us, laughing too loud, breaking the moment.
he steps back. i let him.
and just like that, i’m left standing there with a thousand unsaid words lodged in my throat, heart beating too loud in my chest.
but this night is far from over.
because the thing about unfinished stories?
they have a habit of rewriting themselves.
the air shifts again. thicker. heavier.
even with the distance between us now, i feel him like a phantom touch—skin prickling, breath catching, heat settling low in my stomach like warning signs i don’t want to obey.
i shouldn’t want this.
i shouldn’t still remember the exact way his hands used to grip my waist like i was something he couldn’t help but hold onto. the way his voice dipped just before he leaned in. the way he always said my name like a secret he couldn’t keep.
but the problem with exes like him is… they never really leave. not from your skin. not from your memory.
he disappears into the crowd again, like the universe is playing a cruel game of hide and seek, daring me to chase a high i swore i’d never crave again.
i try to ignore it. the ache. the burn. the part of me that wants to follow.
so i down the rest of my drink and press myself into the music instead—body swaying, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the beat takes over. the lights blur into streaks of color, and for a moment, i let myself forget. forget about everything that’s happening.
until i feel him again. behind me. not touching. just close, so close.
it’s not an accident. he’s doing this on purpose—hovering like a ghost of every night we never finished. my breath catches as i feel the pull, magnetic and maddening. he’s not saying a word. not yet. just watching me move. watching me try to pretend i don’t want him to reach out.
but then—he does.
a hand. light on my hip. testing the waters.i don’t stop him.
he leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear, voice a warm breath that makes my knees threaten betrayal.
“you never could dance without teasing.”
my eyes flutter shut, a shiver rippling down my spine. my voice is shaky, but i find it.
“and you never could watch without wanting.”
he lets out a low, quiet laugh—one i feel more than hear—and suddenly, we’re not pretending anymore. his hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer, chest to back, bodies melting into each other like it never ended. like we’re not broken. like we don’t know how this always ends.
“you’re playing a dangerous game,” i whisper.
“so play it with me,” he murmurs. and god help me—I do. because sometimes, the fire doesn’t burn you until you let it in. and i’m not just letting it in.
i’m throwing gasoline on it.
and for tonight…
i want to see how far the flames will go.
his grip tightens—just a little—but enough to make me exhale like he’s pressed a match to my skin.
the music shifts again, something darker, slower, dripping with tension. his body moves with mine like it remembers, like it never forgot. and god, maybe it didn’t. maybe we didn’t.
i can feel his breath on my neck, warm and slow. like he’s not in a rush. like he’s enjoying this—the build, the ache, the unspoken pull that keeps reeling us in no matter how far we try to run.
his fingers skim along my bare spine, right where the dress dips scandalously low. a touch so soft, so deliberate, it sends lightning straight through me. i suck in a breath. he notices. of course he does.
“you always wore black when you wanted trouble,” he says, low and smug against my ear.
“i wore black because i thought you wouldn’t be here.”
he hums, and i hate how it vibrates through me. “you knew the second you saw me that you weren’t leaving.”
i turn my head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. they’re burning. and not the kind of burn that hurts—the kind that lingers. the kind that says i remember exactly how to ruin you… and exactly how to make you want it.
my lips part, but i don’t say anything. i don’t have to. the silence between us is thick, charged, soaked in everything we never said when we walked away from each other.
“i should go,” i whisper, but i don’t move.
i don’t want to move.
he leans in, lips barely grazing the curve of my jaw. “you won’t.”
and he’s right. because every part of me is screaming to stay. the party melts away. the bodies. the music. the noise. it all fades until it’s just him—and me,suspended in this moment like the eye of a storm that’s about to hit all over again.
i hate that he knows me this well.
i hate that my body still answers to him like a prayer i never meant to say.
his hand slides to the small of my back, guiding me wordlessly through the house. past the crowd. down a hallway. every step echoing like a warning.
i should stop him.
i don’t.
we reach a room. door cracked. lights low. the second we cross the threshold, he pushes it shut
behind us with a quiet click—like sealing a secret. and then—finally—he looks at me. really looks. like he’s about to say something important.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he steps in, slow, hands on my waist, pulling me close until our foreheads almost touch. i can feel the tension between us—raw, magnetic, dangerous.
“i missed this,” he says, voice barely above a breath.
i don’t trust myself to answer. so i kiss him.
hard. hungry.
like i’m starving and he’s the last thing i’ll ever taste.
and just like that— we’re on fire again. and this time, i’m not sure either of us wants to put it out.
not yet.
not tonight.
his lips crash into mine with that familiar urgency—equal parts fury and hunger—and the world tilts. everything else vanishes. the party. the noise. the history between us that should have kept
us apart. gone.
there’s only this.
his hands roam, slow but certain, as if he’s trying to relearn every inch of me. as if he never really forgot. my back hits the door, cool against the skin the dress doesn’t cover.
i gasp, and he uses it, deepening the kiss until i feel like i’m unraveling beneath him.
“you still taste like trouble,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice wrecked and reverent.
“and you still talk too much,” i whisper, tugging him back in.
he groans—low, guttural, the kind that hits low in my stomach—and presses in, his thigh between mine, his mouth moving to my neck. he finds that one spot, the one that always made me weak, and i arch without thinking, breath catching like he’s pulling the air right out of me.
the room hums with heat. his fingers trail up my thigh, slow, deliberate, under the hem of my dress. not rushing—never rushing—but teasing like he knows i’ll break first. maybe i will.
“tell me to stop,” he says suddenly, voice rough in my ear. “tell me you don’t want this, and i’ll walk away, tell me it’s over.”
it’s a lie. we both know it. but i don’t say anything.
because i do want this. i want the chaos, the ache, the way his touch feels like a secret only we remember.
instead of answering, i press my lips to his again, harder this time, dragging him impossibly closer. my hands are in his hair, his breath is ragged against my skin, and every second stretches out like something sacred and sinful all at once.
this isn’t love. not anymore.
it’s the ghost of it. the leftover burn.
but tonight? that’s enough.
because when he lifts me up and carries me across the room, when my back hits the mattress and his mouth finds mine again, it’s not about fixing what we broke.
it’s about surrendering to the pieces. and right now, i want to fall with him. just one more time. maybe the last time. maybe not.
his mouth returns to mine with a hunger that feels like it’s been simmering for months—no, years. like every word we left unsaid burned a deeper want into both of us. his hands roam like they’re claiming territory that was once his and never really stopped being.
the room is quiet, save for our breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as my dress slips lower beneath his touch. he drags his lips down my throat, slow and unhurried, but there’s tension in every movement—like he’s holding himself back from devouring me entirely.
i thread my fingers through his hair, tilt my head back, give him more. i shouldn't. i know better. but tonight isn’t about logic—it’s about instinct. want. the kind that doesn't fade. the kind that lingers in your skin long after they leave.
“you don’t get to touch me like this,” i breathe, even as i arch into him, as my body betrays every word.
his eyes meet mine, dark and stormy. “then stop me.”
i don’t.
he kisses me again—deep, consuming. like he’s trying to erase every space time put between us. i feel his hands slip beneath my thighs, spreading me wider, pulling me closer, until there’s no room left for thoughts. just sensation. heat. tension so thick it’s nearly unbearable.
his voice is low, barely a rasp against my skin. “you still make that sound when you want me. the one you try to hold back.”
my nails press into his back, breath stuttering as his hands travel paths they remember too well.
“you’re playing with fire,” i whisper.
he smirks against my collarbone. “then burn with me.”
and that’s exactly what we do.
not gently. not sweetly.
but recklessly.
like two people who know it’ll hurt in the morning—
but crave it anyway.
his lips linger, slow and deliberate, sending sparks across your skin, and the weight of his body against yours makes the world outside disappear, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded in a moment that feels dangerously close to unraveling you.
it’s dark in this bedroom, the only light being the night peeking through the windows.
your hands stride along his naked body, clothes scattered on the floor, minds somewhere else.
you don’t know why you’re letting all of this happen.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
we lie there for a while, breath tangled, skin flushed, hearts thudding like they’re still chasing something we’ll never quite catch. the room is quiet now. the kind of quiet that feels too loud—too real.
his fingers brush lightly over my ribs, slow and thoughtful. like he’s trying to say something with touch instead of words. and maybe that’s always been the problem—we felt everything, but said nothing. built an entire world out of silence and stolen moments, then wondered why it crumbled.
“i shouldn’t have come tonight,” i say, my voice barely there. the ceiling becomes easier to look at than him.
“i know,” he says. just that. quiet. heavy. real.
i turn my head, finally meeting his eyes. there’s something different in them now. not just heat. not just lust. but that old sadness. the kind that used to live between us like a shadow.
“you ruined me,” i whisper, and it slips out like a confession i’ve been holding in my mouth for too long.
he flinches—just a little. “you think i walked away untouched?”
for a second, neither of us breathes.
then he reaches for my hand, slow, almost unsure. fingers lacing with mine like it still means something. and maybe it does. maybe it always will.
“i wasn’t ready,” he says, voice hoarse. “back then. i didn’t know how to stay without screwing it all up.”
“you still did,” i say. not bitter. just honest.
he nods, swallowing hard. “i know. and i’d undo it if i could.”
but he can’t.
and i can’t forget.
the silence settles again, softer this time. not accusing. just there.
then his thumb starts tracing circles into the back of my hand. the same way he used to when i couldn’t sleep. the way he always did when words got too heavy to hold.
“i still think about you,” he admits, voice breaking just enough to make my chest tighten. “stupid things. like how you always sleep with one leg out of the blanket. or how you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re about to cry.”
my throat closes up. i look away. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“say things like you never let me go.”
he’s quiet for a beat too long. then—
“i didn’t.” and just like that, the ache is back. throbbing, pulsing. not in my body. in my heart. because this was always bigger than lust. bigger than the nights we couldn’t stay away.
it was love. and love doesn’t disappear just because you told it to. we lie there, side by side, not touching. hearts loud in the silence.
i don’t know what happens tomorrow.
i don’t know if this was a mistake, or if it was the start of something we thought was already over.
but i know this:
he’s still in my bones.
and maybe… i’m still in his.
even if it hurts.
even if it never lasts.
tonight, we remembered.
and maybe that’s enough.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
authors note:
surprise! my friend requested a jk oneshot so here it is! i hope you guys enjoyed it! :3
off the road. (m) jjk.
part five paring. older brother's best friend x reader genre. street racing, angst, slow burn, etc! word count. 3.9K+ summary. racing was his life and nothing was more important until you came into his line of fire... status. ongoing
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the interior smells faintly of leather and something clean—maybe his cologne—and i sink a little deeper into the seat, trying to disappear into the background. jungkook doesn’t say much as he pulls out of the parking lot, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other tapping out a silent rhythm on the clutch, changing gears when needed.
the silence isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it hums with something unspoken—like we both feel it but neither of us is willing to break it. i sneak a glance at him, noting the easy set of his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth that always looks a second away from a lazy smile.
he catches me looking. quirks an eyebrow. doesn’t say anything—just lets the corner of his mouth tilt a little higher. flustered, i turn back to the window, cheeks burning.
the drive stretches on, quiet and slow, the city passing in a blur of muted lights and fading colors. still, even without words, there’s something steady in it. something soft. the low thrum of the engine, the faint beat of music from the speakers, the occasional flick of his fingers against the turn signal and clutch—it all feels like a kind of rhythm, one that settles under my skin.
when we reach the apartment, he pulls into the garage, punches in the code, and waits as the door lifts open. parking in one of the spots, he turns off the engine, steps out, and heads toward the elevator without a word. i follow, still wrapped in the weight of the silence between us.
he presses the button for the 17th floor and leans against the wall as the doors slide shut. the quiet inside the elevator is deeper, padded by the hum of machinery and something else—something that makes my skin prickle. i glance at him just as he glances at me. we both look away.
the ride feels longer than it is. when the doors finally open, cool air greets us like a reminder. i step out first, fingers fumbling for my keys. the metal is cold against my skin as i unlock the door. it creaks open softly.
jungkook lingers. then, finally, he says, “make sure to lock the door, okay? i’m gonna be gone for a bit. be good.”
he gives a nod and heads back to the elevator.
i shut the door behind me and lock it, then pause. he could’ve just dropped me off, but he didn’t. he walked all the way up.
i shake the thought away.
kicking off my shoes, i line them up neatly—one of those small habits i never shook. the apartment is quiet, still. the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting. i make my way to my room, the day pressing less heavily now.
not wanting to sit on my bed in my uniform, i pull out my old yoga mat from the corner and roll it out. the rubber smells familiar. grounding. i lower myself onto it, lying back until i’m staring at the blank white ceiling.
in my mind, the stars come back. the old glow-in-the-dark stickers i used to arrange into secret constellations. i used to lie like this for hours, imagining the ceiling was the sky and the sky was mine to reach. i smile softly, touched by something like nostalgia.
eventually, i check the time, groan, and peel myself off the mat. the floor leaves a faint chill against my back. i change into worn sweats and an oversized shirt, tossing my uniform into the bin with a dull thud.
stepping out into the hallway, i pad toward the kitchen. the fridge holds nothing promising. half-empty condiments. tofu. miso-glazed fish. i close the door with a sigh, open the cabinets—just as sad. some instant noodles. a lonely can of something unidentifiable.
we hadn’t gone shopping in forever. ever since jungkook moved in, things had shifted. not drastically, just enough to notice. jimin and i used to keep things in rhythm. now, it’s like the tempo changed and no one said anything.
leaning against the counter, i chew the inside of my cheek. my mind drifts—to the room at the end of the hall. jungkook’s room. he’d moved in a bit ago, but i’d never actually seen what he’d done with the space. curiosity nudges at me, small at first, then louder. what did his room look like? did it feel like him?
i tell myself i’m just walking. just stretching my legs. but my feet already know where they’re going. the hallway feels longer than usual, dim and quiet. each step sounds louder than the last. i pause at his door.
it’s not locked. just closed. still, it feels like a line i shouldn’t cross.
but i cross it anyway.
my hand hovers over the knob. i’m not going in, not really. just a peek. just to quiet the noise in my head. the latch clicks softly. the door creaks open.
light pours in—sunlight spilling across the floor. the room is… unexpected. not messy. not empty. just clean. too clean. the kind of clean that feels temporary.
the bed is neatly made, sheets dark and tucked in tight. a guitar leans against the wall. a single notebook on the desk. a black hoodie draped over the chair, like a trace of him left behind.
i take a step inside. the air smells faintly of his cologne. clean, warm, a little too intimate. my heart picks up speed.
and then i see it. a small framed photo on the dresser. jungkook, smiling next to a woman i don’t recognize. the kind of smile that says everything without saying a word.
i step closer, drawn to it without thinking.
“looking for something?”
i freeze.
jungkook’s in the doorway, brow raised. his tone isn’t sharp. just… curious.
my breath catches. i spin around, caught red-handed.
“sorry,” i say, voice soft. “i wasn’t trying to snoop. i was just… curious.”
his gaze flicks past me to the photo. a pause.
“my girlfriend,” he says, casual. like it doesn’t mean anything. like it means everything.
something sinks inside me.
i don’t know why.
i don’t know him. not really. he’s jimin’s friend, the quiet one who moved in with few words and quieter footsteps. he’s still a stranger.
so why does that word hit harder than it should?
“she’s pretty,” i offer, and my voice sounds smaller than i want it to.
he nods. “she is.”
no pride. no sorrow. just fact.
i step back. “i’ll get out of your way.”
i make it to the hallway before i hear him again.
“you know… most people ask before they try to figure me out.”
i turn, blinking. “i wasn’t trying to figure you out.”
he tilts his head. “weren’t you?”
i don’t answer. maybe i was. maybe i’ve been trying since the moment he walked into our lives with his quiet presence and midnight habits.
but all i say is, “you’re hard not to wonder about.”
he looks at me—really looks. not through me, not past me. at me. and for a second, i don’t feel like the intruder.
then he glances away, and the moment breaks.
i walk back to my room, heart thudding with something that has no name. maybe the problem isn’t that jungkook is a stranger.
maybe it’s that i don’t want him to be.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
closing the door behind me, i lean against it, breath catching. my chest aches in that quiet way that only certain truths do.
my girlfriend.
the words echo. settle. stay.
i don’t know why they matter so much. maybe because they rewrite something i hadn’t realized i’d written. maybe because i was already building meaning into moments that didn’t belong to me.
i bite my lip. push off the door. grab my keys and jacket without thinking. the apartment feels too quiet, too full of everything unsaid.
i pass his door on the way out, my steps soft and uncertain, like i’m carrying something fragile that only just started to crack.
by the door, i slip on my shoes, movements quick and mechanical. my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the doorknob, and with one twist, i’m outside, locking the door behind me like i’m sealing something in. i make my way down the hallway toward the elevator, the soles of my shoes echoing against the tiled floor. i press the “g” button and lean against the wall, watching the numbers descend slowly until there's a soft ding and the doors slide open.
outside with the open garage, the air is cooler than i expected. it bites at my skin and sobers me slightly, though my thoughts remain a chaotic buzz. i walk up to my pink s2000, parked in one of the vacant spots. my hand dives into my pocket to fish out the keys, the metal cold and grounding against my fingers. i unlock the door and slide into the seat, sighing as the familiar scent of leather and old air freshener wraps around me.
i try the ignition again, even though i already know what’s coming. nothing. not even a reluctant sputter. just silence.
my hand drops to my side with a dull thud, palm resting against the side of the car as i stare at the hood, hoping for a miracle that doesn’t come. i close my eyes for a beat, letting the frustration simmer just beneath the surface, before reaching down and popping the hood with a resigned sigh.
the metal is cold under my fingers as i lift it open, the engine bay glaring back at me like it's daring me to fix it without the right tools. i scan the battery terminals—no corrosion, no loose cables—just a lifeless block of plastic and metal. useless, for now. of course, all my supplies are back at jimin’s shop. figures.
with a low sigh, i pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. mid-afternoon. the tokyo sun pours in through the narrow gaps in the parking structure, casting angular shadows across the pavement and glinting off the polished hood of my pink s2000. i tuck my phone away and shut the hood gently, careful not to let it slam and draw any attention. as if anyone’s looking.
sliding my hands into the pockets of my jacket, i start walking toward the station.
the streets outside are alive with the familiar pulse of the city—bikes whizzing by, shop owners chatting in doorways, the distant melody of a street performer’s guitar drifting through the air. i take the side streets, weaving through a maze of vending machines, power lines, and neatly parked scooters. there’s something comforting about the movement, the rhythm of tokyo on an ordinary day. even if i feel a little out of sync with it all right now.
reaching the station, i make my way down the tiled steps, the rhythmic tap-tap of my shoes echoing against the walls. the automated voice overhead announces arrivals in both japanese and english, the sound oddly comforting in its monotony. i slip past the streams of commuters and take my place just behind the worn yellow safety line, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel ahead.
a breeze starts to stir, lifting strands of my hair, swirling around my ankles. the rush of wind grows stronger, laced with the scent of hot pavement, machine oil, and the faint sweetness of cherry blossoms drifting in from the park a few blocks away. the train is coming.
the silver cars slice into view with a low thunder, the platform trembling softly beneath my feet. for a fleeting moment, as the brakes squeal and the cars slow to a hiss, i can’t tell whether i’m more annoyed or secretly relieved the car gave out on me. maybe both. maybe i needed the excuse to move, to go somewhere without overthinking it.
the doors slide open with a practiced whoosh, and i step inside, the cool air brushing against my skin. i find a spot near the center and grab one of the overhead handle poles, fingers tightening around the worn leather strap as the train jolts into motion. the city blurs past the windows in a wash of movement—concrete, color, people, life. it all keeps going, whether i’m ready or not.
the ride is short, familiar. like muscle memory.
when the train finally slows, i hop off with practiced ease and climb the station stairs two at a time. the sun is still high but filtered now through streaks of drifting clouds, casting a soft, golden hue over the neighborhood. the air smells like gasoline, rubber, and lunchtime leftovers—a strangely perfect blend that tells me i’m getting close.
i turn the corner and spot it: “y/n’s drift.” jimin’s shop.
the name is still a little surreal to see up there, carved into that faded metal sign like it belongs to something bigger than both of us. he named the shop after me—said it was his way of never forgetting who kept pushing him to follow what he loved. i remember the day i found out. he showed me the sign with that signature sheepish grin of his, and i just stood there, blinking too fast, trying to pretend the sting behind my eyes was from the sun. but i think he knew. of course he did.
he’s finally doing what he loves. that’s what matters. after years of odd jobs, late-night rants, and oil-stained dreams, he’s here. we’re here. in tokyo. with a shop that smells like engine grease and ambition.
the sign flickers faintly in the late afternoon light, half-lit like it’s caught between shifts. it still makes my heart pull in that quiet, aching way—the way it always does when something means more than you can say.
i step up to the glass door, the bass from whatever playlist jimin’s blasting rattling through the frame. inside, i can hear the whirr of a power drill, the scrape of a rolling toolbox, and his voice—loud, probably teasing someone, maybe singing off-key. i pause for a second, letting the moment settle. the familiarity wraps around me like a worn hoodie.
my hand grips the door handle. the metal is warm under my palm, worn smooth from use.
the bell jingles overhead as i step inside, the scent of motor oil, rubber, and cologne-faded fabric softener instantly wrapping around me like a familiar hug. the shop is a beautiful kind of chaos—half-assembled engine parts on rolling carts, scattered wrenches, a toolbox that’s definitely not where it’s supposed to be, and in the middle of it all, jimin.
he’s crouched by the rear bumper of a vintage skyline, sleeves rolled up, black coveralls dusted in grease. there’s a smudge of oil across his cheek and a pen tucked behind one ear. classic. his hair’s a little longer now, tousled like he’s run his hand through it a hundred times today. he hasn’t noticed me yet, music thumping in the background—something upbeat and annoyingly catchy, of course.
i lean against the counter and clear my throat. “is this how you treat your favorite sibling? no red carpet? no confetti cannon?”
jimin doesn’t even flinch. “you're not my favorite. you’re just the only one who keeps showing up unannounced.”
he stands, tossing the rag in his hand onto the cart behind him and turns around. his face softens immediately. “hey,” he says, grinning as he walks over. “you look like hell.”
i shrug. “battery died.”
“again?” he shakes his head, eyes flicking to the keys dangling from my fingers. “you treat that car like it’s a boyfriend you keep giving second chances to. want me to tell you what i’ve been telling you since you bought it?”
“absolutely not.”
he laughs, and it’s easy, genuine, the kind that makes you feel like everything might be okay, even when it’s not.
without asking, he ducks behind the counter, rummages through a drawer, and pulls out a set of keys. “i’ve got a fresh battery in the back. let me grab it. you installing it here or taking it back?”
“depends. you got time to install it for me? i didn’t come all the way out here just to carry car parts like it’s arm day.”
he tosses the keys in the air and catches them with a grin. “lucky for you, i like your dramatic ass.”
as he disappears into the back, i wander toward the open bay door. the late afternoon light pours in, painting the shop floor in gold and shadow. i watch the cars pass outside, the city humming like it always does—loud, alive, unforgiving.
my fingers drum absently against the edge of a nearby table. there’s something unspoken building in my chest again, that same restless thing that’s been haunting me all day. i don’t even know what to call it. maybe it's not just about the battery. maybe it’s not about the car at all.
“still staring off into space like you’re in a music video?” jimin’s voice breaks through my thoughts as he wheels a cart toward me with the new battery resting on top. “you okay?”
his tone shifts—just slightly—but i catch it. he knows me too well.
i nod, then shake my head. “i don’t know.”
he doesn’t press. just walks up beside me and leans on the cart, looking out at the street. “you ever think maybe you're just in a weird part of the story?”
i blink. “what?”
“you know. not the end, not the beginning. just… the middle. where everything feels kind of stuck and quiet before something changes.”
i glance at him. “is that a mechanic’s wisdom or a poetic older brother moment?”
“both,” he says, smiling without looking at me. “battery’s here whenever you’re ready. but you don’t have to rush off. you can hang around for a bit.”
i look at the battery. then the street. then back to him.
⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚
closing up the shop for jimin, i step back, the final click of the lock echoing louder than it should in the quiet alley. the sun’s dipped below the buildings now, casting long shadows across the pavement, painting everything in muted gold and bruised blue.
i shift the battery in my arms as we step toward the open bay door, the sunlight flashing off nearby car hoods. it’s colder now as the sun starts to fade away and meet the moon. jimin walks beside me, not saying much, and honestly, he doesn’t need to. he knows me better than anyone. always has.
he’s the only one who ever really tried to.
there’s a weird ache in that thought—one that lives in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the way i look away too quickly when strangers meet my eyes, or the way i pretend not to flinch when someone stands too close.
i’ve never had a boyfriend. never even really tried. i didn’t see the point—not when the only kind of love i ever needed was the kind that jimin gave freely: fierce, unconditional, sometimes smothering, but always safe.
he was the one who picked me up when our parents stopped showing up. the one who held my hand the first time i froze on a crowded train. the one who taught me how to read street signs and change a tire and keep my chin up when the world kept trying to knock it down.
so when someone new showed up—he showed up—it wasn’t just unfamiliar. it was threatening.
he made me question things jimin never made me question. my worth. my silence. my hesitation.
and for a minute—for a dangerous minute—I let myself think maybe I could be loved like that too.
but that’s the thing about people who come in quick: they leave just as fast.
the battery hits the backseat with a soft thud, and i stare at it for a second longer than i should.
“you’re thinking too loud,” jimin says, leaning against the doorframe with a crooked smile.
“can’t help it,” i reply quietly. “it’s always loud in here.”
he doesn’t ask what i mean. he knows.
a beat passes. then another.
“you’ve always made space for everyone else,” he says, voice low. “but you don’t let anyone make space for you.”
my chest tightens. i swallow. “i didn’t think i needed to.”
the confession stuns me into silence. jimin rarely lets himself crack like that—never around me.
shaking myself free from the tangle of thoughts, i blink up at jimin and force a small smile. it’s not fake—just tired around the edges.
i catch his gaze and let out a soft laugh, brushing some hair behind my ear as if that might hide the weight i’m carrying.
he always gives me more than i ask for.
and i never ask for anything.
that’s just how i’ve had to survive.
i press my forehead to the glass, the cold seeping in slow. a memory pushes in—sharp, unwelcome, persistent.
busan. a tiny apartment. the door slamming hard enough to shake the walls. jimin, barely thirteen, standing in front of me with his arms stretched wide. i was eleven. my knees shaking. my jaw locked shut. he stood between me and the shouting. the rage. the hands that didn’t know the difference between parenting and punishment. he was a wall. a shield. like love, with teeth.
i learned then that silence was safer than screaming. that swallowing everything was better than letting it spill. that the second you need someone, they learn where to strike.
so i built walls. smiled through them. became the version of myself people wanted. quiet. capable. fine.
always fine.
jimin’s humming something under his breath. a song from the radio. i don’t recognize it. maybe i’m not supposed to.
“hey,” he says after a beat, voice soft, careful—like he’s afraid i’ll disappear if he says it too loud. “you’ve been kinda… quiet lately.”
i stiffen. just slightly.
“just tired,” i say, the words too easy, too familiar. “long week.”
he nods. doesn’t press.
he never does.
and i love him for that.
but some dark part of me wishes he’d make me say it. make me spill. make me crack.
the silence stretches. and i let it.
the city lights wash over us as we drive, flickering past like memories i don’t want to look at. and somewhere in my chest, something sharp twists—like something old is waking up.
like maybe i’m not as okay as i thought. like maybe the next lie i tell myself will be the one that shatters me.
we pull into the parking lot of a ramen place we’ve been going to since we moved to tokyo. it’s familiar. safe. the kind of place you don’t have to explain yourself in.
jimin puts the car in park, but doesn’t move to get out. i follow his gaze—he’s staring straight ahead, his fingers tightening around the wheel.
he says my name. once. quietly.
and that’s when i see it—really see it.
the look in his eyes. like he knows something. like he’s been holding back too.
“you haven’t told me,” he says, not looking at me. “about last night.”
my blood goes cold.
i hadn’t meant for him to find out. i hadn’t meant for anyone to find out.
i open my mouth. but nothing comes out.
he finally turns to me. and his voice is barely a whisper.
“who called you at 3 a.m.?”
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authors notes!
~ hi guys! thank you so much for reading this chapter/series! ch.5 is probably one of my favorite chapters! :,) ch.6 will hopefully be out by the end of this month! kisses ^3^ <3
Q+A!
hi guys! i hope you guys are enjoying my updates on "off the road"! sorry for the wait! how are you guys liking it so far? i personally like it and can't wait for what's to come! let me know if you guys have any questions!! thank you for the support! <3
++ song of the day!
off the road. (m) jjk.
part four. part five paring. older brother's best friend x reader genre. street racing, angst, slow burn, etc! word count. 3.7K+ summary. racing was his life and nothing was more important until you came into his line of fire... status. ongoing ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒ waking up with the light shining on my face, i grab my phone and scroll through it for a few minutes before tossing it back onto my bed. with a sigh, i finally push myself up, stretching as i blink away the last traces of sleep. i shuffle towards the window, pulling open the curtains to let the morning light flood my room. the brightness stings my tired eyes for a moment, but i welcome the warmth.
dragging my feet, i make my way toward the bathroom, already dreading the long day ahead. turning the faucet on, i splash cold water onto my face, hoping it’ll wake me up. the chill sends a shiver down my spine, but it does the trick. i stare at my reflection in the mirror, my hair a tangled mess and my eyes still heavy with sleep. with a tired sigh, i grab my toothbrush and begin my usual routine, letting the monotony of it all settle my thoughts.
after freshening up, i head back to my room, i walk to my desk chair and grab my uniform sitting on there. slipping into my outfit, i run a brush through my hair, attempting to tame the chaos.
grabbing my bag from the chair, i check my phone one last time—no new notifications, just the usual. with a deep breath, i sling my bag over my shoulder and step out of my room.
stepping into the hallway, the apartment is eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. i glance toward the living room, half-expecting to see jimin lounging on the couch, but it’s empty. jungkook’s door is shut, and for a brief moment, i wonder if he’s awake yet. shaking off the thought, i head to the kitchen, my stomach twisting with the familiar pang of hunger.
i grab a slice of bread, lazily popping it into the toaster before leaning against the counter, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. my mind still feels foggy, weighed down by the remnants of sleep and the lingering unease from last night.
the toaster pops, snapping me out of my daze. i grab the toast, taking a small bite as i glance at the clock. i need to leave soon if i don’t want to be late. chewing quickly, i gulp down a glass of water before grabbing my keys and heading for the door.
just as i reach for the handle, i hear a door creak open behind me. turning my head slightly, i see jungkook stepping out of his room, his hair a tousled mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. he pauses when he notices me, his gaze flickering over my appearance like he’s trying to read something unspoken.
“you’re up early,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.
i nod, tightening my grip on my bag. “class,” i say simply, not trusting myself to say more.
he hums in response, running a hand through his hair. there’s something about the way he looks right now—so effortlessly disheveled, so unlike the guarded presence he carried last night. it’s almost unnerving.
“do you usually leave this early?” he asks, leaning against the doorway.
i hesitate, not sure why he’s making small talk. “yeah,” i reply after a beat. “depends on the day.”
he nods, his expression unreadable. for a second, it feels like he’s about to say something else, but then jimin’s door swings open, breaking the moment.
“oh? you two are up already?” jimin’s voice is thick with sleep, but his usual cheerfulness is there. he ruffles his own bedhead, blinking at us before grinning. “cute.”
i roll my eyes. “i’m leaving,” i mutter, turning toward the door.
“have fun at class, y/nnie!” jimin calls after me.
as i make my way down to the parking garage, the quiet hum of the city fades behind me, replaced by the echo of my own footsteps against the concrete floor. the dim fluorescent lights cast a cold glow over the rows of parked cars, the air heavy with the scent of oil and faint traces of exhaust.
reaching my car, i unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, tossing my bag onto the passenger side. the familiar routine of starting my car is second nature—foot on the brake, key in the ignition, turn.
except… nothing happens.
frowning, i try again. the engine stutters weakly before falling silent. my stomach drops. i exhale slowly, adjusting my grip on the wheel before attempting once more. the same sputter, the same failure.
“seriously?” i mutter under my breath, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel. this is not how i wanted to start my day. looking at my phone and watching the time, i sigh in frustration. with a quiet huff, i push the car door open, stepping out into the cold air of the parking garage.
locking the door behind me, i toss the keys into my bag and sling it over my shoulder, not wanting to bother jimin at such an early time, my feet move quickly as i make my way toward the exit, my mind already shifting to plan b—taking the train. it’s not ideal, but at least it’ll get me to class on time.
the morning air outside is crisp, the city already alive with the sounds of traffic and distant chatter. i pull my jacket tighter around me as i walk briskly toward the station, weaving through the early commuters.
as i descend the stairs, the familiar scent of metal and concrete fills my senses. the train platform is bustling with people—some staring at their phones, others clutching coffee cups, their tired faces mirroring how i feel.
checking the time again, i exhale sharply. hopefully, the train will come soon.
as i step onto the train platform, the cold air seems to settle into my bones, making me shiver despite my jacket. the dull hum of the city above is replaced by the screech of distant trains and the rhythmic chatter of early commuters. i glance up at the digital display board—three minutes until the next train. good. i can make it on time if there are no delays.
shifting my weight from foot to foot, i pull my phone out and check my notifications. nothing important. just jimin sending a dumb meme and a few unread messages i don’t feel like answering. but just as i go to lock my screen, i get this weird feeling—like someone’s watching me.
my grip on my phone tightens as i casually glance around. the platform isn’t empty, but no one seems out of place. office workers, students, a few older folks heading into the city. nothing unusual. still, the feeling lingers, a prickling sensation running down my spine.
the train's arrival cuts through my thoughts, the doors sliding open with a hiss. i step inside, choosing a spot near the doors, gripping the cold metal pole as more people shuffle in. the space is tight, the air thick with a mix of coffee, perfume, and the faint scent of rain-soaked concrete.
just as the doors begin to close, a last-minute passenger slips in. i barely pay attention until i sense someone standing closer than necessary. too close.
i turn my head slightly, and my breath catches.
jungkook.
he’s standing just a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, dark eyes already locked onto mine. my stomach twists, a mix of surprise and something else i can’t quite place.
"your car wouldn’t start?" he asks, his voice low, barely audible over the train's movement.
i blink. "how do you—"
"i saw you in the garage," he says simply, tilting his head as if studying me. "thought you'd ask for help."
“it’s fine” i say nervously as i bite the corner of my lip, a bad habit of mines.
the train jerks forward, and i stumble slightly, my fingers tightening around the pole for balance. jungkook shifts effortlessly with the movement, barely fazed, and for some reason, that annoys me.
“so, you take the train too?” i ask, more to fill the silence than anything.
he doesn’t answer right away, just glances at me before looking ahead. “not usually.”
my brows furrow. “so why today?”
a beat of silence. then—
“maybe i had a feeling,” he says, his lips curling slightly. “or maybe i just wanted to see if you’d ask me for help.”
nodding my head in response is all i do while the train speeds through the tunnels, the city blurring past the windows. despite the crowded space, the only thing i seem to notice is him.
the train ride stretches between us, filled with the distant hum of conversations and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks. i grip the pole a little tighter, suddenly hyper-aware of jungkook's presence beside me. he’s quiet, but not in a way that makes him fade into the background. no—he’s the kind of quiet that demands attention, the kind that pulls you in even when you don’t mean to look.
i steal a glance at him, but he’s already looking at me. caught, i quickly turn away, my face heating up.
"what?" i mutter, pretending to focus on the floor.
"nothing," he says, but there's an edge of amusement in his voice.
i sigh, shifting my weight. "do you always stare at people like that?"
"only when they're interesting."
my head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "i'm not interesting."
he tilts his head slightly, studying me. "if you say so."
before i can come up with a response, the train slows, the automated voice announcing the next station. my stop. i exhale in relief, glad to have an excuse to escape whatever weird tension is buzzing between us.
as the doors slide open, i push forward, slipping through the crowd and onto the platform. the cool morning air hits me immediately, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the packed train. i adjust my bag and start walking, hoping jungkook will just stay on the train and let this encounter end here.
but, of course, he doesn’t.
his footsteps fall in sync with mine, effortlessly keeping pace. "you walk fast," he comments.
"you follow people a lot?" i counter, glancing at him.
he smirks. "only when they’re interesting."
i groan. "you really have to stop saying that."
"why? does it make you nervous?"
i scoff. "no. it makes me annoyed."
"mm," he hums, as if unconvinced.
i shake my head, choosing to ignore him as i weave through the busy sidewalks. the highschool was just a few blocks away, and all i needed to do was get there without letting jungkook crawl under my skin any more than he already has.
but when we finally reach the school gates, he doesn’t turn in another direction. he just keeps walking beside me, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets like this is the most natural thing in the world.
i frown. “are you gonna leave?” “get in first then i’ll leave.”
walking in the gates, i wait a bit until i look back to see jungkook walking down the street with his hands in his pockets
the morning rush is a blur of half-awake students trudging through the hallways, the air thick with the hum of conversations and the occasional slamming of lockers. i weave through the crowd, keeping my head down, gripping the straps of my bag a little tighter. i’m already late.
my car breaking down this morning completely threw off my routine. i barely made it onto the train, and even then, i had to endure jungkook’s presence the entire ride. he didn’t even have to be there—he just seemed to enjoy making my morning more difficult. now, i was rushing through the halls, trying to make it to first period before the final bell.
as i slip into my seat, the teacher barely spares me a glance before continuing the lesson. i let out a slow breath, sinking into my chair, but the uneasy feeling from this morning lingers.
jungkook.
i don’t know why he bothers me so much. maybe it’s because he’s jimin’s friend, and that alone means i’ll be seeing him more than i’d like. or maybe it’s the way he looks at me—like he knows something i don’t. like he finds me amusing.
i shake the thought away, forcing myself to focus. whatever. he’s just some random guy from jimin’s university. he doesn’t matter.
— Lunchtime rolls around, and I sit at my usual spot in the cafeteria, absentmindedly pushing my food around on my tray while my friends chatter around me. The noise of the cafeteria blends into the background as I scroll through my phone, my notifications flooded with messages from Jimin.
minnie <3:i heard your car wouldn’t start this morning.let me know when class ends, i’ll pick you up.
i sigh, already knowing there’s no point in arguing, but i try anyway.
you:it’s fine, i can just take the train home.
almost immediately, another message pops up.
minnie <3:just call me when you're done.
i roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. typical jimin—acting like i can’t function on my own just because he’s not around. ever since he left for university, he’s been even more overbearing than usual, checking in constantly like I’m some helpless kid.
"who’s got you looking all annoyed?" minji asks, setting her tray down across from me.
"jimin," i mumble, locking my phone and tossing it onto the table.
mai snickers. "what’s he freaking out about this time?"
"my car wouldn’t start this morning, so now he’s acting like i need a personal escort home."
minji raises an eyebrow. "didn’t you already get one this morning?"
i frown. "what?"
mai smirks. "don’t play dumb, y/n. you know what we’re talking about."
i shift in my seat, pretending to be confused, but my heart rate picks up. "i seriously have no idea what you’re talking about." minji scoffs. "the guy you walked in with this morning? tall, black hoodie, piercings—basically looks like trouble, but a hot one.”
i blink. right. Of course people saw.
jungkook.
"It’s not like that," i say quickly, shaking my head. "he just... happened to be there."
"right," minji drawls, clearly unconvinced. mai and minji exchange a knowing glance before turning back to me, matching smirks on their faces.
"sure," mai says, dragging out the word. "so, you just happened to walk side by side? and he just happened to look at you like he actually wanted to be there?"
i huff, crossing my arms. "you guys are reading too much into it."
"are we?" minji leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "because i distinctly remember seeing him glance back at you even after you walked through the gates. like, I don't know, maybe he wanted to make sure you got in safely or something?"
mai gasps dramatically. "a protective bad boy? how romantic!"
i groan, covering my face with my hands. "oh my god, shut up."
"just saying," mai teases, nudging my arm. "jungkook’s hot, and he’s new, in a sense you’ve never seen him before and he’s your older brother's best friend, you could do so much worse."
i shake my head. "jimin would actually kill me if he even thought something was going on between us."
minji raises an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "since when do you care about what jimin thinks?"
"since forever," i mumble, picking at my food again, my thoughts spinning. "he's literally my brother."
mai shrugs, clearly unconcerned. "and? that’s never stopped anyone before."
"yeah," minji chimes in, wiggling her eyebrows in a way that makes me want to hide under the table. "forbidden romance? i love that trope."
i shoot her a deadpan look, my cheeks heating up. "this is not a romance."
minji hums, tapping a manicured finger against the table, as if she’s savoring the moment. "then what is it? because from what i saw this morning, it sure looked like he was walking you in, not just going his own way." "like i said, you guys are reading too much into it," i reply quickly, trying to keep my voice steady, but it’s hard with the heat creeping up my neck. my mind is already flashing back to this morning—jungkook walking next to me, his eyes flicking over to make sure i was okay, his presence lingering as if he had no intention of just leaving me behind.
“uh-huh,” minji drawls, clearly not buying it. “sure, whatever you say. but tell me this, y/n: why do you look like you’re about to burst into flames every time we bring him up?”
i roll my eyes, forcing a laugh, but it's shaky. "i’m not. i just—" i pause, glancing around at their expectant faces. "look, it’s not like that. he’s just... new. jimin’s friend. that’s it."
mai leans forward, her gaze piercing. "and you’re sure that’s all it is? because, honestly, he doesn’t exactly look like a 'just jimin’s friend' kind of guy. not with that whole ‘i could steal your soul with one glance’ vibe he’s got going on."
i groan, covering my face with my hands. "why are you guys making this so complicated? i told you, i barely know him."
minji smirks, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "uh-huh. sure. keep telling yourself that." she looks over at mai, giving her a knowing look. “you know, we could totally make a whole drama out of this. jungkook and y/n—secrets, tension, the works.”
“please, no,” i mutter, sinking lower in my seat, wishing for the floor to swallow me up.
"okay, okay, we’ll lay off," mai says, holding up her hands in mock surrender, but her grin says otherwise. "for now."
"yeah, yeah," minji says with a wink. "we'll just have to keep our eyes peeled, that's all."
i exhale sharply, wishing lunch could end already. "you guys are ridiculous."
hearing the bell finally ring, i quickly grab my things and bid goodbye to minji and mai, who are still whispering to each other with teasing grins. as much as i wanted to stay and argue my non-existent "romance" with jungkook, the last thing i needed was more attention.
i make my way down the halls, weaving through the crowd of students, my mind still a little foggy from the conversation. pulling my biology textbook out of my locker, i grab the books i need for class and head toward the science wing.
when i step into the classroom, i glance around, already knowing my usual spot in the back corner by the window. i drop my bag onto the floor beside me and sit down, the familiar hum of chatter from the other students slowly fading into the background. i take a deep breath, trying to clear my thoughts as i pull my glasses from my bag and put them on, the cool metal of the frames settling comfortably on the bridge of my nose.
opening the textbook, i start reading through the chapter we’re covering today, focusing on the diagrams and notes. i’m trying to concentrate, but all i can think about is jungkook. his eyes, the way he walked beside me, how effortlessly we seemed to be in sync even though we didn’t know each other. the image of him glancing back as he walked away this morning flickers in my mind, and for a moment, i’m lost in it.
shaking my head, i try to shake off the fog in my brain and focus again on the teacher. i can hear the words, but they don’t seem to stick, so i keep writing, scribbling down whatever i think is important. it’s almost like my hand is on autopilot. before i know it, the bell rings, loud and sudden, and it snaps me back to reality.
the class is over. i quickly shove everything into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder without a second thought. as i walk out of the classroom, i grab my earbuds from the front pocket of my backpack and slip them into my ears, tuning out the noise of the crowded hallway.
i make my way down the stairs, the steady rhythm of my footsteps the only thing i’m aware of. i had meant to call jimin, but the thought slips from my mind as soon as i hit the bottom.
walking through the school doors, the cool air hits my face, a welcome change from the stale classrooms. i take a few steps out and head toward the gates, my eyes glued to the ground. but then, i look up and stop.
leaning against the door of a 1996 nissan 180 sx, with that same lazy grin plastered on his face, is someone i didn’t expect to see.
“missed me?” jungkook’s voice is low and teasing, and i can’t help but feel a little flustered.
looking away, i ask him a simple question. “where’s jimin?”
he shrugs casually, not seeming to care about the fact that i’m avoiding his gaze. “he forgot he had an appointment at the shop today. went down to help a customer. asked me to pick you up instead.”
i shift on my feet, my voice barely above a whisper. “don’t you have a life of your own?”
he grins, his fingers absentmindedly playing with his lip piercing. “i do. but i’ve got the time,” he says, as if it’s no big deal.
nodding in response, i watch as jungkook opens the passenger side door of the 180 SX, silently gesturing for me to get in. this being only the second time I’ve been in his car, i feel a little more nervous than i’d like to admit, but i try to push it down. not wanting to inconvenience him any more than i already have, i slide into the seat and mutter a small “thank you.” he gives a slight nod, a quiet acknowledgment, and shuts the door behind me. i hear him walk around to the driver’s side, and then the soft rumble of the engine as he starts the car. i glance out the window, trying to steady my nerves, as we prepare to drive off.
off the road. (m) jjk.
part three. part four paring. older brother's best friend x reader genre. street racing, angst, slow burn, etc! word count. 2.1K+ summary. racing was his life and nothing was more important until you came into his line of fire... status. ongoing ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒
looking up at him, i meet his gaze, and for a moment, time seems to stretch out. his dark eyes study me with a quiet intensity, unreadable yet piercing as if he’s seeing straight through me. the weight of his stare sends a strange unease crawling down my spine. i feel exposed like he knows more about me than i’m willing to admit, even to myself.
i take a small step back, trying to create some space, but the moment i do, i collide with someone behind me. my breath hitches, and i whip around in surprise, only to find jimin standing there, watching with an amused expression.
“i see you two have met,” jimin says, his voice light, but there’s something under it—something i can’t quite place. his eyes flick between us, and there’s an almost playful tension in the air. “y/nnie, meet jungkook. jungkook, meet y/nnie.”
i force a polite smile, my heart racing as i give a small, hesitant wave. “nice to meet you,” i say, trying to sound casual, but the words feel awkward as they leave my lips. my pulse quickens, and i try to focus on anything but the heat creeping into my cheeks.
jungkook doesn’t say anything right away. he just nods, his expression calm—too calm, like he’s already figured me out. it makes my skin itch with discomfort. the room falls into an awkward silence, thick and lingering, as if we’re all waiting for something to break it. my fingers twitch at my sides, desperate to do something, anything, to shatter the tension.
without another word, i quickly slip off my shoes and brush past them, making my way to my room. as i walk, i feel the weight of the silence follow me, pressing in on my back. the door clicks shut behind me, and i exhale sharply, leaning against it for a moment.
something about jungkook unsettles me—not in a bad way, but in a way i can’t explain. he’s not who i expected him to be, and i can’t figure out why that’s bothering me so much.
sitting on my bed, i stare at the ceiling, my thoughts swirling. jungkook is moving in. with us. the thought sends a chill down my spine. i squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push away the uneasy feeling gnawing at me. i don’t like change. i never have, especially when it’s sudden and unexpected. now, there’s an unfamiliar presence settling into the place i once considered safe—a place that used to be just jimin and me.
from the other room, i hear the rustling of boxes, followed by jungkook’s voice, sounding faint and distant.
“your sister seems... quiet,” he comments, his tone light but with something underneath—something curious, almost probing.
jimin hums in response, his voice casual as he stacks empty boxes near the door. “she’s always been the quiet type, i guess,” he replies with a shrug. “she keeps to herself.”
the words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like i’m being examined from the outside, like i’m something to be figured out. it’s unsettling, and i don’t know why.
after what feels like forever, i finally set my phone aside. the soft glow of the screen fades, leaving me in the dim light of my room. my stomach growls, a quiet reminder that i haven’t eaten in a while.
pushing myself up from the bed, i stretch, my joints popping from staying in one position for too long. as i move, i notice a few plushies scattered on the floor—probably knocked over in my restless shifting. i pick them up one by one, tossing them back onto the bed before making my way toward the door, hunger now pulling me from my half-dazed state.
i grab my jacket, slipping out of my room quietly, the apartment eerily still. the silence feels almost suffocating as i tiptoe through the dimly lit living room. and then i see him.
jungkook.
he’s sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep, his body loose and unguarded. i freeze. he looks different like this—unguarded, vulnerable, his sharp features softened in sleep. his hair falls messily over his forehead, and i can see the piercings that i hadn’t really noticed before—his lip, his eyebrow, the multiple in his ears. he looks almost dangerous, untouchable, but right now, he seems distant, detached from that intensity.
but for some reason, i can’t look away. i study him for a long moment, trying to make sense of this version of him—this side of him that feels softer, more human. there’s something magnetic about the way he looks right now, and i can’t quite figure out why it pulls me in.
shaking myself out of my daze, i zip up my jacket and grab the keys. as quietly as i can, i slip out the door and make my way to the elevator and down to the lobby. the cold night air hits me the moment i step outside, biting at my skin. i pull my hood up, tucking my hands into my pockets as i walk toward the convenience store. the streets are quiet, the neon signs buzzing faintly in the silence.
i grab a basket as i enter, nodding to the old lady at the counter, who greets me with a smile. i wander the aisles, absentmindedly picking out a few onigiri for jimin before pausing.
jungkook.
i stare at the basket, the weight of his presence in my mind making me hesitate. he’s a guest. a stranger in my home. i don’t owe him anything.
and yet, without thinking too hard about it, i grab a few more onigiri and toss them in.
as i pay and head back outside, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
minnie <3: hey, where’d you go? you: just grabbed some food, coming back now :p
shoving my phone away, i start the short walk back, the city’s quiet hum filling my ears. tonight feels different—like the air is charged with something. maybe it’s just me.
reaching the apartment, i punch in the pin code, the soft click of the lock signaling my return. i push the door open, and everything looks the same, but somehow, it feels different—shifted, somehow.
walking down the hallway, the hum of the elevator fading behind me, i try to shake the unease that clings to me. the quiet of the complex feels almost oppressive, and the sound of my footsteps seems louder than usual. i fumble for my keys, pulling them out of my pocket and inserting them into the keyhole. the satisfying click of the lock turning follows before i push the door open.
i toss my shoes to the side, walking into the apartment. the familiar scent of home hits me, mixed with the smell of jimin’s cologne and the faint warmth of the air, but the atmosphere feels off today. the unease i can’t shake still lingers.
i make my way to the kitchen, finding jimin sitting at one of the island chairs, absorbed in his phone. he doesn’t notice me at first, but when i step closer, he looks up, a smile spreading across his face.
“hi-hi, what’d you buy?” he asks, his voice light and cheerful, a stark contrast to the tension i still feel in the air.
i place the plastic bag on the counter and open it, revealing the onigiri i grabbed for him and a few snacks i’d picked out for myself. “i just bought some onigiri for you... and a few snacks i wanted,” i murmur, my voice a little quieter than usual, betraying the strange heaviness in the room.
jimin smiles, grabbing one of the onigiri and unwrapping it. “thank you, y/nnie,” he says, his gaze lingering on me for a moment, almost expectantly. it feels like he’s waiting for something, and i’m not sure what it is. i shift uneasily, my thoughts still tangled, before i begin unpacking the rest of the snacks.
suddenly, i hear soft shuffling from behind me. i glance over my shoulder to see jungkook waking up from his nap. his hair is a mess, tousled in every direction, and his eyes are half-lidded as he blinks, still heavy with sleep. he rubs his face and stretches, looking like he’s just emerged from a dream he can’t quite remember.
for a moment, he looks like a child, dazed and unexpectedly endearing. the sharp edges of his usual intensity are softened by sleep, and i can’t help but pause, watching him for a second longer than i intended. this side of him, vulnerable and unguarded, is so different from the aloof person i met earlier.
our eyes meet briefly, and the intensity is gone. this time, there’s only quiet curiosity, and something in his gaze makes my heart skip a beat. i don’t know why, but i suddenly feel the weight of this moment.
“did i fall asleep?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. there’s something unguarded in it, and i’m caught off guard by how different he seems.
jimin answers, his voice still casual as he chews his food. “yeah, you did.”
jungkook stretches, and as he does, a soft groan escapes him. “i didn’t mean to nap this long…” his words trail off as he slowly sits up, still looking a bit disoriented.
i watch him, trying to make sense of this new version of him, this side i’ve never seen before. and somehow, i can’t shake the feeling that this, right here, is the real jungkook.
the quiet tension in the room lingers, even after jungkook finally fully awakens. he rubs his eyes and yawns, the sound strangely comforting in the otherwise still apartment. i’m still unsure of what to make of him—his sudden presence in our home, the strange pull i feel around him.
jimin’s voice breaks through my thoughts, light and playful. “are you gonna eat, or just sit there looking lost?” he teases, offering a half-smile. he always knows how to shift the mood, no matter how heavy it feels.
jungkook chuckles softly, still looking a little out of it as he pushes himself off the couch. his movements are slow, languid—nothing like the alert and sharp way he had carried himself earlier. as he approaches the counter, his eyes flicker to the onigiri i had brought back. “did you buy this for me?” he asks, his tone low, almost guarded.
i blink, unsure of how to respond. he doesn’t seem annoyed, but there’s something in his voice that catches me off guard. was i supposed to offer this to him? i didn’t think about it when i picked them up. it felt automatic—like i just did it, without really considering what it meant.
jimin, thankfully, answers for me. “she grabbed it for you,” he says, a little too casually. “thought you might be hungry.”
jungkook stares at the food for a beat, his gaze flicking between me and the onigiri. there’s something unreadable in his expression, but he reaches for one without further comment. as he unwraps it, his eyes meet mine again, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
i’m not sure why i feel the urge to avoid his gaze, but i do. it’s like there’s too much weight in that brief exchange, too much unspoken.
“so, what’s the plan for tonight?” jimin asks, breaking the tension. “you need anything koo? we should probably get things sorted for your stuff too.”
i glance over at jungkook, and for a split second, i can see the weight of the day settling in his eyes. it’s a quiet thing—his exhaustion, the strangeness of moving in with two strangers. i can’t help but wonder how much he’s actually settled into this situation. he’s barely spoken more than a few words since he arrived, and even now, he seems like he’s floating through the motions.
“i’ll be fine,” jungkook finally replies, his voice still thick from sleep but steady. “i don’t need anything right now.”
the silence stretches again, uncomfortable in its own way. i chew on my lip, unsure of what to say or do. i never realized how awkward this would be—sharing space with someone who feels like an outsider, even if he’s family to jimin.
jimin grins at me, clearly sensing the unease between the three of us. “well, we’ve got all the time in the world, right?” he says with a laugh, his cheerful attitude always trying to smooth things over.
off the road. (m) jjk.
part two. part three paring. older brother's best friend x reader genre. street racing, angst, slow burn, etc! word count. 1.7K+ summary. racing was his life and nothing was more important until you came into his line of fire... status. ongoing
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Shaking my head out of my deep thoughts, I walk towards the front door of the apartment building. With a sense of familiarity, I punch in my pin number and unlock the door, granting me access to the complex. As I step inside, I can't help but notice Jimin waiting for me in the lobby. His head is drooping forward, clearly struggling to stay awake. Approaching him, I gently tap his shoulder, causing him to jolt awake and look at me.
off the road. (m) jjk.
part one . part two paring. older brother's best friend x reader genre. street racing, angst, slow burn, etc! word count. 2.2K+ summary. racing was his life and nothing was more important until you came into his line of fire... status. ongoing
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Looking into the midst of Japan, you find yourself in the heart of Tokyo. You take a moment to observe your reflection in the glass doors of your older brother's automotive repair shop while tapping your nails on the counter, waiting for a customer to come in. Looking around the shop, you look for any changes that need to be made. You wish there were, but there were none, so you tap on your phone screen to look at the time that looks back at you with the number ‘3:13 pm’.
I'm lucky as well. I get to see the first snowfall with you.
偷偷藏不住 HIDDEN LOVE 1.11 | China, 2023.
shining like none of them could be mine.
nevertheless. (m) pjm.
part four
paring. friends into lovers!jimin x o.c character (kim celine) genre. slow burn and smut word count. 6574 warnings. kissing scenes, bad language, oc being sad :C, koo being a SWEETHEART, sad jimin :d, “cheating” scenes, alcohol consumption, mentions of cigs. etc! summary. who would have known falling in love with your childhood best friend could hurt you this much. well you didn’t. you obliviously fell in love with him and now have to face the consequences. authors note. heya ;3 ,, sorry this chapter took me so long .. i revised it at least 100 times but i hope you enjoy!! (its one of my favorite chapters!!
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I have always been good at hiding my feelings, especially when it comes to someone I care about. There was this one person who I had feelings for, but I never let them know. I was afraid of rejection, afraid that if I opened up, I would lose them forever. So instead, I kept my emotions to myself, always putting on a happy face around them. I would listen to them talk about their day, laugh at their jokes, and offer a shoulder to cry on when they needed it. But inside, I was hurting, longing for something more.
JUNGKOOK for Calvin Klein Spring 2023
big time FATHER.
JUNGKOOK - ‘SEVEN’ CONCEPT VIDEO
father.
nevertheless. (m) pjm.
part three. part four.
paring. friends into lovers!jimin x o.c character (kim celine) genre. smut word count. 2218 warnings. feelings, heartbreaks, o.c being hard headed, steamy scenes ;) and more! summary. who would have known falling in love with your childhood best friend could hurt you this much. well you didn’t. you obliviously fell in love with him and now have to face the consequences. authors note. heya ;3 ,, this chapter is longer than the last one but it’s still pretty short, but nevertheless i still hope you guys enjoy!
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Have you ever heard the saying "Drunk words are sober thoughts?" It's true that alcohol can lower our inhibitions and cause us to speak more freely than we might otherwise. While it's important to be responsible when drinking, observing what we say when we've had a few too many can also be interesting. Sometimes, our true feelings and thoughts can come to the surface, even if we try to hide them when we're sober. It's worth reflecting on why that might be and what we can learn from it.
for my next story which i hope is soon, should i use an o.c [ original character ] with a name like nevertheless or should i just use y/n? what do you guys think? ++ i think my next story will be jk focused!! :3 | i miss bts .. i miss jimin </3. — 🎧
++ song of the dayeee!!
what should i use? …
o.c (original character) w/ name
y/n
don’t really matter!
should i finish “nevertheless” first or should i start a new series and continue on with nevertheless gradually? :D ++ how are you guys liking nevertheless so far?! i hope you all are enjoying it!! | this pic of jm fr altered my brain chem. — 😩🤝🏻🔞
++ song of the day
should i start a new series or continue working on nevertheless only?
continue nevertheless!!
start a new series and continue with NVTL gradually!!
