pairing. non-idol!bangtan, producer!yoongi x y/n, bestfriend’s sister to lovers
warnings. cussing, 4 years age gap, high sex-drive, under the influence of aphrodisiac, unprotected consensual sex.
word count. 10k
summary. Your brother, Namjoon, loves you far too much to leave you alone after your stupid ex-boyfriend dumped you. Determined to cheer you up, he insists on bringing you along as his plus one to his best friend—Seokjin’s bachelor’s party. Growing up around his friends your entire life, neither you nor the rest of them find it strange—it’s simply the way things have always been.
When Seokjin books the hotel rooms for the trip, an unfortunate oversight occurs. A hotel staff misses the reservation for your room due to a system glitch, resulting in a double booking—and by the middle of the night, you’re left without a place to sleep.
With everyone else on the trip far too drunk and wasted to help solve the problem, you have little choice but to share a room with Yoongi—your brother’s closest best friend and, unfortunately, your long-time crush.
Everything was fine until you ate something you definitely shouldn’t have.
Thanks to my betas: @mrsparkjimin18, @moonleeai, @cherrysoulth
Cross-posted to AO3.
*sometimes the same scene will happen from different POV
There will be a part two. 💜
Summary: On day one in the villa, Seokjin’s only plan was to play the game and win–until he was paired with the one girl who could match his banter.
A/N - 🥽= Jin POV, 👙= f.Reader POV, 🗣️= confessional
The lights were blinding, the chair felt like it came from IKEA’s “Regret Collection,” and Kim Seokjin still looked like a man seconds away from accepting an award for Best Leading Actor in a Romance.
He adjusted the camera-facing side of his face (the better side–he had a chart), smoothed his shirt like he was on a red carpet, and offered a long, dramatic sigh. Not because he was tired. Because the world was lucky to have him.
“They told me to be honest,” he said, eyes narrowed at the camera like he was about to admit to a scandal. “So here it is: I’m not here to fall in love. I’m here to win.”
He paused. Then added, as if deeply offended, “And if love tries to flirt with me? I will report it to HR.”
From behind the production curtain, one of the staff snorted. Jin ignored it with the grace of a man used to causing involuntary laughter.
“I’ve seen these shows,” he went on, now gesturing vaguely like he was outlining a conspiracy. “Two people lock eyes. Someone says, ‘I’ve never felt this way before’ after three cocktails. Suddenly, they’re crying in a hot tub. No, thank you.”
He turned slightly in the chair to show off his profile. “I’m here to look good, steal the best bed, and maybe–maybe–kiss someone if they say something funny enough to deserve it.”
A pause. A twitch of the mouth. He almost smiled for real.
“But hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “If someone actually makes me laugh?” His brows lifted. “That’s a problem. For me. For them. For everyone.” He made an exploding gesture with both hands. “Disaster. Ratings gold. You’re welcome.”
~Cut.~
Kim Seokjin pushed the door open with one pristine white sneaker, letting it swing wide like a stage curtain. He stepped inside with practiced ease–luggage in one hand, sunglasses still on, and the air of a man who’d already decided the show was lucky to have him.
His first impression of the place?
Tacky. And aggressively emanating a confused mashup of coastal rustic and “influencer Airbnb.” Too much rattan. Not enough taste. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes scanning the rattan furniture, the faux coastal accents, the excessive throw pillows chosen by a producer who thought boho meant expensive, and overly curated plants. “It’s worse than I imagined.”
The cameras were already tracking him–tiny red lights blinking from the corners of the ceiling. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to.
He dropped his bag by the entryway and took a slow lap, hands in pockets, like he was considering buying the place out of pity. The scent of ocean breeze drifted in through the open windows, tangled with sunscreen and desperation.
The villa was utterly quiet. No voices yet. No movement. He was the first one in.
“Good,” he said to himself. “I hate sharing a spotlight.”
In the kitchen, he opened a cabinet. The shelves were bulging with the most current, trendy foods and beverages. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the white door before making his way to the bedroom.
The door creaked open. The beds were perfectly made, and the walls were decorated in gag-inducing cliché quotes about living life and finding love.
There was no luggage in sight, no marks of human presence.
First pick.
He smiled.
A slow, smug smile.
He chose the bed with the best window light and the most strategic angle to the mirror, then flung his white, hard-shell suitcase onto the bed, which had his name scribbled along one side in hot-pink script.
There. Claimed.
He didn’t sit. Not yet. Instead, he stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, surveying the room like a prince inspecting his summer palace.
“I give it three days before someone cries in here,” he mutters to himself, “Hopefully not on my pillow.”
From somewhere outside, faint laughter echoed. A door slammed. Footsteps crunched across the gravel.
More arrivals.
Jin tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed on the hallway–but didn’t move. Let them come to him.
He was ready.
👙
The gravel crunched under your sandals in a way that was not flattering.
You paused at the entrance, one hand gripping the handle of your suitcase, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Somewhere behind you, a production assistant shouted something cheerful and vaguely threatening like ‘just be yourself!’ before disappearing back down the path.
You were going to be sick.
The villa looked like an Instagram filter had thrown up on a Pinterest board. Palm trees, wicker everything, soft linens in shades of sandstorm beige™. It smelled like a coconut and capitalism.
You took a deep breath.
You weren’t here for love. You weren’t here for drama. You were here because your roommate dared you to apply, and because you were bored enough to say yes when the producers called.
That was it.
You could do this. Just don’t get attached to anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t–
Reaching the bedroom, the door creaked as you pushed it open.
And there he was.
Standing by one of the beds like he owned it, arms crossed, hair too perfect, face unfairly symmetrical. He didn’t turn toward you right away. He was still staring at the mirror in front of him, like he was contemplating the meaning of life.
Then he turned and looked at you and smiled.
It wasn’t a big smile. Just the kind that lifted one corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. The kind that said ‘yes, I’m pretty, and yes, I know you noticed.’
Which–okay. Maybe you did for like half a second.
You stood frozen in the doorway, caught between wanting to introduce yourself and wanting to turn around and pretend you were lost and accidentally wandered into the wrong room.
“Hi,” he said, casually, breaking the looming silence.
You blinked. “Is this the part where we pretend this isn’t awkward?”
His smile widened. “Oh, good. You’re funny.”
You hated how fast your stomach flipped at that compliment.
“I was hoping to get here first,” you said, dragging your suitcase into the room, one that is identical to his but with your name calligraphied down the side. “Pick a bed. Establish dominance. That sort of thing.”
He nodded, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “That would’ve been smart. Unfortunately, I’m smarter.”
You stared at him.
He didn’t blink.
Neither did you.
“...Right,” you said finally, picking the bed farthest from him. It had slightly worse lighting and no window breeze. But this way, there is less risk of spontaneously combusting.
“Just so you know,” he added, sitting on the edge of his bed now, “people usually fall in love with me around the third day of knowing me. Try to pace yourself.”
You exhaled a slow, cursed laugh. “I’ll try to survive the first forty-eight, then.”
He grinned.
You hated how much you liked it.
🗣️
The chair was too deep. Or maybe you were just sitting weirdly.
You shifted again, trying to look natural while also calculating what “natural” looked like on camera. Someone had definitely mentioned posture during orientation. Or maybe it was something about fidgeting? Hairstyle? Eyebrows? You couldn’t remember. Your ears were buzzing.
“So…” a producer said from behind the production light. “First impressions?”
You stared at the camera. Then let out a breath that was somehow a sigh, a laugh, and a quiet internal scream.
“I mean–yeah. Sure. First impressions.” You stall as you gather your scattered thoughts.
Another beat passed as you fiddled with the hem of your shorts.
“He’s…” you stopped. Your lips pursed. “Okay, objectively? He’s very symmetrical.”
Another pause. Somewhere in the dark, a producer laughed.
“He’s also full of himself. Like, very. Like if confidence were an Olympic sport, he would be doping. And coaching the team. And posing for the medals.”
You shrugged, already a little too warm under the lights. “But he’s funny, which is unfair. I was fully prepared to hate him on sight, and then he said something sarcastic and I laughed, and now I’m mad at myself.”
Your fingers tapped lightly against your leg.
“He’s obviously playing a game. Which–I respect. Kind of. I mean, I don’t trust it, but I respect it.”
You leaned back, finally settling into the chair like the war was over. “I’m not here for love. I’m here to not look stupid on national television.”
Silence.
“Which is already going great, clearly.”
~Cut.~
The heat was already clinging to your skin when the producers ushered you outside with the other female contestants.
The five of you–lined up like products in a weirdly flirty showroom–stood facing the villa’s grand entrance while the production team fussed with cameras and mics. Sand crunched beneath your sandals, fake grass stretched behind you, and somewhere in the distance, a speaker was blasting synthy instrumental music that sounded like it desperately wanted to be sexy.
You took in the other girls standing next to you, and your eyes landed on the girl on the far right. Lana, all curves and confidence, was reapplying her lip gloss as if it were armor. Yuri stood beside her, glowing with soft beach-girl energy and smiling like this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Maya gave you a glance and an eyeroll–mutual silent agreement: this is insane, right? Bianca was already waving at the cameras.
You folded your arms across your chest as a voice crackled from behind a camera, “Ladies, you know the rules. One by one, the boys will enter. Step forward if you’re interested.”
Lana whispered, “Showtime.”
Cue the first guy stepping out.
Jungkook.
He jogged down the villa steps like a golden retriever who’d just been told he was a very good boy. Tank top, tattoos down both arms, earrings lining the curves of his ears, and the world’s softest brown eyes.
“Oh no,” Maya whispered. “He’s gonna make me believe in astrology.”
Jungkook grinned like he’d just won something. “Hi,” he said with a tiny bow. “My name is Jungkook.”
You didn’t step forward. Neither did Maya.
Yuri and Bianca both did. Lana hesitated, then stayed put–probably saving her energy for someone taller.
Jungkook picked Yuri after a moment of adorable panic. She looked delighted. Cute. Easy. Safe.
You bit your lip.
Namjoon.
Then came the next guy, button-up fluttering in the breeze, dimples set to “murderous,” sunglasses hooked on one finger like he’d already analyzed the entire competition and filed a strategic report.
He walked like he didn’t know how hot he was.
Bianca stepped forward before he even introduced himself. Lana followed. You blinked, surprised to see Maya step forward too. She shrugged at you, as if to say, ‘He seems emotionally literate, sue me.’
Namjoon smiled warmly. “I’m Namjoon.”
He chose Lana–probably because she looked like she’d eat the others for brunch if he didn’t.
Dante.
This guy wore a smirk that screamed trust fund problems and had the kind of tattoo sleeve that had no business looking that good on a man who definitely lied on his taxes.
Bianca stepped forward again. No hesitation. Maya didn’t.
You glanced at Dante. He caught your eye.
You blinked. He winked.
“Nope,” you muttered to yourself.
Dante picked Bianca, obviously. She winked back.
Leo.
Next was the stereotypical quiet, brooding, built like a lifeguard type who wrote poetry about the moon.
He introduced himself in one-word answers and ran a hand through his dark hair like it owed him money.
Maya stepped forward again.
You thought about it.
You didn’t.
Leo picked Maya. She gave you a look as she walked off that said, I still don’t believe in love, just giving him a shot.
Now there were four guys standing with their new partners.
And just you, standing alone under a sky so bright it felt personal.
Seokjin.
Then he walked out.
White linen shirt, buttons undone to just the right degree. Hair styled like the wind loved him personally. He walked out as if he’d already owned this villa and everyone in it.
And then, without even introducing himself, he made eye contact with you.
Direct. Unflinching.
He didn’t even look at the others.
The others were already standing in neat pairs, hands clasped, grins fixed for the cameras, which left you. And him.
You didn’t step forward. Not because you weren’t curious. But because it felt like exactly the kind of game he wanted you to play.
So you stayed where you were, arms crossed, your heart doing something extremely rude.
Technically, it wasn’t a choice. But he made it sound like one. Jin arched a brow.
Then, loudly enough for the cameras: “I choose the one pretending not to look at me.”
Your stomach dropped.
You walked over to stand next to him, a slow and smug look on his face that said you were already his.
“Hi,” he said with a grin, tilting his head. “You’re welcome.”
You stared at him.
Then gave a single, short nod. “Bold choice.”
“It always is.”
The camera zoomed in on the two of you.
🗣️
Your fingers fiddle with the mic hanging around your neck.
“So…” the producer prompts. “Seokjin picked you.”
You huff out a laugh that’s more disbelief than amusement. “Yeah. As observed by you and everyone else.”
You lift your hands in mock surrender. “It’s not like I had options. We were the last two standing. He could be a serial killer, and I’d still be here.”
A beat.
“...But he’s not. He’s worse. He’s charming.”
You lean back, lips pressing into something that isn’t quite a smile. “He’s confident. Like, capital C confident. The kind of guy who walks into a room and assumes the lighting is for him.”
You glance toward the side, like maybe he’s just off camera. “The worst part? It worked.”
~Cut.~
🥽
Jin wasn’t surprised you hadn’t stepped forward.
Some people, less intelligent ones, would’ve taken that as rejection. He took it as an invitation. After all, anyone who could resist him in the opening act clearly had a higher tolerance for charm than the average human. Which only meant one thing.
You were going to be fun.
Now, twenty minutes after the coupling ceremony, they were all scattered across the pool deck. Jungkook was doing push-ups for no apparent reason. Namjoon was deep in conversation with Lana about how the moon affected tides. Dante and Bianca were already draped across a lounge chair, as if they were filming an ad for bad decisions.
And you–his newly assigned partner–was over by the bar, leaning casually against the counter while talking to Leo.
Jin sipped his drink, watching from his perch on the edge of the pool. It wasn’t jealousy. Obviously not. He didn’t like the way Leo was looking at you like you were his next snack.
You laughed at something Leo said. The sound carried, light and easy, over the low hum of conversation ebbing and flowing around him.
Jin tilted his head.
He’d made his choice earlier for the cameras, sure–but now? Now it felt less like a choice and more like a claim he actually wanted to defend.
He stood, setting his drink down with precision, and crossed the deck.
“Leo,” he said smoothly when he reached the pair, as if greeting an old friend. Then, to you: “Already making me work for it? Talking to the competition on day one?”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching. “Didn’t realize this was a possession arrangement.”
“It’s not,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter beside you. “It’s a winning arrangement. And I like to win.”
Leo gave a low chuckle, clearly entertained, and excused himself with a shrug.
Jin watched him go, then turned his full attention back to you. “So. What were you laughing at?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you said sarcastically.
“I would,” he replied without missing a beat, his smile slow and sure. “And I will.”
You didn’t bother responding, not about the joke, not about why you were smiling at Leo. Instead, you reached for the glass on the counter and took a long sip, eyes fixed on the pool like he wasn’t still standing there.
Most men might have taken the hint. Seokjin wasn’t most men.
Adjusting his approach, Seokjin asks, “You always this mysterious, or is this just for me?”
Side-eyeing him over the rim of your drink.”Mysterious? No. Selective? Yes.”
“That’s dangerous,” he said. “I like it.”
He noticed the way you were leaning–just slightly back, chin lifted, like you’re measuring the distance between the two of you. He stepped into it. Not much. Just enough for you to notice.
The sun caught on the mirrored lenses of your sunglasses, throwing his own face back at him. He smiled at the reflection. Then, without warning, he reached up, hooked a finger on the frame, and slid them right off your face.
“Hey–”
“Mm,” he hummed, putting them on in one smooth motion. “These look better on me.”
You blinked at him, momentarily caught between irritation and laughter. “You can’t just–”
“I can,” he interrupted, tapping the side of the glasses. “And I just did.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s why people believe me,” he said, lips quirking.
You snatched them back before he could react, the edge of your fingers gently brushing his cheek in the process. The contact was brief, but it landed. He caught the shift in your expression–the slightest flicker of something unguarded–before you slid the glasses back on.
“You’ll have to try harder,” you scoffed.
Oh, he thought. He would.
--
It started innocently enough. It always did.
Sitting in a loose circle on the fake grass by the firepit with the other nine contestants, drinks sweating in everyone’s hands, the air just cool enough to make you forget about the cameras–until Lana kicked things off by pointing at Jungkook.
“Truth or dare?”
He picked truth.
“Okay…what’s your biggest fear?”
“Microwaves,” Jungkook answered with no hesitation.
The circle paused for half a second before dissolving into laughter.
“Microwaves?” Yuri repeated, eyebrows climbing.
“As in kitchen microwaves?” Maya asked.
“Do they attack you where you’re from?” Dante jabbed.
“They’re unpredictable, Jungkook said seriously, like this was common knowledge. “You put something in it, and it comes out hotter than the sun in some spots, still frozen in others…plus they hum.”
Across the circle, Jin lifted his drink and said, “Tragic. Truly the silent killer of our time.”
That set the group off again, Jungkook trying and failing to keep a straight face.
From there, it stayed harmless–Maya dared Bianca to drink champagne straight from the bottle, Namjoon admitted his most embarrassing celebrity crush (apparently, an anime character), and Yuri sang a bad karaoke song from memory.
Then Dante decided to escalate things.
He dared Bianca to kiss Namjoon. She did, lingering for just long enough to set off a wave of hollers and “oooohs.” Namjoon laughed it off, but Jin clocked the shift. The game had just crossed the line from fun to interesting.
When his turn came, he didn’t hesitate. He looked straight at you.
“Truth or dare?”
You tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Truth.”
“Coward,” he said smoothly, then: “If you had to share a bed with someone here other than your partner, who would it be?”
Your lips curved, the smallest, most infuriating smirk. “Leo.”
Of course.
He smiled like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t already planning the next time he got Leo alone.
Your turn came around fast.
Leaning back on one hand, looking directly at Jin. “Truth or dare?” you asked him.
“Dare,” he said without hesitation.
You thought for a moment, then cocked your head with mock innocence. “I dare you to take a shot off of someone’s body.”
The circle erupted into cheers and whistles.
Jin’s eyes stayed on yours. “Whose body?”
You took a sip of your drink. “Dealer’s choice.”
He didn’t look at anyone else.
The group’s noise dimmed to background static as he leaned toward you. “Don’t move.”
He turned and pulled the tray of supplies that one of the producers had quickly snuck in off-camera. He tipped a pinch of salt into the curve of your collarbone, just enough for you to feel the brush of his fingertips, then poured tequila into the shot glass held in his other hand. Picking up the lime wedge, he held it to your mouth, cocking one brow as a challenge.
Tonguing the inside of your cheek, you silently stared him down before slowly dropping open your jaw. He smirked and pressed the wedge of citrus between your teeth.
He bent, his breath warm and damp against you. He hovered, letting his breath tickle your skin before curling his tongue along your collarbone. He barely pulls back to take the shot, only to surge forward and clench the lime between his own teeth, intentionally brushing his lips against yours.
He straightened, letting the group's reaction crash over them like a wave.
The dares kept coming, each bolder than the last. Dante doing a lap around the pool in a speedo; Lana giving Jungkook a lap dance that left him red to his ears; Yuri feeding Maya strawberries one at a time with her mouth.
Then Maya’s turn came. She scanned the circle like a cat picking her prey.
“Jin,” she said finally. “Truth or dare?”
He smirked. “Dare, of course.”
“I dare you…” Maya’s smile sharpened.”...to make out with Bianca.”
The group whooped loudly. Bianca’s brows shot up in delighted surprise. She leaned forward, ready.
Jin’s eyes flicked once–just once–to you beside him.
Then he smiled, slow and wicked, and turned to Bianca.
The kiss started smooth, easy, no hesitation in sight. He reached up and cupped the side of Bianca’s jaw, long fingers nearly reaching her nape. He adjusted the angle with the hold on her, the change just what was needed to deepen the kiss.
The kiss lasted several stretched-out moments before the hollers of the group broke them apart.
When he pulled back, Bianca was grinning. He was grinning. But out of the corner of his eye, he was watching you.
Your expression didn’t give him much, but your hand clenched a little tighter around your glass than before.
And that, he thought, was very interesting.
👙🗣️
“You hated that game,” the producer said.
You let out a short laugh. “Yeah. I also kind of… didn’t.”
They didn’t respond, which was their way of saying, 'Go on.'
“It stopped being an innocent camp game about halfway through. It became a game of chess. Everyone was sizing each other up, pushing buttons, seeing who would crack first.”
“Who cracked first?”
“Not Jin,” you said petulantly, rolling your eyes. “Not that he’d ever admit to cracking even if he was on fire.”
You shifted in the chair. “When I said Leo’s name, he didn’t even move, but his eyes changed, just for a second. Then it was gone. And I noticed.”
The producer hummed. “And the dare?”
Your mouth tugged into a reluctant smirk. “That was deliberate. He could have picked anyone, but no, straight to me. Sure, it was just a dare, but–” you gestured vaguely toward your collarbone. “It didn’t feel like ‘just a dare.’”
The crew waited.
“And then he kissed Bianca. Like it was nothing. And fine–maybe it was. Maybe it was all just a game.” Your fingers drummed against your knee. “But it didn’t feel the same when he was looking at me. Which is stupid.”
“Why, stupid?”
You let out a slow breath, “Because whatever game he’s playing, I don’t want to be the one who loses it.”
~Cut.~
The smell of toast and frying eggs dragged you out to the villa’s open-air kitchen.
Jungkook was at the stove, his hair pulled into a messy top-knot. Namjoon was attempting to make pancakes while Lana hovered behind him like a food critic. Dante was slicing fruit shirtless, for reasons that were almost certainly unnecessary.
And Jin–your partner of approximately fourteen hours–was leaning against the counter like the morning had been handcrafted for him.
“Hungry?” he asked, holding a plate like a bribe.
“I was just coming to see what the damage was,” you said, eyeing the kitchen. “Turns out it’s minimal.”
“Minimal?” He glanced down at the neatly plated scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. “Tis is artistry.”
“It’s breakfast,” you corrected, though the smell was making your stomach growl.
Jin stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the others’ chatter became background noise. “Come eat with me.”
It wasn’t really a question.
He led you away from the noise, out onto the shaded patio near the pool. Two chairs, a small table, the sound of water lapping quietly against the tiles.
“Secluded much?” you asked, sitting down.
“Better view,” he said, sliding your plate toward you. Then, after a beat, “And fewer witnesses if you decide to like me.”
You shook your head, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips as you picked up your fork. “You really never turn it off, do you?”
“Not when it works.”
By the time the plates were empty, the sound of voices calling from the lawn carried in through the open patio doors.
After breakfast, the producers called everyone to the lawn. A folding table waited there, covered in slips of paper and props: blindfolds, a jumble of small weights, beanbags, and a few coils of rope.
Beyond the table, the rest of the course stretched across the grass–a line of orange cones to weave through, a rope ladder laid flat for a quick footwork section, and at the far end, a shallow wading pool already filled with water and a few floating rubber rings.
“Couples Challenge!” Bianca announced in her best game-show voice. “Obstacle course, timed, two people per team.”
The rules were simple: one partner was blindfolded, while the other gave directions. The blindfolded one had to collect five items scattered along the course–some on the ground, some in the pool–and bring them back to the table.
“Who’s blindfolded?” Jin asked you.
“You,” you said without hesitation.
“Brave choice,” he said, smirking.
It wasn’t brave so much as strategic — you wanted to see how well he listened.
The whistle blew, and he took off at your first shouted instruction, surprisingly obedient for someone who talked so much. You told him when to duck, when to reach, and when to turn left, and he hit every marker with precision–except for the part where he nearly tripped into Dante during the cone section.
“That was sabotage,” Jin complained, handing you the last item after splashing through the pool of water.
“Sure it was,” you snarked, laughing as you sprinted for the finish together.
You didn’t win, Jungkook and Yuri took that, but you were still a little breathless, both from running and from how quickly you’d fallen into sync.
Ripping off the blindfold, Jin caught your eye. “Told you I’m good at winning,” he quipped.
You smirked. “Shame you didn’t this time.”
He leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the noise. “There’s more than one way to win.”
Later in the evening, the villa had finally gone still.
Dinner was over, music had faded, and most of the others had either gone up to the bedroom or were sprawled out in the lounge, half-asleep in front of the TV. You were in the kitchen rinsing a glass when you heard him behind you.
“Busy?”
You didn’t bother to turn around. “Wild night,” you said, setting the glass upside down to dry on the dish rack.
Footsteps padded closer, then he was leaning against the counter beside you, so close his shoulder nearly brushed yours.
“You were good today,” he said.
“At the challenge?”
“At everything.” He let the words sit for a beat, then added, “You make a good partner.”
You glanced at him. “Even when I make you run through a wading pool blindfolded?”
“Especially then,” he said, lips curling.
You turned back to the sink, pretending to fuss with the tap. “Guess I should thank you for breakfast, too.”
“You could,” he said. “Or…” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “You could tell me what you were actually thinking during the game last night.”
You stilled. “What makes you think I was thinking anything?”
“Because I was watching you,” he said, quiet enough that the words slid under your skin. “And I’m good at winning, remember?”
You met his eyes. There was a flicker there–not smug, not teasing, something else. You almost asked him what game he thought he was winning, but his gaze held yours too steadily, and you looked away first.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“And you’re avoiding the question,” he countered.
The sound of laughter from the lounge broke the moment. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe again.
“Tomorrow’s a new day,” he said lightly. “Maybe I’ll get my answer then.”
And then he was gone, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, wondering why your heart was doing that uneven thing again.
The villa bedroom was dim except for the soft yellow glow spilling from the bathroom. Voices from the lounge drifted in through the open door–laughter, the muted clink of glasses–but in here it felt slower, quieter.
Jin was already at the sink. Brushing his teeth with unhurried precision. You slipped in beside him, reaching for your own toothbrush. The counter was narrow enough that your elbows almost touched.
He caught your eye in the mirror, toothpaste foam at the corner of his mouth. “This is romantic,” he deadpanned.
You snorted, spitting into the sink. “Try not to ruin it.”
When you both finished, you reached for the pump of foaming cleanser that the producers had lined up with everyone else’s personal toiletries. Jin stepped back just far enough to give you room, leaning against the doorframe to watch you lather your face.
“You take skincare seriously,” he said.
“You don’t?” you asked, rinsing off the suds.
“Of course I do.” He moved in again, bending over the sink to splash water on his face before patting it dry with the hand towel. “This–” he pointed between the two of you”–is a joint effort.”
You reached for your moisturizer, smoothing it into your skin. Beside you, he did the same, though he was clearly using more than necessary just to make you laugh.
When you were done, you tied your hair into a loose knot at the crown of your head and stepped out into the bedroom in a fresh pair of pajamas, soft baby blue shorts paired with a matching cropped tank top.
You sigh as you approach your new bed assignment, post-coupling. If asked, though, you would never admit to feeling antsy about having to sleep next to Jin. The sheets were cool against your legs when you sat on the edge of the bed as you waited for Jin to emerge.
Jin came out a moment later, his powder pink pajama pants hanging low on his hips, topped with a vast expanse of bare, golden skin. “You take the blankets,” he threw out. “I run hot.”
The dip in the mattress as he sat down on his side of the bed snapped you out of your stupor. Tearing your eyes away from his toned bare chest, you shifted back against the pillows, “I wasn’t worried about you freezing to death.”
He scoffed before slipping fully onto the bed next to you, resting back against his own set of pillows. “How do you feel after today?”
“It was a long day.”
“Mm. You’re thinking too hard.”
You turned your head toward him. “And you’re not?”
His mouth twitched. “I’m always thinking. I just don’t let people see it.”
The fan clicked softly in the silence that followed. His gaze held yours, unblinking, and for a second, it felt like he was about to say something else. Then his eyes looked to the ceiling.
“Tomorrow’ll be different,” he murmured.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
You didn’t push. The space between you and him stayed the same, but you could feel the heat permeating from his body without touching. It made your skin hum, your breath shallow.
Eventually, he reached over and turned off the lamp.
“Goodnight,” he said into the dark.
You lay there with your eyes open, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing, and wondered if you’d still be able to sleep if he moved any closer.
🥽
Jin decided mornings in the villa weren’t so bad.
The sun was warm, the coffee was strong, and everyone was too sleepy to be competitive or flirty yet. He’d already been in the pool once, mostly to mess Jungkook’s perfectly set hair, and now he was leaning against the rail, sunglasses low, watching the place wake up fully.
When you stepped out from the hallway in a loose white cover-up layered over a black bikini, he spotted you instantly. The group chatter faded a little. You looked around like you were still half in a dream, and then your eyes found him.
“You’re late,” he called.
“It’s nine a.m.,” you tossed back, brow lifting.
“Exactly,” he replied, tossing you the sunscreen that was resting on the towel next to him. You caught it without looking away from him. Good reflexes.
The morning had that lazy, stretched-out quality of a vacation you didn’t have to pay for. A little sun, a little floating in the pool, the light flirting, the occasional burst of laughter when Dante failed to push Jungkook into the deep end. Jin stayed close enough to talk to you without making it obvious, letting the easy atmosphere work in his favor.
For a while, it almost felt like no one was playing the game.
By midday, the villa had shifted into that easy, slow rotation–people peeling away from the pool to pair off for chats, drifting back again when the conversation dried up.
Jin was leaning at the bar, sipping a glass of iced water, when Yuri passed by in a lemon-yellow bikini, sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
“Walk with me?” she asked, tilting her head toward the deck.
He smirked. “That sounded dangerously close to a line.”
“Only if you want it to be.” She glanced over her shoulder, waiting for him to follow.
He did, falling into step beside her as they wandered toward the far edge of the deck. The boards underfoot were warm from the sun; the salt tang from the ocean hung in the air.
“So,” she began, “ what’s your type on paper?”
“You first,” he said.
“I asked you.”
“Which is why I’m smart enough not to answer yet,” he replied, smiling when she laughed.
“Alright… tall, funny, nice eyes.” She paused. “And maybe a little cocky.”
“Cocky’s subjective,” he said, leaning on the railing so the wind caught his hair.
They traded easy lines like that until they looped back toward the main villa, where Dante was leaning against the wall waiting.
“Mind if I steal him?” Dante asked Yuri.
She grinned, wiggling her brows. “Be my guest.”
Jin let Dante lead him to the side steps, where the noise of the pool faded.
“So, you and your partner… are you solid?” Dante asked, resting his elbows on the railing.
Jin’s smile was slight but sly. “Define solid.”
“Solid like… not looking elsewhere.”
Jin took a slow drink. “Better question–is anyone here not looking elsewhere?”
Dante chuckled, but Jin’s attention was already sliding past him, scanning the sunlit yard until he found you. Sitting under the shade, legs curled under you, laughing at something Jungkook had just said. Jin caught himself lingering on the sound a little longer than he intended.
👙
The heat was reaching a point where the pool felt less like fun and more like a survival challenge. Maya plopped down beside you on the daybed, fanning herself.
“Come with me,” she said, tugging at your arm.
“Why?”
“Girl talk. Before the boys ruin my good mood.”
You let her pull you through the villa garden, the two of you stepping around potted palms until you found a bench tucked into the far corner where the cameras had to crane to catch you.
“Okay,” she said, tucking one leg under herself. “Namjoon. What’s the verdict?”
You raised an eyebrow. “The verdict on what?”
“Whether you think he’s into me, or just good at making eye contact.”
You smiled. “Both are possible.”
She groaned. “You’re no help.”
“Fine. I think he’s interested,” you said. “He watches you when he thinks no one notices. You’re not imagining the interest.”
That earned you a slow grin. “Alright. I’ll take it.”
By the time you made it back to the pool area, Leo was leaning against a pergola post, arms folded.
“Got a minute?”
You hesitated, then followed him toward a patch of shade by the fence.
“So how are things with your partner?” he asked, glancing toward where Jin was talking with Dante,
“Fine,” you said.
“Fine like… fine, or fine like you’re hoping for an upgrade?”
You laughed. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I don’t do small talk,” he said.
You tilted your head. “And you think I’d tell you if I was looking for an upgrade?”
He smiled faintly. “Sometimes it’s not about what you say.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–but it wasn't neutral either. The pause that followed stretched just long enough for you to notice movement across the deck–Jin, sunglasses in place, looking right at you.
🥽
The morning had been moving slowly, and the heat made every movement feel like an effort. Someone was making iced coffee in the kitchen, Jungkook was starfished on a lounger, and Jin was halfway to claiming a hammock when the villa speakers crackled to life.
“Islanders, gather on the front lawn immediately.”
There was the usual groaning, but feet started shuffling across the deck toward the grass. Under the palms, a neat arc of little bistro tables waited, each with two chairs and a sand timer in the middle. Drinks sat ready, condensation sliding down the sides.
“This,” Namjoon muttered beside him,” is a trap.”
“Or fun,” Jin countered, grinning.
The villa voice explained the rules–a few minutes per partner, rotate at the bell, see who can “adapt” the quickest. Jin decided he’d adapt just fine.
He ended up across from Yuri first. She leaned in, chin propped on her hand. “Okay, rapid-fire,” she said. “Who’s the loudest snorer here?”
“Jungkook,” he answered instantly.
She laughed. “That was too fast. You’ve thought about this.”
“I’m living in the same space. I am just good at noticing things.”
They spiraled into a debate about shared chores until the sand ran out, her laugh still carrying as they swapped seats.
Lana was next, and she had a way of looking at people like she was already inside their heads.
“Are you here to win,” she asked, stirring her drink lazily, “or to fall in love?”
Jin tilted his head. “Why not both?”
Her mouth curled. “Dangerous answer.”
He smiled, letting the silence sit just long enough to make her shift in her seat before he changed the subject, asking about the strangest date she’d ever been on. She was mid-story about a man who tried to sell her life insurance when the time ran out.
Before the next rotation began, the villa voice boomed: “Islanders, your next conversation might be with someone new.”
The side gate swung open.
The newcomer walked in like he owned the sunlight, wearing a sleeveless shirt and golden skin, and a smile so wide it felt like it was the sun itself. The cheers that went up were instant.
“Hoseok,” the voice said, “take the empty seat across from the islander who caught your eye first.”
The scan was quick. Twice around the group, and then his gaze landed exactly where Jin knew it would.
You.
He crossed the grass without hurry, rested a hand on the back of the chair opposite you, and sat. You smiled–a little unsure, but bright–and leaned in as the timer flipped.
Jin’s partner for the round, Maya, was already smirking at him as he sat down.
“Do you want me to start talking,” she asked, “or just let you keep staring over there?”
“Please, talk,” Jin encouraged, dragging his eyes back, “Make it sound like you’re telling me something scandalous so it looks good for TV.”
Maya rolled with it, inventing a dramatic fake confession about stealing from a hotel minibar. She kept it going until they were both laughing, but still–every time the breeze shifted, Jin caught the sound of your laugh with Hoseok, and his attention was pulled like a magnet.
Rotate.
The scrape of chairs was interrupted by the gate opening again.
A new bombshell entered, a woman this time. Her orange bikini was a perfect complement to her mocha complexion.
“Isla,” the voice prompted, “Take a seat with the Islander you most want to get to know.”
Her eyes landed on Jin without hesitation. “You,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite.
“So you’re the funny one,” she said, tilting her head.
“Among other things,” he replied smoothly.
“Prove it.”
He launched into an exaggerated story about being defeated by an arcade claw machine, acting out the moment it stole his prize. You laughed loud enough to draw glances, but his gaze still drifted past her — to where you were now sitting with Jungkook, their shoulders tipped toward each other, easy smiles trading back and forth.
Rotate.
And once again, the producers held up the next round. The gate creaked open.
“Taehyung, join the circle.”
Jin looked up immediately. There he was–loose linen shirt half-buttoned, hair falling into his eyes, moving with that slow confidence Jin knew too well.
‘Hyung,” Taehyung greeted as he passed.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” Jin replied.
“Hmm. I know what you are doing. Interesting strategy you’re playing,” Taehyung shot back, already scanning the tables.
The voice directed him to choose his seat. His gaze drifted and stopped on you.
He crossed the grass, pulled out the chair opposite you, and sat.
Jin leaned back in his chair, a smile affixed to his face. Adaptability, huh? He had it. But this was about to become a different kind of competition entirely.
👙
The villa lawn looked like something out of a catalogue-small white tables in a neat half-circle under the palms, little sand timers in the center of each, iced drinks sweating down the glass. Everyone was still adjusting their sunglasses when the villa voice finished explaining: two minutes with each partner, bell rings, rotate.
Namjoon took the first seat across from you, his long legs stretching out casually under the table.
“So,” he said, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, “biggest red flag in a partner?”
You laughed. “I feel like I should say something deep and meaningful, but… bad texters. It’s unforgivable.”
That earned a grin. “So if I waited three hours to reply–”
“You’d be dead to me,” you said, pointing your straw at him for emphasis.
He chuckled, leaning in like he wanted to keep the rhythm going. “Alright, what if I sent a meme instead of words? Does that buy me time?”
“If it’s a good one,” you allowed.
“‘Good’ is subjective,” he countered. “Do you want clever, or do you want absurd?”
“Clever,” you decided.
“Dangerous choice,” he said. “Absurd memes are the backbone of any strong relationship.”
The laugh that escaped you felt unforced, and for a moment, you forgot a dozen conversations were happening around you. Over his shoulder, though, you caught a brief flash of Jin’s sunglasses as he settled at his own table, head tipping slightly like he might be looking your way. You blinked, looked back at Namjoon, and found him watching you with an amused tilt of his head.
“Did I lose you already?” he teased.
“Not at all,” you said, smiling.
“Good,” he replied, tapping the edge of your glass slightly with his fingertip. “Means I’ve got at least another minute to impress you.”
You traded little stories–his worst communication fail was accidentally sending his location to the wrong group chat; yours was forgetting to reply for an entire week. He laughed so hard at that he nearly knocked over his drink just as the last grains of sand fell through.
Dante slid into the chair next, leaning forward on his forearms, grin sharp enough to feel like a challenge.
“Alright,” he said, “are you happy in your couple, or are you open to changes?”
You arched an eyebrow. “Bold for two minutes.”
“Two minutes is all I’ve got,” he shot back, unblinking.
You smirked. “I’m happy enough.”
“‘Enough,’ huh?” his eyes glinted. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”
You took a slow sip of your drink, “Or maybe it’s a safe one.”
“Safe’s overrated,” he said easily.
There was a beat of silence before you flipped the question back on him. “What about you? Happy in your couple?”
“Content,” he said, then smirked. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about a few other people.”
The implication lingered just long enough to be noticed. Somewhere across the lawn, Jin laughed at something his partner said–the sound sharp enough that your eyes flicked toward it before you caught yourself. Dante’s grin told you he hadn’t missed it.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “Just making mental notes.”
Before the next partner could sit, the villa voice cut in: “Islanders, your following conversation might be with someone new.”
The side gate swung open.
Hoseok stepped through like he’d been born to make an entrance–sleeveless shirt, golden skin, that wide, bright smile that felt like the sun shining on you. A ripple of cheers and whistles went up.
“Hoseok,” the voice said, “take the empty seat across from the Islander who caught your eye first.”
You didn’t breathe for the moment it took him to look around. Twice his gaze swept the circle, and then it locked on you.
When he reached your table, he rested one hand lightly on the back of your chair before sitting, his eyes still locked on yours. “Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, “thought I’d start strong.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Confident.”
“I’m told it works for me.” he leaned in slightly, elbows on the table. “And it seems like it might be working right now.”
You tilted your head, pretending to weigh it up. “Jury’s still out.”
He grinned, teeth catching the sunlight. “That’s fine. Give me two whole minutes to change their minds.”
He asked what your first impression of the villa was, and you told him the truth–that it was surreal to be living in a postcard.
“Good answer,” he said. “Mine’s that everyone here is better looking than the people I was warned about.”
“That’s a very safe thing to say on day one,” you teased.
He shrugged, “I’ll get bolder.”
“You sure about that?”
His smile widened. “Absolutely. For example, I already know you’re the most interesting person here.”
You gave a short laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’ll fix that.” His eyes were steady, deliberate. “What’s one thing I should know about you?”
You thought for a second. “I’m terrible at lying.”
His grin tilted. “That’s useful.”
“How?”
“Means I’ll always know where I stand with you. Which is rare here.”
Somewhere in your peripheral vision, your attention is pulled again to Jin at another table, ignoring his partner to stare at you talking with Hoseok. You flicked your gaze back to Hoseok, who had noticed the split second of distraction.
“I didn’t lose you already, did I?” he asked lightly.
You shook your head quickly. “Still here.”
“Good,” he said, leaning in just a touch closer, voice dropping. “I’d hate to waste my opening round.”
Time ran out, pulling you back a fraction before you could respond.
Jungkook dropped into the chair across from you with a wide, open grin, hair a little mussed from the breeze.
“Alright,” he said, barely letting you settle before launching in, “most embarrassing habit?”
You grinned. “Sometimes I eat cereal for dinner.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he protested. “That’s genius. I’ve had ramen for breakfast.”
You laughed. “So we’re both innovators.”
“Exactly,” he said, pointing between the two of you like it was official.
“So tell me more about this fear of microwaves. I still don’t get it.”
“Yup.” He nodded solemnly. “They hum weird. And the light inside–it’s like the food’s being interrogated.”
You snorted so hard you almost choked on your drink. “That’s the most specific fear I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s valid!” he insisted, though his mouth twitched like he knew how ridiculous it sounded. “I just don’t trust them. I’ll use a stove. Or cold food. But those things? No.”
“That explains a lot about villa life,” you teased. “Have you been avoiding the kitchen at night?”
“Maybe,” he said with mock shifty eyes, “Or maybe I’m just hoping someone else will warm up my leftovers for me.”
“Are you making fun of me for it?”
“I absolutely am,” you confirmed.
“Good,” he said with a wink. “Better than pity.”
Before you could volley back, the time ran out.
Just as you began to shift toward your next partner, the producers paused the rotation.
The gate creaked open.
“Taehyung, join the circle.”
You looked over.
He stepped through in a loose linen shirt, half-buttoned and hanging just enough to catch the breeze, hair falling into his eyes. The smile he wore wasn’t big–just a slight curve that made it hard to look away. His gaze moved across the tables, unhurried, until it found you.
“Guess I’ll start here,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite you.
The moment he sat, it felt different–slower, heavier in the air. He didn’t rush with questions. He simply looked at you, like he was reading the lines of your face before deciding where to begin.
“What would you change about this place?” he asked finally, voice low.
You tilted your head, thinking. “More shade,” you said. “Less feeling like I’m baking under a spotlight.”
“Mm.” he glanced upward at the palm fronds overhead. “I could sit in the sun all day.”
“Then you’d have the villa to yourself,” you teased lightly.
He smiled at that–small, but real. “Might be worth it.”
He asked about your ideal day off, and you described something simple. Coffee, music, no schedule. He nodded like he was filing it away. Then, “Who do you trust most here?”
You hesitated, fingers brushing the condensation on your glass. “Too early to say.”
“Fair,” he said. “But you seem like you’ll know when you know.”
Somewhere over his shoulder, you caught Jin’s voice–a laugh you recognized instantly, easy and warm. The sound tugged at you for a second before Taehyung’s eyes brought you back.
He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you always look away when you’re thinking?”
Your lips parted in surprise. “Was I?”
“Yes,” he said, and for a moment it felt like he’d noticed more about you in thirty seconds than some people had all week.
The seconds slipped by faster than you wanted. His knee brushed yours under the table–not hard enough to be an accident, not soft enough to be ignored. The low hum of voices around you blurred, and the space between you felt smaller than it was.
The time ran out, but his eyes stayed on yours for one more beat before he finally leaned away.
🥽
The tables were already being dragged back toward the villa wall by a couple of crew members when Jin stood, stretching lazily. Conversations around him had splintered into smaller groups. The new arrivals moved through them like they’d been here all week.
Isla got to him first.
“Funny guy,” she greeted, eyes bright. “Mind if I steal you for a second?”
Jin flashed a grin. “You can try.”
She laughed, leading him to the low wall by the pool. She leaned back against the stone, arms folded loosely, as though she’d already claimed the better position.
“So,” Isla started, “do you always make people laugh that easily, or was that just for me?”
“I’m adaptable,” he said smoothly, folding his arms. “Some people need charm. Some people need jokes.”
“And me?”
He gave a slow smile. “Still deciding if you’re worth using both on.”
She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Dangerous talk this early.”
“You started it,” he countered, a playful edge in his voice.
They traded lines like cards, testing each other’s timing. She was quick, faster than most, but every so often, over her shoulder, Jin caught sight of you. Hoseok was leaning on the daybed, his arm draped casually behind you. You were smiling, the kind of smile that had weight behind it.
Isla’s voice cut back in. “What’s your worst habit in relationships?”
He tore his gaze away from you. “Getting bored easily,” he answered, watching her reaction.
Her brows lifted, amused rather than offended. “Guess I’ll have to keep you entertained.”
A few minutes later, Jin found Lana perched on the pool’s edge, ankles submerged, idly kicking at the water.
“You didn’t get to finish your terrible date story from earlier,” he said, nodding toward the empty space beside her. “Thought I’d give you the floor.”
She grinned and shifted, making room. “You’re going to love this one. He took me to a restaurant where he clearly knew the waitress, like, really knew her. And not in the ‘old friend’ way.”
Jin leaned back on his hands. “Please tell me you made it awkward.”
“Oh, I did,” she said proudly as she angled her body toward him further. “Ordered dessert for the three of us and asked for extra spoons, and then invited her to join us.”
He barked a laugh, picturing it in his mind. “That’s brutal. I like it.”
They swapped a few more stories, each one more ridiculous than the last, but Jin wasn’t fully anchored in the conversation. Across the pool, you were with Namjoon now, sitting in the shade, your knees pulled up as you laughed at something he’d just said.
Lana’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’re distracted.”
“Am I?” he asked lightly, though he didn’t deny it.
Her smirk suggested she knew more than she was letting on. “Better hope whoever’s stealing your attention isn’t as interesting as me.”
Jin gave her an easy grin, but his eyes drifted again, just for a heartbeat.
👙
Hoseok caught you before you’d even pushed your chair back in toward the table.
“Walk with me?” he asked, already angling toward the daybeds without waiting for your answer.
It wasn’t really a walk–his pace unhurried, like there was nowhere else to be. You ended up on a wide daybed, cushions soft under your legs. He sat close enough that his knee brushed yours when he turned toward you, one arm slung along the back of the cushions, casual but clearly making a statement, his fingers a hairsbreadth from touching you.
“Be honest,” he said, leaning closer. “Was I your favorite round?”
You smirked. There is just something about him that makes you want to smile. “Cocky, much?”
“I prefer to call it confident.” He leaned a bit closer, head tilted toward you. “And I usually have good instincts about these things.”
“I’m not ranking anyone,” you replied, sipping your drink.
“That’s fine,” he replied, his grin sharpening. “Means I still get to prove it.”
You huffed a soft laugh. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Why would I?” he challenged, the answer smooth and sure. “I know what I want.”
There was no hesitation in the way he said it.
He asked about your first impressions of the villa, and you teased him about showing up late.
“You looked calm,” you observed. “Like you’d already scoped the place out.”
“I had,” he admitted without a beat of shame. “Standing outside for a few minutes, watching the game. Figuring out who I’d want to talk to.”
You tilted your head. “And you decided on me?”
The slightest pause–deliberate–before his smile widened. “I decided I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
The villa felt strangely quiet in that moment, even with laughter and splashing somewhere nearby. You were aware of the faint scent of his cologne, the heat of his knee against yours, the way his gaze didn’t drift for even a second. Somewhere in your peripheral vision, Jin was leaning against the pool wall with Isla, but when you looked back at Hoseok, his smile deepened like he knew where he wanted your attention to be.
Later, you were the one doing the pulling.
Namjoon was standing near the kitchen island, idly mixing berries into a bowl of yogurt. You touched his arm lightly. “Come outside with me for a second?”
He followed you to the shaded end of the deck, sitting underneath a neon sign that said ‘Soul Ties.’
“I realized I didn’t ask you anything in our round,” you said. “So, tell me something unexpected about you.”
He thought for a moment, then grinned. “I can juggle.”
“Really?” you asked, skeptical but smiling.
“Badly. But I can.” He mimed tossing something in the air, making you laugh.
“You’re going to have to prove that eventually.”
“Deal,” he said easily. “But only if you promise not to laugh too hard when I drop everything.”
There was an easy, unforced flow to the conversation; things were light and filled with teasing jabs. He told you about his habit of accidentally collecting books faster than he could read them; you confessed you once tried to grow herbs in your kitchen and killed them all within a week.
“I respect the effort,” he said with mock seriousness. “But maybe stick to eating herbs instead of growing them.”
“Noted.”
It was comfortable and warm; the kind of chat that didn’t make your pulse spike but left you smiling. At one point, though, you glanced toward the far side of the pool and spotted Jin sitting at the edge with Lana, his grin tilted in that lazy way that was hard to read. Namjoon followed your gaze, but didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “So, what’s the one thing you do want to grow here?”
You met his eyes, the question lingering between you. “We’ll see.”
🥽
The sky was dripping in sunset, all bruised purples and tangerine streaks, the kind of backdrop producers loved. Re-emerging from inside the villa, dressed in cocktail attire, the group of people gravitated toward the large lounge area, drinks in hand. Soft lighting illuminated the deck, and the music being piped in through the hidden speakers had been shifted to an easy, lazy beat.
Jin claimed a corner seat early, sprawling with practiced ease, one ankle balanced on his knee. Tonight, he’d swapped his earlier shirt for a loose cream linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top two buttons undone like he wasn’t even trying. He knew the look worked, and the camera guy hovering near the deck agreed.
From here, he had a clear view of the whole group without appearing to be trying.
Taehyung had everyone’s attention, describing, with far too much hand choreography, the “once in a lifetime” meal he had in Paris. People were laughing, leaning in.
Jin’s gaze skimmed past them, casual… until it landed on you.
You were curled in the corner of the couch opposite, bare legs tucked under you, the soft drape of a light blue slip dress catching the gold of the fairy lights every time you shifted. Hoseok had settled down beside you, wearing a black short-sleeve button-up shirt patterned with small white flowers, open enough to show a hint of his tan skin.
He passed you his drink without hesitation, and you accepted without a second thought.
Jin’s jaw tensed once before he masked it with a sip of his own. Not jealous. Just aware.
“Favorite thing about the villa so far?” Isla’s voice pulled him back. She’d perched on the arm of the chair, a red dress falling over crossed legs, the fabric brushing his sleeve.
“That it’s big enough to escape bad small talk,” he replied smoothly, a slight sting laced through.
She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Maybe I’m making an exception.” His tone was even, but his eyes betrayed him for a fraction of a second, sliding past Isla to where Hoseok leaned in close, whispering something that made you laugh into his glass.
When Isla followed his gaze, her smile shifted. “Ah,” she said lightly, “so that’s where your attention is.”
Jin only smiled. “Observation skills like that could get you far here.”
👙
The cushions dipped as Hoseok slid beside you, the faint rustle of his shirt brushing against your bare arm. He was all easy charm in a black short-sleeve button-up patterned with tiny white flowers, top buttons undone just enough to hint at the warm skin and sharp collarbones beneath.
“You looked like you needed this,” he said, handing you a cold glass.
You wrapped your fingers around it, condensation damp against your palm. “Observant.”
“Always.” His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, casual but close enough that the heat of him ghosted against your bare shoulders when you leaned back.
You smoothed the hem of your light, blue slip dress over your thighs, the fabric catching the glow of the fairy lights above. Taehyung’s voice carried across the lounge. His Paris story was absurd enough to make you cover your mouth mid-laugh.
“Good laugh,” Hoseok complimented, eyes lingering on your mouth.
“Neither’s the view,” you replied, lips curving as his smile deepened.
Hoseok didn’t look away, and the weight of his gaze settled low in your stomach. “You know that’s the kind of line that makes me think you’ve already picked a favorite.”
“Maybe I have,” you said with a smirk, “or maybe I just like keeping people guessing.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Guessing can be trouble. Gives people room to imagine.”
You were about to reply when movement across the deck caught your attention. Jin was still in his corner seat, his cream linen shirt glowing under the lights, as Isla leaned in to say something in his ear. He was smiling–polite, practiced–but his eyes, when they lifted, locked with yours across the noise and chatter. It was only a second, but it was steady, unbroken.
Hoseok noticed the pause. “So,” he said, angling slightly closer, “who’s winning in that head of yours right now?”
Your smirk deepened. “Now, why would I tell you and ruin the suspense?”
“Fiine,” he said, leaning back marginally, but sliding his hand to cup your bare shoulder. “I’ll just work harder.”
You hid your grin behind your sip, feeling the faint hum of adrenaline in your chest. Across the way, Jin’s gaze still hadn’t shifted away.
The conversation around the fire pit drifted from travel stories into the kind of questions that only surface when everyone’s settled in, feeling a buzz, and with nowhere to be.
Taehyung leaned forward, grinning like he’d just thought of something brilliant. “Alright, everyone, name the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever packed for a trip.”
Lana groaned. “Oh no, this is going to expose people.”
Dante went first. “A juicer. Like, a full-on countertop juicer. Used it twice before airport security wanted to fight me.”
Isla shook her head, laughing. “That’s a lot of dedication to pulp.”
Namjoon lifted a hand sheepishly. “A giant coffee table book about endangered birds. It weighs more than my entire wardrobe.”
You blinked. “For…reading?”
“For appreciating the photography,” he said thoughtfully. “And maybe a little for company.”
Jungkook jumped in before anyone could tease him further. “A portable karaoke mic. Wireless. Echo setting and everything.”
“Please tell me you used it,” Maya said.
“Every single night,” he replied proudly. “And one morning.”
Hoseok grinned.. “Mine’s a little worse. A full suite of matching pajamas for every night of a trip. Like, button-up silk sets. Three colors.”
You laughed. “Do you plan to wear them here?”
“Not yet,” he said, eyes glinting. “ But maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get to see them. And if you’re nice, I’ll even let you feel them.”
All eyes turned toward you. You smoothed your dress over your hip, feeling the heat of the attention. “A glittery water bottle shaped like a pineapple. It leaks. I still love it.”
“That’s commitment,” Jin inserted, leaning forward slightly.
“Alright, Mr. Perfect,” Taehyung said. “Your turn.”
Jin didn’t blink. “A framed photo of myself.”
Yuri stared. “That has to be a joke.”
“No,” he said, grinning. “In case anyone forgets who the best-looking person in the villa is.”
The group broke into groans and laughter. You shook your head, and over your glass, you caught his gaze. He winked.
Once everyone answered, Taehyung sat back, clearly pleased with the chaos he’d created. “Yup. I’m going to start making this a daily thing.”
With that declaration, folks splinter off and head to different parts of the outdoor area. Lana and Dante drifted toward the balcony, Taehyung hooked Isla into helping him hunt for snacks in the kitchen, and Namjoon ended up with Jungkook by the pool, debating whether the inflatable swan counted as furniture.
You stayed on the couch, idly running your finger along the condensation on your glass. Hoseok shifted, moving a little closer as he turned toward you, his knee now resting solidly against your thigh.
“So,” he said, voice low enough that it felt separate from the ambient noise around you. “Do you always steal the spotlight like that?”
You gave him a look. “Pretty sure you and your silk pajama confession got just as much attention.”
He smiled slowly. “Maybe. But I noticed more people were watching you than laughing at my joke.”
It was smooth, and you felt the warmth creep onto your cheeks before you could stop it.
Before you could reply, movement caught your attention. Jin had skirted around the fire pit and slipped into the empty spot next to you. He leaned back, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne.
“Am I interrupting?” Jin asked, his tone playful and teasing, which could be interpreted as either polite or pointed.
Hoseok’s smile didn’t falter. “Not at all. We were just about to swap more travel stories.”
Jin’s gaze flicked between you and Hoseok, lingering half a second too long on the way Hoseok’s arm was curled around you. “Sounds…cozy.”
“It’s called conversation,” Hoseok said, still smiling, but his tone had a playful bite.
You raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of travel stories now.”
“Jealous?” Jin let out a soft laugh, shifting slightly closer and resting his hand on your thigh right above your knee. “No. Just making sure you’re getting the full villa experience.”
Hoseok glanced up at him, his smirk tightening at the edges. “She’s in good hands.”
“Are you?” Jin asked you, and this time the question was pointed enough to shift the vibe in the air.
You felt your own smile tug wider despite yourself. “I think I can decide that for myself, thanks.”
“That’s fair,” Jin said, eyes still resting on you. “But if you ever want the upgraded experience…”
Hoseok’s hand tightened ever so slightly where it cupped your shoulder. “You’d have to convince her it’s worth the switch.”
Jin’s lips curved, not backing down. “Oh, I plan to.
Neither of them broke eye contact, the moment stretching until you awkwardly laughed, the abrupt sound just enough to break the tension without dissolving it entirely. But you could feel the gauntlet that had been thrown down.
Before either of them could push further, Maya’s voice rang out from near the bar. “Hey! You guys need to see this. Dante found something!”
You turned to spot Dante holding a bright orange envelope, as if it were radioactive. Jungkook was beside him, already trying to pry it open, grinning like a kid about to break the rules.
“It was under one of the beanbags,” Dante said, looking half-amused, half-suspicious. “And it says Villa Secrets in big letters.”
“That’s either amazing or terrifying,” Maya said, tucking her hair behind her ear, “and either way, we’re opening it.”
Around you, everyone began to gather in lazy groups around the white bar. Hoseok stood first, extending a hand to you without hesitation.
You took it, feeling the easy strength of his grip as he pulled you up. Jin fell into step on your other side, his arm brushing yours in a casual, but not accidental, way.
Neither man spoke, but their awareness of each other was sharp enough to feel like static in the air.
By the time you reached everyone else, Jungkook had already ripped open the envelope and unfolded the card inside. His grin turned wicked. “Oh yeah,” he said, glancing around the circle forming, “this is gonna stir things up.”
Jungkook held the card up as if it were a sacred text. “Alright. Villa Secrets is simple. The producers have sent us anonymous confessions about the people in this villa. We read one out loud, then the group has to guess who it’s about.”
“Sounds like trouble,” Maya said, grinning.
“The best kind,” Yuri countered, settling onto a barstool.
Jungkook’s phone chimes. Flipping it open, he read, “This person once pretended to be fluent in Italian for an entire date.”
Dante immediately pointed at Maya. “That’s you.”
Maya laughed. “No, but I’m impressed. Who was it?”
“Guilty,” Yuri admitted, hand raised. “I knew how to say help, thank you, and pizza. That was it.”
The group laughed. Someone else’s phone chimed. Taehyung straightened up, pulling his phone out. “This person once took over 200 selcas before picking one to post.”
The group groaned and laughed before anyone guessed.
“That’s Jin,” Maya said, shaking her head.
Jin shrugged. “Two hundred and six, actually. You can’t rush art.”
“This person got banned from a hotel for trying to adopt the lobby’s parrot.” Dante read out from his phone.
“Leo,” several people said at once.
Leo grinned sheepishly. “It liked me first. I was just returning the energy.”
The following few confessions drew a mix of groans and laughter. Dante once accidentally mooned a crowd while cliff diving, Maya had broken her wrist during a drunken conga line, and Jungkook had been caught crying over a cartoon finale.
Hoseok’s phone chimed next. “This person once got caught sneaking into a wedding for the free cake.”
“Lana,” you offered.
Lana sighed dramatically. “The cake was average. The champagne, however…” She trailed off with a mischievous smile.
It’s your turn next. “This person travels with their miniature disco ball.”
“Taehyung.” Jin inserted without hesitation.
Taehyung grinned. “Never know when a dance floor might break out.”
Then Isla read one that shifted the air. “This person once kissed someone less than an hour after meeting them, and it happened on this very island.”
The group erupted instantly.
“No way!” Maya gasped.
“That’s fast work,” Dante said, laughing.
“Too fast,” Yuri chimed in, “unless it was a dare.”
“Or unless it was them,” Leo said, his eyes darting between you and Hoseok.
That earned a fresh round of goading. Maya leaned forward. “Wait. You two have been looking awfully chummy…”
Hoseok didn’t break his smile. “I’m flattered, but I’m not saying a word.”
“That’s suspicious,” Jungkook said, pointing at him.
“Suspicious would be denying it too fast,” Hoseok replied easily, his gaze sliding to you for a heartbeat before he looked away.
You raised your hands in mock innocence. “Don’t look at me. I’ve barely had time to unpack.”
“Sure,” Maya drawled, but she was grinning.
Across the circle, Jin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Feels like someone’s dodging the question,” he said lightly, though his eyes didn’t leave Hoseok.
“That’s the game,” Hoseok said, his tone smooth.
Jungkook tapped his fingers against the bar. “The producers say we’re not allowed to reveal the answer. Guess we’ll have to keep an eye on you two.”
Yuri sat forward, looking at her phone. “This person says they’ve already got their eye on someone in the villa, but they haven’t made a move yet.”
The circle immediately lit up with guesses. “It’s Jin,” someone called out. “Definitely Jin.”
“Or Hoseok,” Maya countered.
“Or her,” Yuri challenged, gesturing in your direction with a sly grin, making everyone laugh.
You held your hands up. “Why am I suddenly a suspect?”
Jin’s smile was slow. “Why aren’t you denying it?”
The group oohed. Hoseok chuckled low. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Jungkook played a small drumbeat against the bartop. “Game over, people... Go cause trouble somewhere else.”
🥽
The game broke apart in a swirl of laughter and teasing. People scattered: Lana dragged Yuri toward the kitchen, Leo headed for the pool with Dante, and Jungkook raided the fridge with Isla.
Hoseok lingered close to you, and Jin could see the intent in his body language that I’m about to pull you for a chat move. He’d done it enough times himself to recognize it a mile away.
Not tonight.
He stepped in before Hoseok could get a word out, sliding into your space with a grin like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Walk with me?”
Your brows lifted, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Where to?”
“Somewhere more private,” he said, and when you laughed, he counted that as his first win. He caught the flash of Hoseok’s expression out of the corner of his eye as you nodded and fell into step beside him.
They crossed the deck, the low hum of conversation fading behind them, until they reached the far end of the villa–a quiet nook with a view of the ocean, lit only by the glow from the pool and the moon overhead.
“Better,” Jin said, leaning one shoulder against the railing. “No one here to throw accusations about who kissed who.”
You smiled faintly, arms folding. “You’re still thinking about that round?”
“Thinking?” His gaze dropped, then came back up to meet yours. “No. Just making sure no one else gets to write our version of the story.”
Your laugh was softer this time, but it lingered. “And what version is that?”
He tilted his head. “The one where we actually get to talk without ten people shouting guesses in the background.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint rush of the tide below and the occasional burst of laughter from the firepit. Your eyes held his just long enough for him to feel the pull in his chest.
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt smaller. “You have this look,” he said quietly, “like you’re already deciding whether I’m worth the trouble.”
“Am I wrong to?” you asked, voice low.
He smiled slowly. “That depends. Do you like trouble?”
Your breath caught, just barely, and he noticed—the kind of detail he never missed.
For a beat, the air between you was thick with something unspoken. He could have leaned in right then, closed the gap. But instead, he let the moment hang, just long enough to make it clear that if anything happened, it wouldn’t be by accident.
“Careful,” you murmured, though your tone wasn’t warning so much as daring.
“Not really my style,” he murmured.
Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile, and that was all the invitation he needed.
He closed the last few inches, the faintest brush of his mouth against yours at first, testing, giving you room to pull back if you wanted to. You didn’t. Instead, angled toward him, your breath warm against his cheek before your lips met fully.
The kiss was unhurried but sure, his hand lifting to rest at the side over your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw as if he wanted to memorize the shape of it. The distant noise of the villa faded entirely, just the quiet rhythm of the tide somewhere below. His fingers flexed along your neck as you leaned in, angling your head further, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
An invitation he readily accepted, a hand curved around your hip and pulled you closer. Your torsos aligned from shoulders to hips as he teased his tongue along the seam of your lips, smirking when he felt your breath catch in your throat.
With one last nip to your lip, he drew back, but didn’t move far. He rested his forehead against yours. “See?” he said softly. “Much better without an audience.”
Your laugh was breathless, the air buffeting his cheeks, your hands running lightly up and down his arms.
Before anything more could be said, a burst of noise from over by the firepit broke the pocket of quiet you’d carved out. Jin stepped back slowly, reluctantly, his hands sliding away.
“Guess we should get back before they send a search party,” he quipped, though the grin tugging at his mouth told you he had no regrets about being found like this.
👙
The sound of the firepit chatter was still distant when you started walking back with Jin, but the kiss was closer–right there, in the lingering warmth along your lips, in the faint tingle at your jaw where his thumb had been.
He walked beside you like nothing was out of the ordinary, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours just enough to remind you it was there. It wasn’t accidental. Jin didn’t do accidental.
“Back in one piece,” he said lightly, as though you’d just returned from a supply run instead of slipping off to make out under the moon.
You huffed a laugh, but your mind was still replaying the slow lean-in, the way he’d said ‘Much better without an audience.’ That line was going to live in your head rent-free whether you like it or not.
The glow from the firepit grew stronger, voices sharpening into distinct conversations. You spotted Hoseok almost immediately, leaning back on the daybed, laughing at something Maya had said. Before you could look away, his eyes cut toward you the second you stepped into the light.
They lingered there.
Your pulse jumped. You weren’t sure if it was guilt, satisfaction, or something in between, but you didn’t look away until Jin’s voice pulled your attention back.
“Want a drink?” he asked, already steering you toward the bar.
It wasn’t lost on you that this meant walking past Hoseok. Not a coincidence. Not with Jin.
🗣️
“I wasn’t expecting that tonight. At all.”
You pause, pressing your lips together for a second, like you can still feel his there. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. Jin’s been circling all day, but there’s a difference between teasing someone and actually doing something about it.”
You glance off camera, like you’re checking if the producers are going to push you for details. “And okay, yeah, I kissed him back. I wanted to. He’s confident. In a way that’s annoying and unfairly attractive at the same time.”
A small laugh slips out before you shake your head. “But it’s been, what? A few days? Less? And now Hoseok’s here, and he’s…” You trail off, leaning back in the chair. “He’s different. In contrast, Jin is cocky and self-assured. Hoseok… I don’t know… is bold.” You shake your head. “I don’t have the word, but there is just this magnetism about him, and I want to explore that too. And I know Jin has noticed.”
You tap your fingers lightly against the armrest, thinking. “So now I’m wondering if Jin is just trying to win? Or was that kiss something more than strategy? Because if it was a strategy…”
You smile faintly, almost to yourself. “He’s playing a risky game.”
~Cut.~
The sun was already streaming across the villa deck by the time you padded into the kitchen, still damp from the shower. Your skin glowed from the body moisturizer that was laced with the fairest hint of gold rubbed into your skin—a shine that complemented your dark green monokini you had donned. The smell of coffee hung in the air, and the sizzle of something frying came from the stove.
Jin was at the stove, flipping an omelet in the skillet with one hand–such a show-off–while sipping from a mug filled with steaming coffee. Of course, he looked like a cooking show host–even in loose grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair a little mussed.
“Morning,” he said as he spotted you stepping into the open-air kitchen. He didn’t disguise the obvious once-over he gave you, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that made your skin tighten just a little. “I didn’t want to wake you when I got up, but didn’t think you’d sleep this late.”
“Threat or promise?” you asked, heading toward the fridge.
“Promise,” he said without missing a beat, and the corner of his mouth curved like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Before you could fire back, Hosek’s voice came from the entryway. “Thought I’d missed breakfast duty.” He stepped in barefoot, hair swept casually back, wearing another loose linen shirt half-buttoned and shorts.
Jin didn’t turn, but you caught the tightening in his shoulders. “There’s still plenty to do,” Jin said, a little too cheerily.
Hoseok smiled, and before passing you, he curled his arm around you and pulled you in for a hug. The hug felt like a warm blanket and, for some reason, seemed just right. He started to pull back, but before stepping away, he pressed his lips to your cheek, leaving a soft kiss.
“I’ll handle the coffee. You look like you need the good stuff.” Hoseok teased.
You opened your mouth to answer, but your brain had stuttered to a stop, fixating on the lingering feel of his lips against your cheek. He was already at the coffee maker before your brain kicked back into action. Your cheeks were warm with heat as Jin cracked an eggshell a little too hard.
The three of you moved around each other in the kitchen, the conversation artificially light, but the awareness thick enough that you didn’t miss how both of them kept angling toward you–one with his quick wit and sideways glances, the other with quiet attentiveness.
By the time everyone else trickled in, you were already wondering how much was about you, and how much was about them trying not to blink first.
The kitchen had been a slow dance around mugs and plates; Jin slid an omelet in front of you, Hoseok set coffee by your hand, both of them making a point of being in your space without colliding.
You’d kept your head down, smiling where it seemed safe to smile, but there was no missing the way Jin’s tone had shifted when Hoseok joined you, or the way Hoseok’s laugh kept landing a little too close to your ear.
When the others drifted in, the moment finally broke. You stood, carrying your mug toward the daybeds to escape the bustle, but Hoseok was already leaning against the doorway, waiting.
“Come with me for a minute,” he said quietly. Hoseok seemed to be making a habit of not asking, but rather telling you what you were going to do.
You hesitated just long enough to catch Jin glancing over from the stove. He didn’t call after you, but the flicker in his expression said he’d noticed.
Hoseok led you past the pool, with a hand on your lower back, down the side path to the corner of the garden where the cameras still reached, but the others’ chatters didn’t. The bench was warm in the morning sun, and he waited for you to sit before taking the spot beside you.
He stretched one arm along the backrest, turning enough that his knee rested on your thigh. “You and Jin seem… comfortable.”
You cocked your head. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said. And it was true in the way he said–calm, confident. “I just don’t like wasting time.”
You blinked. “Time doing what?”
His lips curved slowly. “This.”
Before you could respond, his hand slid from the backrest to the side of your neck, fingers curling just enough to hold you without pressure. He didn’t lean in all at once, just enough so you could feel the edge of his breath against your cheek, so you knew exactly what was about to happen.
Your pulse spiked. You should’ve leaned away, but you don’t.
He closed the gap, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was nothing like Jin’s. No slow build, no testing the waters–just a smooth, sure claim, his other hand bracing against the bench beside your thigh.
The world shrank to the heat of his mouth and the faint scrape of stubble along your skin. When he pulled back, it was by inches, his thumb brushing once along your jaw before he let go entirely.
“See?” he said, his voice low, almost conversational. “Not jealous. Just making sure I’m not standing still while someone else moves ahead.”
Your breath was still uneven, and you hated that he could probably tell. “That’s one way to put it.”
He leaned back, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “It’s the only way I know how to move.”
🥽
He hadn’t been looking for her.
Not really.
That was what he told himself as he drifted out of the kitchen, mug in hand, pretending he was stretching his legs. The others were inside. Bianca was trying to convince Jungkook to eat something green, and Yuri was perched on the counter—easy noise to walk away from.
The garden path was quiet, just the sound of the pool filter humming. Then he turned the corner and saw them.
You were sitting back on the bench. Hoseok leaned in, one hand at her neck, the other braced against the seat like he owned the whole damn thing. The kiss wasn’t extended, but it was long enough. Enough to make Jin stop mid-step.
For a half-second, his brain took a snapshot: the angle of Hoseok’s head, the way her fingers curled faintly against the bench. Then the heat hit–a low, quick burn in his gut–and he made himself move before they noticed him standing there.
He cleared his throat loudly enough. “Morning cardio?”
They broke apart, and he caught the faint flush along her cheek. Hoseok didn’t move far, just sat back with that easy smile that made Jin’s hand itch.
“Something like that,” Hoseok said.
Jin smiled. “Should’ve said. I’d have brought a stopwatch.”
He kept walking before either of them could answer, but he knew the cameras had caught it; the smile, the line, the way he gripped his mug just a little too tightly.
🗣️
“So…” He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms loosely. “I took a walk in the garden this morning, thinking maybe I’ll check the weather, maybe I’ll find a nice quiet spot for me to finish my coffee.”
He grinned, all teeth. “Turned out the weather’s fine. Sunny. Warm. Bit of a breeze. And apparently, very romantic, because guess who I found making use of the scenery?”
He held up a finger, pointing at himself. “Not me.”
The grin stayed, but his tone shifted just a hair. “Look, it’s the villa. People are going to talk, they’re going to… mingle.” His hands made a vague gesture. “But there’s mingling, and then there’s… whatever that was. And if someone’s trying to run up the scoreboard after only a few days, well–”
He tipped his head, that slow, knowing smile curled back into place. “Game on.”
~Cut.~
👙🗣️
“I don’t really know what to do right now.”
You let out a breath that turned into a laugh, but it’s short and uneven. “Because yesterday–literally yesterday–Jin kissed me. And that was… good. Like, scarily good. He’s funny, he’s confident, he’s been making it very clear that he’s interested.”
You shifted in the chair, tucking your hair behind your ear. “And then this morning, Hoseok pulls me–right after breakfast, like he didn’t waste a second– and he kissed me. Completely different. No slow lead-up, no teasing. He just went for it. And I kissed him back.”
Your gaze dropped for a moment, and you smiled faintly to yourself. “I don’t think I’m the type to play both sides, but it’s hard to ignore that I’m attracted to both of them for completely different reasons.”
You glanced back toward the camera. “The problem is, they both know it now. And if they’re as competitive as I think they are…” You shook your head, lips pressing together. “This is going to get messy.”
~Cut.~
By late morning, most of the villa had gathered around the pool. Sun loungers were scattered with towels, music drifted from the speakers by the bar, and someone had dumped a tray of fruit and pastries on a nearby table.
You claimed a spot on one of the loungers, sunglasses sliding into place as you stretched out. Hoseok was already there, leaning against the backrest next to you, legs stretched long. He’d changed into a white tank and swim shorts, and the sun caught on the gold chain around his neck.
It was an easy conversation, light and teasing, until Jin strolled over.
He carried a glass of something iced, condensation running down the side, and dropped onto the empty lounger on your other side. He didn’t say anything at first, just tipped his sunglasses down enough to glance at you before pushing them back into place.
“Comfortable?” he asked, tone smooth and even, but there was a weight under it that made your skin warm.
“Very,” you said, trying not to shift under the attention coming from both directions.
Maya wandered past with Yuri in tow, slowing just enough to clock the seating arrangement. “Ooh,” she said, drawing out the syllable. “Cozy corner over here.”
It was subtle, the way the air shifted; the kind of change you felt more than saw. Even Bianca, draped over the daybed across the pool, glanced up from her phone.
You reached for your drink, primarily for something to do, and tried to steer the conversation in a less obvious direction. “So what’s the plan for the day?”
“Whatever you want,” Jin said.
“Same,” Hoseok added, his knee brushing yours.
You were starting to think Maya’s and Yuri's “triangle corner” comment might end up being the understatement of the summer.
The villa chatter bubbled around you. Jungkook argued with Leo about whether the pool was cold, and Yuri was trying to teach Maya a clumsy bit of choreography by the kitchen. And you were in your corner with two very competitive men.
The tension was palpable, like an impending storm on the verge of breaking.
Namjoon wandered over from the bar, drink in hand, sunglasses perched on top of his head. He stopped just short of your loungers, taking in the sight of you wedged between Jin and Hoseok.
“Alright,” he said slowly in that way people do when they’re about to stir the pot on purpose, “So which one of you is actually winning here?”
The words landed like a bomb. Conversations nearby dipped, and a couple of heads turned.
“Winning what?” you asked, feigning cluelessness.
Namjoon smirked. “Please, I’ve been here long enough to see the–” he gestured vaguely between the three of you”--vibe.”
Jin's mouth curved, but his sunglasses hid his eyes. “Pretty sure the only competition is who makes the better omelet.
“Or coffee,” Hoseok added smoothly.
“Or who gets pulled first,” Namjoon countered, clearly enjoying himself.
You could feel the subtle shift of Jin’s arm on his lounger–not touching you, but closer than it had been a moment ago. Hoseok, meanwhile, didn’t move, just let his knee stay pressed lightly against yours like he was making a point.
Maya’s voice floated over from her spot near the pool. “If this is the triangle corner, I want front-row seats when it turns into a soap opera.”
“Wouldn’t that be giving the people exactly what they want?” Jin asked, his voice calm, almost bored.
Hoseok’s smile ticked upward. “Depends on who the people are rooting for.”
You took a long sip from your drink, hoping the sunglasses hid the fact that your pulse was doing double-time. This wasn’t subtle anymore, and judging by the looks being exchanged across the pool, the whole villa knew.
🥽
The first ping came from somewhere near the firepit. A beat later, Yuri’s voice rang out:
“I GOT A TEXT!”
The villa stilled. Even Jungkook resurfaced from the water where he was swimming in the deep end.
Yuri cleared her throat, reading in a mock-serious tone: “Islanders, tonight there will be a recoupling. The girls will choose which boy they want to be paired with. The boy who is left single will be dumped from the villa. #GirlsChoice #PackYourBags.”
Laughter, nervous whoops, a few strategic disappearances for “quick chats.” Jin didn’t move. His gaze had already found you across the deck–head tipped toward Maya, smile in place, shoulders set a little tighter than usual. Hoseok was nearby, relaxed as a picture, watching without appearing to be watching.
The afternoon blurred into the soft click of plans setting. When the sun slid low, the villa transformed into two worlds: the girls’ dressing room, bright with mirrors and perfume, and the boys’ room, a cooler hum of cologne and quiet adjustments. Jin stood at the mirror, fastening cuff buttons on a dark shirt, the linen lying clean across his broad shoulders. In the reflection, Jungkook is smoothing his hair for the third time, Namjoon fixing a watch he didn’t need, Leo spritzing cologne and walking through it like mist. Taehyung rolled his sleeves with a casual precision; Dante practiced a grin that didn’t quite land. Hoseok leaned against the wall, loose and unreadable.
A glimpse through the open door caught Jin off guard–Isla gliding past in a slip of champagne silk; Bianca’s braid falling over one shoulder; and then your earrings catching the light, dress skimming the line of her thigh. He looked away before he had to admit he’d been staring.
They filed to the fire pit as the sky turned violet. Flames licked the air; cameras watched like silent observers. The host stood in the glow, smile even.
“Girls, tonight it’s your choice,” she started. “One by one, you’ll step forward, tell us why, and make your decision. Bianca, you’re up first.”
Bianca’s chin lifted as she stood. “I’d like to couple with someone who surprised me today,” she said, voice steady. “He’s calmer than I expected, but there’s a spark under it.” Her eyes cut to the boys. “Taehyung.”
Taehyung’s mouth crooked, and he walked over to her in a few long strides. Polite applause. A seat taken.
“Lana.”
Lana smiled and stood, a little wicked. “I want the boy who makes everything feel like a caper,” she said. “Leo.”
Leo whooped, because of course, and jogged over. Applause again.
“Yuri.”
Yuri tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The one who made me laugh until I snorted and then didn’t make it weird.” A breath. “Jungkook.”
Jungkook tried not to grin too big and failed.
“Maya.”
Maya exhaled, then squared her shoulders.”I want to couple up with this boy as he is thoughtful, and he always listens.” Her gaze landed where Jin expected. “Namjoon.”
Namjoon’s relief looked like a smile he tried to hide but couldn’t.
The host turns and gestures to you, signaling that it was her turn.
Jin’s spine straightened before he could stop it.
She stood up, firelight threading gold through her hair. “From the moment he walked in, he was confident without being pushy,” she said, calm but not casual. “He makes me laugh, and I want to see what happens if we give this a real chance.” Her eyes moved past Jin and stayed there. “Hoseok.”
Hoseok’s grin was wide and bright. He moved toward her in long, eager strides. Without a hint of hesitation, he gathered her in his arms and swept her into a fierce kiss that left them both breathless. Parting, their fingers laced together, and they took their seats. The flame’s reflection ran along the curve of her cheek. Jin let his jaw loosen and kept his face easy. Beneath it, heat pooled low and mean.
“Isla.”
Isla stood up last, silk skimming her knee as she moved. She didn’t rush. “I’d like to couple with someone who makes me laugh and who, if I’m honest, I’d like to peel back a few layers.” Her mouth tilted. “Jin.”
A ripple of noise. He rose, met her halfway, pressed a palm lightly to her back as they turned. He felt Hoseok’s gaze brush him from across the firepit, and he did not look back.
The host waited for the sound to settle. “That leaves one boy single tonight.” She turned. “Dante, you were not chosen. I’m sorry, but your time in the villa has come to an end. You have thirty minutes to say your goodbyes, pack your belongings, and leave.”
For a moment, only the fire spoke. Then cloth rustled as everyone stood. Hugs happened in little bursts–quick and sincere. Dante clapped Jin’s shoulder, made a joke that didn’t land, squeezed Jungkook like a kid brother, and told Yuri to win the whole show for him. And then he was gone down the path, the villa swallowing the sound of his footsteps.
The remaining couples resettled. Bianca leaned in to say something that made Taehyung’s eyes crease. Isla’s perfume lifted when she shifted beside Jin; he kept his posture open, his smile easy.
Across the flames, Hoseok tipped his head toward you to murmur something Jin couldn’t hear.
She gave him a small private smile.
Hoseok looked up and met Jin’s eyes across the fire. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t need to.
The host’s voice drifted back in. “Islanders, enjoy the rest of your evening.”
— summary: jungkook, the world’s most famous quarterback, reunites with his high school crush, you. and he discovers that his crush was reciprocated all along.
— pairing: dad!jungkook x librarian!fem. reader
— genre: friends to lovers, football au, angst, fluff, and smut
all parts contain mature content | 18+ | warnings listed in each part
installment 1: ALWAYS LOVE
⤷ when the world’s most famous quarterback walks into your quiet little library, your heart skips a beat—or maybe two, especially when it’s jungkook, your high school crush. eleven years have passed, but your feeling haven’t faded, not even a little. what you never expected? he felt the same way all along… and now, everything you left unsaid is coming back to the surface.
installment 2: WILD LOVE (coming soon)
⤷ now that you and jungkook are fully aware of your reciprocated feelings, it’s like you can’t keep your hands off each other, especially after all these years. everything is wilder, more intense, more consuming than you ever imagined. but passion comes with a weight. he’s constantly worried about you, while you can’t shake the fear of being a constant burden. and when your relationship starts spilling into the public eye, you’ll both have to face the question: can you handle love this fierce without burning alive?
➥ rundown ; as if the unexpected twist of a one-night stand turning out to be your CEO boss wasn't surreal enough, the situation takes a more challenging turn when both of you discover that you're expecting his child.
genre ; enemies to lovers | CEO au , pregnancy au
✦ Jungkook x y/n
✦ word count ; 200k | 18+
✦ status : complete
SUMMARYᝰ you’ve never really liked jungkook. he’s annoying, reckless, knows exactly how to get under your skin and oh — did you mention annoying? but when a panicked lie leaves you scrambling for a fake boyfriend, he’s suddenly your best — and only — option. what’s the worst that could happen... right?
PAIRING... jeon jungkook x f!reader
GENRE/WARNINGS... 90s au, frenemies to lovers, fake dating, jk’s kind of a fuckboy, vmin is a side couple, a few cliches, all characters are adults!!, crack/humour, fluff, angst, explicit sexual content, swearing, other chapter specific warnings
jimin was always your safe place, but you never noticed him. Not when you were kids or when you broke his heart in silence. Now years later, jimin is still by your side—watching, waiting, loving you quietly even as you fall for the wrong people. Soon... heated moments and stolen touches ignite something deeper, but is it too late to rewrite your story and embrace the love you've been blind to all along?
pairing — dom!jimin x sub!femreader
genre — college au, childhood friends to lovers, friends with benefits, literally idiots to lovers, slowburn, coming of age, unrequited love, one sided love, second chance, pining, forced proximity, longing and yearning, romance, comedy, drama, angst, smut, fluff
warnings — 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, toxic relationship, emotional manipulation, heartbreak, jealously and insecurity, argument and miscommunication, love confessions and confrontation, healing and self-acceptance, violence and physical harm, fear of rejection, dark aspects, mental health themes, smoking and drinking, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the potentially triggering content)
✧ SUMMARY: It was supposed to be one night, one lap, one bag secured. But Min Yoongi doesn’t play like the others—he watches like he sees you, listens like he means it, and touches like he has no intention of letting go. But forever doesn’t come easy for you—and if falling for him means facing every part of yourself you swore you’d never let anyone touch? You’re going to have to figure out if it’s worth it.
✧ TAGS: smut, fluff, angst, agust d but make it ginger!yoongi, stripper!reader (warnings listed for each individual chapter)
synopsis. yoongi invites you over to his studio to listen to the new stuff he's been working on.
pairing. bts ﹢ min yoongi x reader ﹢ hot
wordcount. 700
warnings. heavy makeout session, sexual tension so thick you could record it in stereo, teasing, lap-sitting, hair-pulling, hands under clothes, yoongi being a massive tease, suggestive content (but no full smut), profanity, intense eye contact that should be illegal
You shouldn’t be here.
Not because you’re not allowed—Yoongi invited you, his own fingers flying over the keypad at midnight, asking if you were up.
But because being in his space—his kingdom of dim lights and cables and soundproof walls—is dangerous.
It smells like him. Clean, musky, something a little addictive. The desk is cluttered with headphones, old lyric sheets, iced coffee cups with lipstick that’s definitely not yours. There’s an extra hoodie draped over the back of the couch, and you’re not even halfway in before he’s already looking up at you with that lazy, devastating smile.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse from hours of humming to himself. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
You lift a brow, kicking the door shut behind you. “When have I ever not come when you called?”
Yoongi shrugs. “Still didn’t think you’d come.”
He’s so stupidly casual about it. Like the two of you haven’t been toeing a line for months—midnight texts, inside jokes, brush-of-the-hand kind of tension. You’re his friend. His non-idol friend. No stylists. No rules. Just you, standing in his cave of beats and neon glow, pretending this is all totally normal.
“You said you wanted my opinion,” you remind him.
He swivels in his chair, nodding toward the monitor. “Right. Yeah. Come listen.”
You slide in beside him, knees brushing, and try to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.
The track is slow. Seductive. Laced with synths and bass and something that feels like skin on skin. It builds and dips, not aggressive—just smooth, hypnotic, the kind of rhythm you’d move to in a dark room with someone’s hand on your waist and your heart in your throat.
Halfway through, you swallow. “Yoongi... this is…”
“Too much?” he asks, looking at you sideways.
“No,” you whisper. “It’s good. Like. Ridiculously good.”
You don’t say sexy, but the word sits there between you anyway.
He smirks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The silence that follows is loaded.
Your heart does that stupid flutter it always does around him—the kind you try to ignore, until he does something like reach over you to hit a key, hand brushing your thigh, breath ghosting your cheek.
You freeze.
He doesn’t move.
Then his voice, just above a whisper: “Wanna know what I was thinking about when I made it?”
You nod, slow. “Tell me.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. “You.”
Your lungs stop functioning. “Me?”
Yoongi shrugs one shoulder, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just crack the earth in half.
“Not in a weird way,” he says. “Just… the way you looked the other night. When we were at that bar and you laughed at something I said. I went home and—” he breaks off, then huffs a laugh. “I started layering sounds and it just… came out like this.”
You blink. “You wrote a song because I laughed?”
“You looked at me when you did it.”
Your stomach flips so violently it’s dizzying.
He doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Just shifts, slow and certain, reaching out to tug you by the wrist. You stumble forward instinctively, hands bracing on the arms of his chair.
Next thing you know, you're in his lap.
Straddling him.
“Yoongi—” you start, but your voice cracks, and you’re not even sure what you were gonna say. Don’t? Stop? Kiss me already?
He’s looking up at you like you’re the chorus he never quite finishes.
So he kisses you.
And god—it’s devastating. All tongue and teeth and heat, hands on your thighs, under your shirt, dragging you closer like he wants to wear you. Your fingers twist in his hair, yanking a sound from him that goes straight to your core.
You grind down without thinking.
He groans.
The chair creaks.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, his breath ragged. “You can’t—do that—unless we’re planning to take this way further.”
You lean in, licking into his mouth with a grin. “I didn’t think this was just a listening party. Did you?”
He laughs, breathless, dark. “Oh, you're a minx.”
You kiss him again.
Deeper.
And in the background, the instrumental loops again.
Your laughter’s not in it. But your moan might be soon.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ
Jungkook moves through a world of power, pleasure, and precision — always in control, always a step ahead. Love is a weakness. Attachment, a distraction. But then you appear: soft-spoken, sugar-sweet, wrapped in innocence like silk. You don't belong in his world — and yet, you fits into it like a secret he’s been waiting to uncover. Jungkook doesn’t question it. He watches. Waits. And when the moment is right, he’ll pull you in — not with force, but with a touch, a whisper, a promise. He won’t ask for your surrender. He’ll make you crave it. Because Jungkook doesn’t fall. He chooses — and this time, he’s already decided.
TROPES university!au, richgirl!oc, brother's best friend, richboy!jungkook
PAIRING jungkook × reader
WARNING alcohol consumption, strong language, too much unnecessary jokes (can't do anything about it), prologue: university edition, slow burn(i mean it), pining, forced proximity, fear commitment, traumas?, jk's so delicate with oc, basketballplayer!jungkook, mature content
—author's note i'm both terrified and thrilled to finally release this little monster into the world. technically, this is the prologue—but calling it that feels too innocent. it’s more like a quiet beginning to something that absolutely refuses to stay quiet. there will be more parts. they’ll arrive when they’re ready. or when i've stopped arguing with the characters in my head. should i make a playlist for this? i tried. it bit back. anyway, consider this your warning and your welcome. read at your own risk—and enjoy the descent.
Life has never felt sharper than in this moment — the car slicing through the wind, the sky darkening above, tension riding shotgun. Your brother drives like he’s racing a ghost, foot heavy on the gas, the road blurring beneath you. You’ve told him before — speed terrifies you. He never listens.
“Did you memorize everything I said?” Taehyung asks, eyes flicking toward you before locking back on the road.
You open your mouth — a protest forming — but his sideways glare cuts you off before a word escapes. You sigh.
“Don’t speak unless you have to. Wait until I give the signal. You’re with me, so act like it. Make an impression,” you recite, voice flat.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, jaw tight. “Don’t screw this up. It’s a big game.”
You glance down at the heels on your feet — unfamiliar, awkward. “Believe me, I don’t even have the power to screw it up.”
Taehyung doesn’t flinch. “You said that last time too. Right before you got expelled.”
This is it — your second shot. A fresh start at a pristine private university your parents paid a not-so-small fortune for. You’re supposed to be someone new now. Better. Sharper. Unbreakable.
You squint at him. “That wasn’t even my fault.”
He smirks. “And yet, somehow — still your legacy.”
You sigh and turn to the window. The dress sticks to your skin, your palms damp with sweat. The vest on top only makes it worse. Outside, sculpted hedges stretch in perfect symmetry toward the looming university gates. Clean. Controlled. Just like everything you're expected to be.
“Remind me again why I have to go to your game?”
Taehyung looks wounded — theatrically, of course. “After everything I’ve done for you, and I don’t even get your undying love?”
And honestly? He’s not wrong. He’s done more for you than your own parents. Which, to be fair, is a low bar — but still. Taehyung has protected you, defended you, probably even threatened a teacher or two. He’s ambition with a jawline. A one-man PR team and emotional bodyguard.
But you've also seen him angry. And Taehyung’s anger? It doesn’t explode. It simmers. It burns. It walks into a room and the temperature drops ten degrees. You love him — in that weird, deeply complicated sibling way — but you'd rather be hit by a car than be in his path when he’s furious.
“I don’t even know the rules of basketball,” you mutter. “And showing up isn’t going to change that.”
The car shifts onto gravel, the tires crunching like bones in a horror movie. Dust kicks up behind you, swirling in the rearview — dramatic, just like this whole morning. And honestly? If this is how your new chapter starts… you may need to fake your own death by mid-semester.
“This is the best I can offer for your grand welcome tour,” he says, tapping the wheel like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra.
“If I wanted to disappear quietly into the background, this is... aggressively the wrong way,” you shoot back, eyeing him like a walking bad decision.
“Not your concern. I already told you — let me worry about the theatrics. You just stand there and soak up the drama.”
“Exactly what I planned. Passive bystander energy is my whole strategy,” you reply, raising an eyebrow like it's a weapon.
He flashes that grin — smug, sharp, and begging to be punched. “How lucky that one of us came prepared with a functioning brain.”
“Aw. Thank you,” you say with faux sincerity.
“I was talking about myself.”
You notice the shift in scenery just in time to realize something horrifying: you’ve arrived. Already.
So much for mentally preparing. You barely had time to invent a fake identity or plot your dramatic escape.
A stone wall looms on either side like the setting of a very bougie prison. The gothic-style iron gates creak open with all the enthusiasm of a vampire waking from a nap, and Taehyung jumps right in with his usual grace:
“I’ve gotta hit the locker room and change. You, being the obedient angel you pretend to be, will wait out here for your beloved brother. Got it?” His voice teeters somewhere between drill sergeant and smug theater kid.
You squint at him. “Why can’t I just go in without you?”
He throws you a look sharp enough to slice drywall. Taehyung has changed a lot over the years — mostly in the “Greek statue with issues” direction. All that training turned him into a walking intimidation poster, which apparently also made him hotter. Which made him cockier. Which made you consider legally disowning him at least twice.
Still, you can’t help it. You’re a little proud. Annoyed — but proud.
His spine is made of steel, his face is always unreadable, and his ability to pretend everything’s under control is downright Olympic. Honestly, if you could download his emotional software, you would. It saved your life more than once when you were younger — even if it came with a side of unsolicited advice and judgmental stares.
“Yes, I remember. Big brother’s word is law,” you deadpan.
He lets out a laugh — real and loud. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear that from your mouth. Or did you mean first in line to inherit everything?”
Your jaw hits the floor so fast it might’ve cracked tile. Of course he’d slip that in.
“Not my fault you’re Mom and Dad’s favorite,” you grumble, already mourning your future as a smiling, agreeable hologram of a person.
Taehyung keeps joking — because of course he does — just as the car cruises onto a terrace so dramatically designed it might as well come with background music. Statues pose like they know they’re being watched. You spot a fountain with some shirtless Greek god impaling a giant snake, water spewing dramatically from its mouth like it just heard your social anxiety speak.
The gravel gives way to smooth stone — because, obviously, this car shouldn’t suffer the indignity of bumpy roads.
“I’m sure you’re ready,” Taehyung chirps, stepping out with all the smug confidence of a man who’s never second-guessed a day in his life. He opens your door like a prince, or a chauffeur, or someone auditioning for both.
“You can’t be sure,” you mutter. Not sarcastic. Just... honest. Terrifyingly honest.
The campus is so big it might have its own moon orbiting it. There's a full-blown park out front, crawling with the kind of rich kids whose names are basically currency. You recognize more than a few — or at least recognize the types: platinum cards, legacy admission, generational arrogance.
The park keeps stretching out like it’s being unrolled in real-time, littered with more fountains than strictly necessary. Not that you’re judging — you’ve already lost track of how many zeroes it must’ve taken to maintain all this.
You’re too busy gawking to notice Taehyung watching you like you just crawled out of a shoebox.
“I told you to keep quiet and act like you belong. We haven’t even walked through the door and you're already drooling like it's Disneyland.”
He says it with all the casual snobbery of someone who’s never had to swipe their own transit card. Hands in pockets, chin high, channeling his inner male model-meets-dictator.
You fold your arms automatically. “Well excuse me for being impressed, Mr. Private Jet. My last university had mold in three different colors. You want to compare campuses?”
“After what you did there?” he shrugs. “Pretty sure the building itself applied for therapy.”
“Taehyung, drop it.” You swipe your fingers through your hair like that might erase the memory.
“Why? You gave the place its first viral moment. That’s legacy, baby.”
He smirks, and to your great dismay, he kind of has a point.
Technically, this isn’t your first time here. You’d been once — to sign paperwork with your new academic overlords. That day, they drove you in through some discreet back road near a grove, like you were contraband. The gravel path led to a staircase that dumped you straight into the heart of bureaucracy.
You didn’t get a campus tour. You barely even got a window seat. All you remember is a handful of overly polite suits, the smell of rich wood and legal ink, and your own shoes — because that’s what you stared at while they negotiated your future over your head.
You looked up exactly three times: when they said your name, when they handed you a pen, and when you realized the door had no handle on your side.
Taehyung basically had to drag you inside before you embarrassed yourself further by staring at every fountain and shrub like a medieval peasant seeing plumbing for the first time. You clung to every detail like if you blinked, the whole place would collapse into a pile of bricks and unmet expectations.
You only notice the absurdly large sports bag on his shoulder once you pass through the university’s doors — doors so unnecessarily big and heavy, they could double as castle gates in case of siege. You're not sure if you’re entering an elite academic institution or the Vatican.
Inside, the place is both exactly how you remembered… and offensively better.
Lounges stretch across both sides of the entrance hall, decorated with leather chairs that practically sneer at anyone who’s ever sat on a bus. The glass tables match — minimalist and expensive-looking — already surrounded by students who chat like they own the place and possibly several offshore accounts.
Above them, giant stained-glass chandeliers drip light with the kind of elegance that screams we don't do budget cuts here. The rugs beneath them carry school emblems you can’t quite place. They probably mean something profound. Or pretentious. Or both.
Two dramatic spiral staircases rise like the set of a soap opera, splitting off to gendered dormitories because, apparently, even at the top 1% level, boys and girls still need supervised bedtime geography.
You glance around. Everyone is dressed in the school uniform — blazers with golden crests, tailored to perfection, looking more like runway pieces than something meant to survive spilled coffee and panic attacks.
“Taehyung, why aren’t you in uniform?” you ask, mildly alarmed.
He smirks, clearly enjoying your confusion. “You’ve got a lot to learn, little sister.”
Translation: he thinks he’s too cool for school. Or rules. Or matching outfits. And you’re now stuck learning how to survive this place where even the chandeliers could probably get you expelled if you looked at them wrong.
“Are we gonna get detention for showing up like rebels?” you ask, scanning the hall like a security guard’s going to leap out from a potted plant and demand you change clothes.
“As long as you’re with me, no one dares,” Taehyung replies, oozing the kind of arrogance usually reserved for villains or people with private jets.
“Oh, with you?” You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure your name isn’t carved into the building... yet.”
He grins. “Not officially.”
You walk beside him through the corridor, instantly becoming the eye-candy sidekick to the main attraction. Every student in sight starts noticing. Not you, obviously — them noticing him. Mr. Perfect GPA, Mr. Reputation So Clean You Could Eat Off It. You? You’re just the plot twist.
They're all trying to figure it out: Who is she, and what backdoor deal got her here?
Your family, despite their bank balance, treats fame like it’s contagious. You grew up learning how to blend into marble walls and politely ignore the press. No one knows how many of you even exist. That’s probably the point.
As you both walk, Taehyung earns waves, grins, a few sly hand gestures you’re sure would get someone expelled elsewhere. Girls toss compliments his way like rose petals, their gazes sticking to you just long enough to register confusion, judgment, or mild panic.
“End of the hallway,” he says, pointing. “Turn right, and don’t scream when you see the gym. Pretend you’ve been in places with ceilings taller than your aspirations.”
You roll your eyes. “So just act rich?”
He shrugs. “Fake it ‘til they think you belong.”
Taehyung gave you one last reassuring pat — like sending a toddler into preschool — and disappeared down a hallway that branched out like a choose-your-own-nightmare adventure.
Alone, you made a bold decision: act like you belonged here. Which mostly meant gawking at everything like you didn’t. The walls were cluttered with dramatic oil paintings of alumni who apparently graduated with enough medals to sink a small yacht.
You were mid-tour-guide-in-your-own-head when the floor caught your eye. Not metaphorically. Literally.
There, smack in the middle of the hallway, was a mural: a steroidal eagle with claws sunk into a basketball like it owed him money, wings flared, beak open in what looked like either a scream or a motivational speech.
You stepped around to admire it — and got body-slammed by reality.
Or more specifically, by someone moving at the speed of “no time for newbies.” Your heels betrayed you, squealing like rats on tile as you pitched forward, arms flailing, dignity gone.
Enter: mystery hand. A firm grip around your waist stopped your crash landing. You looked up, eyes locking on a guy whose face was framed in backlit drama like some K-drama casting director had summoned him on cue.
He looked like an angel. If angels were irritable gym gods with murder in their eyes.
His features were sharp enough to file legal documents with, and his hair was just curly enough to suggest chaos under control. He wore the same athletic uniform you’d seen in Taehyung’s bag — black with enough white stripes to suggest speed or danger, maybe both.
He didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask if you were okay. He just shoved you upright like a malfunctioning robot and clicked his tongue — the international sign for you're in my way.
Then came the real warmth: “Don’t block the hallway,” he said, like you'd parked your car in his soul.
A glance past you. Hair flick. “Fuck it,” he muttered and charged through the doors like an emotionally constipated action hero.
You stood there like a shocked mannequin, legs shaking, brain buffering.
More footsteps approached behind you.
Run? Sure. But why leave when the chaos is just getting started?
“You’re Taehyung’s sister, aren’t you?” came a mildly amazed voice.
You turned to find three girls staring at you like they were auditioning to be the same person. Their only real difference? Hair color. And maybe lip gloss aggressiveness.
You stand there, practically turned to stone, still trying to mentally reboot from this morning’s episode of “Welcome to Hell: Fancy Campus Edition.”
“Edelin, I think she’s defective. No vocal cords,” one girl smirks. The rest giggle like hyenas at a Botox clinic.
“You might actually be useful to us, right, Sophia?” the blonde chimes in, eyes glinting like a rich kid’s lawsuit.
“Shut your mouth, Blair,” the brunette—clearly Sophia, clearly the leader, clearly the one who might've poisoned a roommate once—glares at her friend like she’s mentally drawing blood.
“Do you even know who Taehyung is taking to the party tonight?” Blair snaps, suddenly getting serious like this is a matter of state.
Sophia scoffs. “Probably that desperate little horror show from the parallel stream. What’s her name again?”
“Delia?” Blair’s eyebrow arches so high it might take flight.
“Yeah, that abomination. Who names a human being Delia?” Blair mutters like she’s filing a formal complaint with God.
You begin questioning every life choice that brought you here. Were the scholarships worth it? Couldn’t you have just married a dentist?
You take one cautious step back, holding your hands up like someone about to be mugged by cheerleaders.
“Uh… listen. I’m just trying to survive orientation. Please skip me on your villain arc.”
Sophia steps closer with the poise of someone who’s watched Mean Girls too many times and decided Regina George was misunderstood.
“If we wanted to scare you, we wouldn’t be using our words,” she says sweetly, like a Disney villain about to push you into a well. “We just want some… information.”
You swear they must rehearse this stuff.
You're calculating your odds of escape when—
Boom. Salvation drops an arm over your shoulder like it owns you.
“There you are. I take my eyes off you for one second, and suddenly I’m auditioning for Campus Survivor: Sister Edition. What’s the deal?”
The voice? Velvet-wrapped steel. The perfume? Costs more than your tuition. The attitude? Five-star hotel concierge with a black belt.
You turn.
Green eyes. Brown hair. Built like she could suplex a barista if they spelled her name wrong. And… probably your new favorite person.
“Move aside, Botox Barbie Squad. We've got emergency mediocrity to attend to,” the girl announces like she’s hosting the Hunger Games.
She turns to you. “Your name, darling?”
You mumble it. Her eyes light up like she just found the last charger in a blackout, and suddenly, she’s got you under her wing like you're her long-lost bestie.
“Don’t worry, girls, we’ll gossip about the apocalypse later,” she throws over her shoulder, and the Plastics 2.0 vanish in a puff of judgment and over-sprayed perfume.
“Ugh. Skinny witches,” she mutters. “All ribs and venom. Someone give them a sandwich and a personality.”
You blink. “Thank you… I think?”
“Please. I collect lost souls. You looked one hallway away from fainting into a janitor’s bucket.”
You nod numbly. Today started like a teen drama. Now it’s spiraling into a psychological thriller.
“Sorry. They just caught me off guard.”
“You should see them when they’re pissed. Like raccoons with credit cards,” she smirks. “Name’s Janessa. Yours I’ve already stolen.”
“I was supposed to wait for Taehyung,” you remember, like that’ll anchor you in this fever dream.
“You really are his sister? How does a Disney side character birth a Greek god?”
“Why is that shocking to everyone?”
“Sweetheart,” she says, patting your shoulder. “The plot twist of this place is that logic doesn’t live here.”
Right on cue, Taehyung shows up, arms raised like he’s summoning divine favor.
“My sister! Today the gods decide our fate—victory or humiliation memes for eternity!”
“Calm down, Shakespeare. It’s just a game.”
“Just a game?” he gasps. “Tell that to our reputation, our GPA curve, and my dating life!”
You sigh, glancing toward the gym. The screams inside sound like a gladiator pit.
Welcome to university.
ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶
The gym is massive—because of course it is. Why not throw a small nation inside while we’re at it? The floor shines like someone licked it clean. Every shoe squeak sounds like a mouse getting murdered. Red and yellow walls scream “school spirit” and possible retinal damage.
Taehyung leads you in like he’s Moses parting a sea of hormone-ridden teenagers.
“I got you the best seat,” he says, like he’s offering you a throne. You cling to his sleeve because reverting to childhood is cheaper than therapy.
There’s not a single free seat. The fire marshal would faint. Music starts—loud, peppy, and painfully motivational. A musical slap to the face.
Taehyung parks you in your royal spot and vanishes, leaving you in the middle of a crowd that smells like sweat and entitlement. Everyone’s high on adrenaline. You? You just want soup and a nap.
Then—bam! A hand on your shoulder. Again. You're starting to think this is a contact sport.
It’s Janessa. Of course it is.
“Sweetheart, sitting all alone like a stray puppy? Mind if I keep you company?”
Your cheeks heat up. The girl next to you does a theatrical sigh, but Janessa gives her one look—and poof. The seat’s magically empty. Sorcery, probably.
“You don’t look like you know the rules,” Janessa says, plopping down.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re sitting like the court’s contagious.”
Her uniform fits like sin, all curves and confidence. Yours would probably wrinkle just out of spite.
“Want a crash course in how your golden-boy brother joined the undefeated gods of ball?” She winks.
“Wait—they’ve never lost? Like… ever?”
“You two related or what? He never told you?”
You remember dinner talks where speaking was forbidden, so you two communicated like spies. Somehow he told you everything—team gossip, strategies, weird mascot facts. You nodded, smiled, and retained none of it.
And now? You’re just hoping nobody notices the panic behind your eyes. You're not built for the spotlight. You’re built for avoiding eye contact and pretending to text when people get too close.
Your parents were the kind of people who thought pressure made diamonds. In your case, it mostly made anxiety, nervous rashes, and a deeply rooted fear of being observed. They hovered through your college years like a committee of disappointed ghosts.
Taehyung, meanwhile, was born with a spotlight and an internal monologue narrated by Morgan Freeman. He didn't even try. He just existed… beautifully.
When the rival team entered the court, they looked like they'd just come off a Marvel movie set. Broad shoulders, soul-piercing stares, jawlines that could open cans. Their uniforms were so sharp they probably had to be stored in a weapon locker. You briefly wondered what it would feel like to lose to them. Probably like being crushed by art. Painful, but gorgeous.
Your team came in next, with the subtle grace of a marching band and the attitude of people who paid rent on that court. The crowd lost its collective mind. Coaches gave speeches. Someone wept. It was dramatic. You weren’t sure if it was basketball or a war declaration.
Janessa leaned in like she was about to tell you a state secret. “Your brother’s a small forward. Basically, the ninja of the team—fast, slippery, surprisingly violent.”
You blinked. “That sounds illegal.”
“Oh honey,” she laughed, “wait till you see Central C. That man is the reason we keep an emergency thirst ambulance on campus. If basketball was a religion, he’d be our patron saint of broken ankles.”
She sweeps the court with a flick of her manicured finger like she’s picking which poor soul to sacrifice. Her nail lands on him. The reason you nearly ate gym floor and social death in one go. The guy who caught you like some drama club guardian angel, then walked off like he didn’t care about your entire existential collapse.
“That’s our MVP,” Janessa grins, like she’s about to confess a war crime. “Jeon Jungkook. Or as I like to call him: the reason birth control should come with an ‘are you sure?’ label.”
You stare. Hard. It's not lust; it’s anthropological interest. Like watching a god emerge from gym shorts.
“I totally get it. He’s a hormone in motion. His full name’s only used by two types of people: those terrified of him, and those who want him to choke them with his biceps.”
You blink. “Why is everyone here scared of somebody?”
Janessa chuckles like a villain. “Because everyone here has a mobster uncle or a politician daddy. These aren't students. These are trust funds with sneakers. Touch one, and you’re in a Netflix documentary.”
She turns fully to you, forgetting the game. “We’re in the same glittering hellhole. Parents watching us like we’re the season finale. Not because they care—but because they’re afraid of becoming memes.”
You nod grimly. Relatable.
You remember that stormy night. Your father pacing like he’s auditioning for Hamlet. Your mother flinging guilt like designer perfume. “You’re an embarrassment,” he said. “Why are you like this?”
“Let’s send her to her brother,” she added, like shipping you off to Hogwarts for delinquents. “Let him deal with her.”
Taehyung wasn’t allowed in that room. Not because he wouldn’t defend you. Because they didn’t want a witness.
And so here you are, soaking in generational trauma and basketball.
The game kicks off like a bar fight. Taehyung bulldozes through the opposing team like he’s auditioning for “Fast & Furious: Campus Drift.” A poor soul lands on his butt, and your team scores.
You scream. Janessa screams. Your ankle screams in heels.
Later, the players huddle in sweat and regret. Their coach looks like he’s contemplating arson. One more shot and the score evens out.
You lean back and wonder: is this what growth feels like—or just stress-induced Stockholm Syndrome?
The game continues, and it’s a demolition derby in sneakers.
Players crash into each other with the enthusiasm of caffeinated bulls. Your brother steamrolls one of the opposing players like he’s clearing traffic, then hurls himself toward the hoop. The ball slides in clean, your side scores, and the poor human speed bump is left clinging to the floor in spiritual confusion.
The crowd loses it. Janessa howls. You’re screaming too, possibly possessed.
The match is fast, brutal, and almost poetic. Taehyung’s team moves like clockwork with anger issues. The formations are tight, passes sharp. Taehyung’s dribbling? Practically foreplay with gravity. Even you, whose sports knowledge begins and ends with “don’t drop the ball,” are halfway to writing a love letter to his coordination.
Then the atmosphere shifts.
The second quarter ends. The players are sweating like they just sprinted out of a burning building. Your brother’s team huddles near the bench, their coach snapping his clipboard in half—possibly for motivation, possibly because he’s two seconds from cardiac arrest. One good shot from the other team and the game ties.
The tension is thick. The kind you could butter and serve at brunch.
The third quarter is a slow-motion collapse in the form of organized sports. Things aren’t getting better—they’re aging like milk. The tension on your university’s bench is the kind you’d expect before a public beheading.
Taehyung? He’s the only one doing cardio with purpose. He’s practically flying across the court like his soul is in debt and basketball is the only redemption.
Then there's him.
Jungkook—currently stealing a ball, dodging a human meat wall, and pulling off dribbling theatrics that make you question gravity. He gets pushed to the outer limits of scoring sanity. From that distance, shooting is basically prayer. But judging by his expression, he’s not praying—he’s planning murder. He doesn’t just play the game; he bullies it into submission.
Break time.
Taehyung stumbles over, drenched in enough sweat to water a small garden.
“Still having fun?” he smirks, acting like he hasn’t been dodging flying elbows for the last hour.
You squint. “More intense than Faust. Less soul-selling, though. I think.”
Janessa, ever the drama queen, sighs as if you’ve disappointed her spiritually. “She’s lying, Taehyung. Your sister’s basically fangirling in slow motion. If she had pom-poms, someone would be in danger.”
“Let her dream,” Taehyung shrugs, wiping the Niagara Falls off his forehead.
“You’re both insufferable,” you mutter, but then pause. “Wait. How do you know Janessa?”
Their synchronized laughter hits like a jump scare.
“You mean that Janessa?” Taehyung arches a brow. “From the global overlords of medicine? Whose family probably owns half of your bloodstream?”
Janessa beams like she pays taxes in compliments. “We’re not here for that. Our boys are winning. Focus.”
Taehyung turns his grin on you. “This victory’s for you, dear sister.” He blows a kiss. Janessa’s laughter sparkles like a glass of evil champagne.
And then—goosebumps.
You feel it. That heavy stare. You glance across the court and there he is—Jungkook. Not blinking. Not pretending. Just undressing your psyche with a look.
You blink. He doesn’t. You flinch. He stays still, like a tiger that doesn’t need to roar to be terrifying.
Then: buzzer. Final quarter.
All players are back. Everyone looks like they’re about to declare war on personal space. Jungkook? He’s barking orders like he owns a whistle and a copyright.
Game on.
Fouls are flirted with. Elbows fly like poorly trained drones. Jungkook moves through defenders like a rumor through a high school hallway.
Two minutes left.
Three players are caged. Taehyung and Jungkook are running on adrenaline and eye contact. Jungkook suddenly bolts to no-man’s land. Taehyung follows the code and launches the ball.
Tension hits terminal velocity.
Jungkook jumps, shoots—and nails it. Janessa claws your hand like she’s performing an exorcism.
Crowd loses its mind.
Twenty seconds. Two points needed.
Taehyung makes eye contact—dangerous eye contact.
Ten seconds.
He spins. He jukes. He becomes chaos incarnate.
Three... two... one.
He flips backward and dunks.
Absolute mayhem.
He hangs from the rim like it’s performance art. His team rushes the court. Your school wins.
And somewhere in the crowd, you lose ten years off your life.
ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶
The hallways look like someone kicked over an anthill full of overachievers. People with books, people with bandages, people dramatically whispering like they’ve just witnessed a political assassination — not a student basketball match.
Janessa struts ahead like she’s got bodyguards. She pulls you along, as per Taehyung’s request — “help her adjust,” he said, like you were a malfunctioning robot who needed recalibration.
“There’s a party tonight,” she announces. “Victory celebration. Technically, it was gonna happen anyway. But now it’s... inclusive.”
You blink. “So even if we lost?”
Janessa grins. “Darling, capitalism doesn’t cry. The opposing university paid for this. Sponsorship, rivalry, spite — all in one shiny bow. Very chic.”
You exit onto the campus grounds, and again — how is this not a city? At this point, you’re convinced the university has a private military.
“What does that even mean?” you ask, suspicious.
“I can only spoil part of the plot. The rest’s for your bro to unravel. One of their players — unofficial captain, unofficial jerk — has questions for Taehyung. Questions Taehyung plans to ignore with the grace of a man filing his nails mid-duel.”
“So... they planned a whole game just to get close to him?”
“Exactly. They’re obsessed. They keep bribing referees, department heads — trying to poke the bear. Only problem? Taehyung’s bear-proof.” She says this like it’s a known medical fact.
You feel like you accidentally wandered into a mafia subplot.
Taehyung — your rock, your always-has-your-back brother — apparently leads a secret life involving vendettas and referee manipulation. You thought he just studied a lot.
And worse? He never told you.
There’s a bitter taste in your mouth. Not jealousy. More like... exclusion. You’ve always leaned on each other. Now it feels like you were leaning on a locked door.
“They all have weaknesses though,” Janessa purrs. “Wanna guess?”
“Ego,” you reply flatly. “They’re terrified of looking weak.”
Janessa gasps like you just solved world hunger. “Girl. You’re terrifying. I love it.”
You blush, of course, and hate yourself for it.
You could smell the academic dread in the air—autumn leaves piled like little academic corpses on the pavement, and the sky looked ready to file a lawsuit for emotional damage. The only thing missing? A violinist playing Requiem for a Failed Semester.
Janessa glanced at the graying clouds. “We better go inside before the weather starts throwing chairs.”
She was right. Even the squirrels looked stressed.
Then, just your luck—Taehyung appeared like a drama club understudy with way too much energy. His grin vanished as fast as his GPA the moment he clocked your expression.
Janessa sensed incoming doom. “I’m gonna…go do anything else,” she said, backing away like someone who just realized she left the stove on.
“What’s with the death stare?” he asked, already bracing himself like you were a human lawsuit.
“I’m mad at you,” you said, with all the poise of someone seconds away from either tears or arson.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me anything? I feel like an unpaid extra in your movie.”
Taehyung blinked. “What movie? The one where I get concussion-slapped every weekend?”
Boom—lightning. Of course. Even the weather was dramatic now.
“You’ve been throwing hands with rival teams like it’s Fight Club: University Edition and I know nothing,” you hissed.
He sighed like someone who just realized he forgot to defrost the chicken. “Okay, listen. Can I at least drive you back before you cry all over your designer outfit? Dior’s not made for warfare.”
“I’m going to kill you, Taehyung. They’ll name a bench after me for it.”
“There she is. My sweet, sweet angel of death.”
You scowled. Classic him. Always the martyr. Always the idiot. Still, you knew the truth—he probably didn’t want you mixed up in this circus. He barely managed to keep himself afloat.
“Sorry,” you muttered, poking at your fingers like they owed you money.
His expression melted. Arms opened. Like an overpriced teddy bear with good hair.
“I’m sorry too,” he said. “I didn’t want to bother you with... whatever this is. Thought I’d do the whole macho-man thing.”
“You absolute walnut,” you muttered against his chest. “You’re stuck with me, jackass. Remember that.”
He pulled back, still grinning. “You’re the smart one. I’m just the hot one.”
“Shut up before I change my mind.”
“Oh? We’re doing compliments now? In this economy?”
You both laughed—because if you didn’t, you might actually start crying again.
ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶
Taehyung had bragged your dorm room was the best on campus. Not just “best” like “oh, a nice corner spot.” No, the kind of best that whispers bribery with a Gucci accent. The kind of view where you expected a man with a violin to appear on the balcony every evening.
You gave him hell for it, naturally.
“How much did you pay for this, and what limbs did you sell?”
“The semester’s already started,” you reminded him. “People were fighting for broom closets, and you got me a royal suite?”
He shrugged like rich boys do. “Connections.”
Which was code for: I know a guy who knows a guy who forged a guy's email.
“You’re going to the party tonight,” he said, raising his hand like he was Moses and this was non-negotiable holy law.
“I’m not, actually.”
You matched his hand raise, mocking him. “I’m halfway through a book. A real one. With plot and emotion. You ever heard of that?”
“Excuse you, I made the honor roll.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of France.”
“That rich. Especially from my only sister.”
His dramatic pain-face deserved an Oscar—or at least a meme caption.
Inside, the room looked like Hogwarts and a luxury hotel had an expensive, overachieving baby. Faux medieval wooden beams, leather couches straight out of an interior design catalog, and a TV bigger than your emotional baggage. Two doors on either side, which meant: welcome to cohabitation. Pray no one’s into interpretive dancing at 3 a.m.
“You’re sharing with three others,” he said, kicking off his shoes like this was his place. “But you get your own room. I have standards, even if you don’t.”
You shot him a look.
“I got you an outfit,” he added before you could find something to throw at him.
“Oh, joy. Another designer dress I didn’t ask for.”
“Correction: latest Gucci fall line,” he said, like that solved world hunger. “Nine sharp. Back garden. Meet me by the pond.”
You squinted. “We have a pond?”
“Yes. Try to look like you were born rich and bored.”
ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶
The dorm is dead silent—eerily so. Either everyone’s off pretending to be more important than they are, or they’re buried under a pile of designer laundry.
You step into your room and—surprise!—your suitcases are already there, thanks to your family’s terrifying ability to micromanage across postal codes. And sitting beside them, like a smug little trophy, is a green Gucci bag with a note pinned on it like it’s a piece of performance art.
“You’ll look ravishing in this. First thing I thought when I saw it.
P.S. Parents want to see you this week.
Tae.”
You grin. Of course, your brother is the one person whose shameless flattery you buy wholesale.
You take out the dress, strut over to the mirror, and hold it against yourself with the kind of breathy sigh that would make a perfume ad jealous. You even spin like you're in a coming-of-age montage.
“You look stunning,” a voice interrupts.
You nearly throw the dress across the room in pure horror-movie reflex.
There she is—blonde chaos incarnate. Her uniform looks like it barely survived a scandal. One more step and that cardigan’s filing for divorce.
“Sorry, your door was open. Figured I’d snoop a little,” she leans into the doorframe like it’s a photo shoot. She’s stunning. Like, of course she is.
“It’s fine,” you mutter, casually shoving the dress onto the couch like it didn’t just cause a minor cardiac event. It’s black, sequined, and screams ‘arrest me in the champagne section’.
“Taehyung wasn’t exaggerating—his sister is a knockout. I’m jealous,” she drawled, slow and syrupy.
“Did he really say that?” you smirk, already planning how to emotionally blackmail him later.
She strolls in without permission (or shame).
“Want help unpacking? I know that mental breakdown energy when I see it,” she says, flopping onto your bed.
“Adriana. And you’re the sister. This is already a story I’ll tell at brunch.”
You introduce yourself like a normal person and pretend this isn’t already the weirdest day of your semester.
You gave her your name, still mentally adjusting. “Likewise. I’m thrilled I’ve been assigned a roommate with a sense of humor. My inner child is currently doing backflips.”
“Oh honey,” she laughs. It’s an unhinged, charismatic laugh. You instantly trust her and fear her equally.
“They should be back soon. Storm’s coming.” She grins like she summoned it.
She offers her hand like you’re making a pact with a stylish demon.
“Let me give you a tour. It’s the least I can do after scaring you half to death.”
You follow her like a lamb to the fashion slaughterhouse.
Her room is part chaos, part couture crime scene. Everything’s luxury, but you wouldn’t touch it without gloves.
“Have you figured out what to wear tonight?” you ask, scanning the fashion battlefield.
“Not unless I climb into one of these suitcases and get shipped to Milan.”
“I could lend you something,” you say, already regretting the generosity.
“Wow. Designer lending on day one? You’re gonna regret that when I burn it by accident.”
More laughter. You might actually survive this place.
Then the voices arrive.
Adriana mutters, “Speak of the devils…”
The door slams open like a scene from Mean Girls: Apocalypse Edition.
“I’m not wearing Vivienne Westwood from last fall. I’d rather die.”
“That saleswitch tried to pass it off as new. I was this close to homicide.”
You follow Adriana into the living room, wondering if this is hell or a reality show. Either way, you're not leaving. The circus was officially in town.
“Who does she think she is?” Adriana says, and you realize—this girl could star in a courtroom drama and win an Emmy just from delivering objections.
“Finally, someone understands,” the other girl groans. “Diana, I swear, this place is like a haunted boarding school, and I’m the only one with a mirror. I’m going to the bathroom. It’s mine for the next hour. I need to scrub the poverty off me before it spreads.” She raises her perfectly manicured hands like she’s holding a biohazard.
Adriana throws you a look that says they’re not dangerous, just dramatic. You’re not entirely convinced. They walk like chaos wrapped in couture.
“Wow,” the girl says, circling you like a shark in heels. Adriana steps back like she’s handing you over. “Is this… is this Dior limited collection?” She practically shrieks the last words.
You peek at Adriana over the girl’s shoulder with an expression that screams: I’m being mugged by compliments—send help.
“Maybe? It was a gift,” you offer, half hoping the vague tone will make her wander off.
“A gift?” she gasps. “Who gives that as a gift for a regular day?”
You shrug. “I have people.” Cryptic. Slightly arrogant. Maximum damage control.
“I’m Lacey,” she says, hand outstretched like you’re supposed to kiss it. You shake it instead, politely. “You have to show me your wardrobe sometime,” she adds, already planning her future fashion heist.
Then, like a gremlin on a sugar crash, she spins on Adriana. “You promised to help me pick my outfit! We had a pact!”
She dives into a mountain of Chanel shopping bags, lifting them like they’re sacrificial offerings. “I refuse to believe not a single piece here screams ‘look at me or die’—what happened to fashion?”
Adriana gives a vague yes and shoves her toward the room, and suddenly the air is blessedly quiet again.
You turn slowly. “You call that harmless?”
Adriana doesn’t miss a beat. “They have issues. But really, who doesn’t?”
You agree to help her choose a look in exchange for dinner. A fair deal considering you’re already being treated like you walked onto the set of The Real Housewives of Dormitory B.
Their rooms look like a cosmetics apocalypse. Lipsticks on the floor like landmines. Dresses strewn across the sofa like fashionable casualties. Instant noodles fight for territory with Louis Vuitton boxes.
Finally—finally—something that looks like real student life.
Adriana is somehow helping both girls with their looks while reapplying her lipstick, fixing her own hair, and yelling something about not pairing snakeskin with pastel.
Meanwhile, you're in your room, wrangling your curls and swearing under your breath. Taehyung, in his infinite audacity, bought you heels. Heels. And not cute ones—intimidation weapons.
By 8:30, you're half-skipping down the stairs like a pageant queen on a death wish. You grip the hem of your dress to avoid turning your entrance into a public accident. If your contour ends up on the university floor, you're transferring out of shame.
The girls waved you off, already halfway to the party. They wished you luck like seasoned witches sending a sacrifice into the woods.
Honestly? They weren’t so bad. Chaotic, yes. Slightly terrifying, absolutely. But at least now you know their bark is worse than their wardrobe.
You step out toward the back exit, fully prepared for a peaceful walk and some dramatic overthinking by the lake. The scenery is serving “brochure for elite escape,” complete with a cute little pond, dreamy lanterns, and a romantic gravel path — the same one your parents used when dropping you off like it was summer camp for future CEOs.
Then the universe does what it does best: ruins the vibe.
There’s a car. A Porsche. Parked like it owns the gravel. And of course it’s his.
You’re halfway into your villain origin story, doing a full pivot to escape when — ding! — his voice pings your spine.
“Hey, sweetheart. How’s my favorite girl?”
You consider sprinting into the lake, fully clothed.
But no, you gather your skirt, straighten your spine, and walk toward him like you’re about to accept your Oscar. There he is: Christopher. In a suit that probably costs more than your tuition. His tie is maroon. It’s also about to become a weapon.
You yank it. Hard.
He chokes, surprised. “Bunny, what—?”
“Oh, you know,” you purr sweetly. “Just reminiscing about how Pavilion Club is known for many things. Like drugs. And hookers. You were there, weren’t you, pumpkin?”
He stammers. “Look, even if someone saw me, they probably mistook me for—”
“God?” you cut in. “Because you act like one.”
You give the tie another loving tug. He stumbles forward like a man about to beg for salvation.
“I’m irresistible,” he tries. His Hail Mary.
You release him, and he lurches forward like a dumb fish caught in emotional barbed wire. You slap him. Not gently. Not metaphorically. Your hand makes contact.
He whines and grabs his face like it’s a Greek tragedy.
“Babe, it won’t happen again, I swear.”
“Oh, good,” you say. “Because if it does, I’m calling Animal Control.”
Just then, fate tosses you a lifeline: Taehyung enters like a scene change in a movie — tall, dark, and dressed for revenge. His tux could assassinate a weaker man. You nearly sigh in relief.
Christopher looks like a wet napkin in comparison.
And suddenly you remember: you're not just someone’s girlfriend.
You're someone's sister.
And your brother just showed up looking like a high-end hitman with a schedule to keep.
He claps once like a rich man ending a boring dinner.
“Well. No idea what just went down here…” His eyes linger on you like he’s mentally pinning a gold star on your forehead. “But you? Excellent work. Five stars. A+ for dramatic execution. And you…” he turns to Christopher, “absolutely earned that. But—tragically—we have a schedule. Drinks. More drinks. Followed by emotional collapse and denial.”
You laugh. That short, insane laugh you only get when your dignity’s hanging by a thread and your mascara’s still dry. You loop your arm through Taehyung’s like you're being escorted to a gala, not leading a guy with a bruised ego down a gravel path.
Christopher trails behind like a beaten dog who still thinks he’s a show pony. He doesn’t even try to talk to you. Taehyung’s presence is like your own walking restraining order—luxuriously scented and dressed to kill.
The bar—yes, a bar on campus—looks legal in the way a tax loophole looks legal. It’s clean, it’s well-lit, and it’s definitely hiding a hundred questionable decisions behind that glowing neon sign. The closer you get, the louder the bass. It’s not music. It’s seismic activity.
“When we get in,” Taehyung leans down, all charm, “I have to go give a motivational speech to the boys. Y’know, stir some testosterone. Keep up the illusion we’re more than just sweaty drama queens.”
You smirk. “To the same guys who have issues with my brother? Just say the word and I’ll personally wrap their broken noses in satin and deliver them with a card that says ‘Get well never.’”
He chuckles, tapping your arm. “You? I doubt you could kill a housefly.”
“Every life matters,” you say, with the self-righteousness of a vegan in a steakhouse.
“You’re terrifying,” he whispers. “Really.”
Then your brain catches up. “Hold up—did you say you have a gorgeous sister earlier?”
He freezes like you just hit him with a defamation lawsuit. “Whoever said that is already missing. And no, I didn’t.”
“So they lied?”
“You’re forcing me into villainy,” he grins.
“You bastard,” you say sweetly and start swatting him. He twists away, laughing like a boy who just realized you hit like a butterfly with a grudge.
Cue throat clearing.
Ah yes. Christopher. The emotional cockroach.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Taehyung says with a dramatic air-kiss. “Don’t maim the poor boy. His face still has value on the open market.” He vanishes into the bar like some sexy guardian angel with abandonment issues.
You turn and stare at Chris—who has the facial expression of a puppy that stepped on its own tail and wants forgiveness without explanation.
“I’m not doing this with you,” you inform him. “Tonight is sacred. My brother won the game, I plan to get wasted and dance like no one’s filming. You? You’re a footnote.”
You march toward the bouncer, who’s there mostly for decoration. “You coming, or standing there like your dignity will come back if you wait long enough?”
Chris perks up like a man given hope way too soon and reaches for your hand.
Slap. A swift warning. No contact.
“I haven’t forgiven you,” you snap. “Go back to your fan club. Apparently, their hands were more comforting than mine.”
You don’t even bother to see if he follows. Tears sting, but you blink them away.
Inside, the party is already insanity in motion. The crowd is sticky, the bass shakes your bones, the air smells like vodka and regret. It’s massive—like someone converted an Olympic-sized pool into a dance floor for emotionally unstable people.
And at the far end? A terrace. High on the hill, like a metaphor for escape.
The shrieking starts before you even finish your internal prayer. Dear gods, if you’re still pelting me with life lessons—consider me humbled.
The girls come flying at you like you’re the final boss of prom night.
“Girls, look at this temptress—and she’s still sober!” Diana announces, scandalized. “That’s an emergency.”
Suddenly you’ve got two drinks, zero dignity, and your arms locked by two women with the balance of circus acrobats. They’re singing. You’re swaying. Your drink is glowing. Your brain is screaming.
Your boyfriend? Vanished. Like a morally flexible magician. By midnight he’ll be slurping vodka shots and someone else’s neck. All he needs is liquor and low lighting.
At the bar, the bartender doesn’t ask what you want—Adriana waves a single finger like some glittery mafia boss, and a pink monstrosity appears in your hand. You don’t question it. You drink. You forget. Time, names, regrets.
You gasp for air like a drowning Victorian lady and stumble out to the terrace, vodka in hand, soul barely intact.
And there he is. Captain Victory. Taehyun, surrounded by enough testosterone to choke a horse. His teammates look like they were molded in a factory that only makes egos and abs.
He sees you. Of course he does. He could find you in a blackout during an earthquake.
“Just in time,” he says, placing a hand on your arm like a politician about to lie. “Speech. Me. Excessive drinking. The whole thing’s starting soon. You nervous?”
You blink at him, half drunk and half paralyzed.
“Shouldn’t you be nervous? I’m just here to pretend I don’t know you.”
You cling to the edge of his blazer like it might teleport you out of this social nightmare.
And then it happens. The sensation. The look.
You turn. And there he is—him. The guy who thinks brooding is a personality. The one who’s been glaring since day one and who literally knocked you over like he was auditioning for villain of the month.
He’s dressed like a funeral and a runway show had a baby. Eyes darker than your moral compass. And staring at you like you’re his next psychological experiment.
His friends are babbling about the next match — stats, tactics, whatever. You, on the other hand, are laser-focused on the tall glass of sin across the room: Jeon Jungkook. A man who apparently can’t start a conversation, but could probably strip a soul bare using nothing but eye contact. And judging by the way he’s looking at you, he’s already halfway through your moral integrity.
He's standing like a cologne ad — arm over some guy’s shoulder, other hand buried in his designer pocket, expensive watch flexing like it paid for the entire bar. He’s smirking. Great. Now your ovaries are plotting a mutiny.
“Sis, meet my best friend, Jeon Jungkook — the guy responsible for all our asses if we lose. Team’s unofficial captain. Also, if chaos had a human form,” Taehyung declares.
You don’t look at him. Not directly. You’ve read too many Greek myths to know what happens when mortals gaze into a living temptation.
“Yeah, Taehyung’s been preaching about how hot and flawless his sister is,” Jungkook says, his voice deep enough to summon storms or pregnancies.
“Taehyung, your best friend just exposed you. Feels legit,” you shoot back, earning a death glare from your brother that suggests he's planning to un-sibling you later.
“And now that I see you — he was telling the truth,” Jungkook adds, casually delivering emotional whiplash with a side of sexual tension.
You’re probably hallucinating. Or dead. That’s the only way to explain how you’re still standing here and not already in a jail cell for trying to climb him like a jungle gym.
Then the music cuts. The crowd collectively groans — clearly mourning the loss of their beat drops more than they value whatever motivational speech is incoming.
That’s when you realize you’ve been staring at him, again, as if he might disappear if you blink. But nope. Still there. Still hot. Still radiating Big Bad Idea energy.
And frankly, you’ve never been more ready to make a terrible decision.
A hand snakes around your waist, and your soul leaves your body for half a second. Then someone kisses your head. The mix of overpriced cologne and bottom-shelf vodka gives it away.
“Chris,” you sigh. “Seriously?”
Chris presses himself to you like a human-sized regret. His breath is an open bar in itself.
“I’ve been looking for you all night, baby. You don’t love me no more?”
Oh, you absolutely don’t. Your only coherent thought is to vanish—to run until the memory of him evaporates with your heels clicking on concrete. Standing next to him feels like you just demoted your whole outfit from high fashion to garage sale. The way he clings to you makes your stomach churn. If you throw up now, at least it’d be poetic—vodka, shame, and cherry syrup all over your shoes.
Across the party, Taehyung gives you the “I’m so sorry but you’re on your own” look. You get it. He’s busy. He’s also not the one getting marinated in ex-boyfriend sweat.
You escape to another terrace, this one facing a highway—a perfect metaphor for your life choices. There’s a raised platform there, probably built for DJs or dramatic exits. Tonight, it’s Taehyung’s turn to look important.
The night gets colder. Your mood gets flatter. Your last candle of hope is about to grab a microphone and give a motivational speech like he’s auditioning for Team Captain of the Year.
Servers weave through the crowd. The place is packed like someone tried to fit an entire university into a designer shoe box. Loud tables, soft couches, sticky cocktails everywhere.
You wrap your arms around yourself. Wind slaps your skin. Then come your girls, grabbing you before you can vanish again. But they don’t even get a word out before your brother’s voice slices through the noise.
“It’s a real honor to stand here tonight and represent my team and this… institution,” he starts, sounding more presidential than necessary. Still has his hands in his pockets. Still pacing like a dictator in Gucci.
“This year will be hell. Assignments, exams, heartbreaks. But we’ll fight tooth and nail to make it unforgettable.”
Everyone claps like it’s a concert. Your friends start yelling like he’s giving out scholarships. You’re mostly trying not to black out.
“And before I lose your attention—because let’s face it, I already have—all drinks at the bar are on me. For the people who made this whole event happen.”
Cue more applause. Music blasts. People scatter like ants on Red Bull.
And Chris?
Chris is back. Like herpes. He’s suddenly glued to your back, swaying offbeat, both hands wrapped around your waist like a drunk koala. He’s definitely forgotten who you are. In his brain, you’re just a vaguely female-shaped object to latch onto.
You deserve financial compensation for this entire night.
You’re just about to wrench yourself free from your orbit around Chris when you feel it again — that stare.
Your skin prickles. Like someone’s set fire to your spine. No, not someone. Him.
Jeon Jungkook.
He's still watching you. Not just watching — devouring. From across the terrace, half-shadowed by the dim lights, he sits slouched on a low velvet couch, legs spread like he owns the air between them. One arm thrown over the backrest, hand curled into a slow-burning fist. His jaw flexes once, then again — something dark glinting behind his eyes. That tongue of his presses against the inside of his cheek, as if tasting his own irritation.
You’re not hallucinating.
You only realize you’ve been holding your breath when a girl perches back down onto his lap — like she belongs there, like she’s branded him. It’s petty, maybe, but your mind instantly decides she doesn’t. That she’s in your seat. That he should be yours.
He doesn’t flinch at her touch, doesn’t even blink when she trails kisses down the edge of his jaw and neck, clinging to him like a bad idea in lipstick. You exhale too sharply, just as Chris’ clammy hands begin creeping up your waist again. You glance down. He’s completely wasted. Useless — except for this. Maybe you can use him for one last thing.
The music shifts. The kind of slow, pulsing bass that oozes heat across skin. A beat that begs for bodies. You begin to move with it, one sway at a time. Your hips roll. Then one leg lifts — your thigh presses between Chris’s — and your arms snake around his neck. Your hands tangle in his hair.
You dance like it’s the last night on Earth. Like there’s only one person in the crowd meant to watch.
Chris wakes up enough to start pawing at you, mouth on your neck. It’s revolting. You feel nothing. No butterflies, no fire, only the bile rising in your throat. He doesn’t deserve this version of you. He never did.
Still, you keep going.
Your body becomes a stage. Your resentment becomes choreography. And Jungkook? He’s your audience.
You catch him again: his knuckles white where they grip the couch, his jaw locked so tight it might snap. He’s not blinking. Not breathing. You’ve got him.
And then Chris ruins it.
“Jenny, is that a new perfume?” he slurs, that smug, slurred smile pulling at his lips like he thinks he’s charming.
You freeze.
Jenny?
You shove him hard — harder than necessary — and finally inhale real air. You storm off, heat prickling under your skin like static. You don’t even care where you’re going. Just away. Away from Chris. Away from everyone. But not away from him.
No, never him.
You end up at the far end of the second terrace, near a wall blanketed in ivy and shadows. You breathe through your nose, trying to erase the memory of that girl’s mouth on his throat. You can’t. It’s carved into your brain. You try to calm down, to slow your thoughts — but then something wraps around your wrist.
Not forceful.
Intentional.
You’re spun, gently but swiftly, and then you’re against the wall — not trapped, just… held. Jungkook towers over you, but his touch is careful. His scent hits you first — warm musk, faint leather, and something like midnight rain. His eyes search yours like he’s looking for a sign to stop. He doesn’t find one.
His hands are on your waist, firm but reverent. One slides up to your cheek, cupping it like you’re made of blown glass.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, babydoll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough and devastating, “but you’re not doing either of us any favors.”
Your breath hitches.
He leans in closer, so close you feel his exhale warm against your lips. “God, I’m such a fool,” he whispers. “You’re absolutely… enchanting.”
Then — slowly — he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger along your jaw, brushing feather-light patterns across your skin as if memorizing you. You can’t move. Don’t want to.
His thumb grazes your bottom lip, hesitant, then retreats as he sighs against your temple.
“Whatever this is… we need to stop,” he says softly, forehead nearly touching yours now. “It’s driving me insane.”
But his hands don’t move.
Neither do you.
“Then do something about it,” you murmur, brushing down the lapel of his suit like that’s your sole responsibility in the world. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A direct line — no pretense. I’m yours, it says. You know he hears it. Know he speaks your fluent body language.
“Tae’s not going to like this,” he replies eventually, his voice rich, low. One hand has found its way to the small of your back — drawing slow, concentric circles, as if soothing a wild animal. You’re not sure if the gesture is meant to calm you, or him.
Either way, it’s working.
“Well,” you whisper, leaning in until your breath is against his skin, “he’s not here, is he?”
Your hands drift upward, fingers grazing his jaw with practiced curiosity. You memorize him in parts. That mole just beneath his lower lip — stupidly perfect. Your thumb strokes it like it’s a secret you just discovered. And then his lips. Soft, sinfully so. They part slightly when your fingertips glide across them.
You haven’t moved an inch beyond that. Neither has he. But it already feels like he’s all over you.
He exhales slowly — right into your hands — and then, without a word, presses the softest kiss to the tips of your fingers.
A second kiss follows. And a third. Until one large hand, easily twice the size of yours, curls around your wrist like he’s cradling something breakable. Then, reverently, he begins to kiss the inside of your palm — over and over — like a man possessed by a mission.
And his mission, you realize, is to completely undo you.
When his lips brush your wrist again, his eyes lift to meet yours.
That gaze doesn’t just look. It claims.
You should step back. You don’t.
His touch is so gentle it almost makes you ache — the kind of touch that confesses things out loud. It says you matter. It says you’re wanted. It says you’re more than just something pretty to ruin.
And that’s the most dangerous part: you believe it.
You don’t even know this man.
“Were his hands better than mine?” His voice cuts through the quiet like velvet over a blade. “Or were you just trying to get my attention?”
His fist slams into the wall beside your head — not threatening, but loud enough to shake the stars. You don’t even flinch.
You’ve never felt safer in your life.
“Well,” he breathes, close enough now to taste the ghost of his cologne, “congratulations. You’ve got it.”
You don’t speak. Your eyes are already saying too much.
“Tell me,” he says, voice tightening at the edges, “would you really rather have him paw at you like some entitled frat boy, all rough hands and zero grace — like you’re something cheap he can break in public?”
His fingers brush your cheek now, and it's like lightning in reverse: soft, slow, charged.
“Because all I want…” He swallows. His thumb grazes your lip again. “Is to learn you with my hands. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like you deserve.”
He tilts his head, studying your face like it’s a painting he’s about to steal. “So tell me. Would you trade that?”
He still hasn’t crossed a line you wouldn’t let him, but somehow he’s miles away from you—when he should already be skin to skin, breath to breath. That’s the kind of closeness you both know you’ve circled around all night. But it never quite happens.
“I want to study you,” he murmurs, eyes heavy with something too serious for a party night. “Like something rare. I still lose my mind when I look at you.”
His head dips toward your neck with aching slowness, and your breath escapes as a soft, involuntary moan. His hands pull you closer, but that’s all—no further. Just that same damn tension in the air, thick enough to drown in. He does nothing more. He only breathes you in like he needs the scent to remember where he is. Then his forehead rests on your shoulder.
He’s giving up. You feel it before he says a word.
“I should stop,” he breathes out, like the words weigh more than he does. “But you’re magnetic. I can’t look away.”
His face is close—too close. His voice hums through you like a static current, rattling your ribs and melting your insides together until you’re not sure what’s yours and what’s his. Then he presses his forehead to yours.
And—
“I need to leave,” he says suddenly, like he’s trying to save what’s left of his willpower. “Before I do something we can’t walk back from.”
One final touch. His hands cradle your cheeks, warm and impossibly tender. Then he kisses your forehead—soft, reverent—and disappears into the hallway, trailing the ghost of his cologne behind him.
You're left there: vision blurred, lungs burning, and a tide of tears prickling behind your eyes, unsure if you’re mourning a kiss that didn’t happen, or everything it almost promised.
After what feels like a hundred years—and at least three emotional deaths—Taehyung finally shows up. His designer suit looks like it lost a bar fight.
“Baby, what the hell? Jungkook found me in the middle of a lecture and said I had to rescue you from emotional implosion. You alright, or just halfway to exile?”
His face is serious enough to make you cry harder—which you do, directly onto the lapel of his outrageously expensive jacket.
“I’m ruining your suit,” you mumble, muffled against his chest. “Tears. Mascara. Poor choices.”
He cradles your face with a sigh. “That’s what’s on your mind right now?”
“You paid, like, a kidney for this thing,” you reply, smacking his chest like it's his fault you’re this dramatic.
“Relax. I won’t tell your parents,” he whispers conspiratorially. That earns him another weak slap—and a broken laugh from you. He laughs too, curses softly under his breath, then throws his arm over your shoulder like a mob boss dragging you out of a crime scene. He stops to tell your friends you’re alive and vaguely stable, thanks them for the chaos, grabs your purse, and you’re both headed back across the lake to the place you pretend is “home.”
By the time you're near the steps, the alcohol hits like a truck and your inner monologue gains a microphone.
“Taehyung, I don’t love him, you know?” you mutter, wobbling like a Bambi-themed disaster.
“Who? Chris? That sentient hair gel? The dude so bland the gods spat him out mid-creation and dropped him in your DMs?”
You pause. “Wow. That was vivid,” you laugh, then immediately wince. “God. My head. How much did I drink?”
“Enough to fuel a frat party and a priest’s confession,” he says. You try to hit him again—miss—and he catches your hand midair like he’s babysitting a drunk ballet dancer.
“Okay, no more ninja moves. Three more steps and you’re safely in your tragic little dorm.”
You barely make it into the dorm hallway before your knees start to mutiny. You’re walking like a drunk cat in stilettos—if the cat had recently survived emotional trauma and one tequila too many.
“Hey,” you slur, “wanna hear a joke?”
You glance over at Taehyung.
He doesn’t even blink. Just stares at you like you’re the reason the planet’s tilted.
“You already look like one,” he deadpans. Then sighs like he’s just realized he missed his spa appointment for this.
He drops to one knee, rips your heels off like he’s defusing a bomb, and before you can protest—bam—you’re airborne.
“Put me down,” you groan, the nausea bubbling dangerously. “I’m gonna be sick.”
“If you throw up on my suit,” he says calmly, raising the heels and your bag in one hand like a stylish executioner, “I swear I will launch you out this window and claim it was divine intervention. Now shut up and help me find your damn room before I lose brain cells.”
You wheeze out a laugh. “You’re my favorite sibling, you know that?”
“There are only two of us, and you’re objectively worse,” he replies, adjusting your weight with a grunt. “Let’s not get emotional. You’ve still got raccoon eyes.”
You sag into him, sniffling despite yourself. He holds you tighter, steady like gravity, and annoyingly good at this.
It’s always him.
Always your brother, dragging your tragic self out of bars and bathrooms like the reluctant family therapist he never asked to be.
At your door, he jerks his chin. “Kick the door open. Be useful.”
You do. It creaks open. The dorm smells like something vaguely clean and institutional. Better than wherever you just got rescued from.
Next thing you know, he’s unloading your bag, helping you to the bathroom, peeling off your false lashes like surgical tape. You’re half-asleep while he’s dabbing mascara off your face with a look of paternal exhaustion.
Moments later, you’re cocooned in warm blankets. The world fades. All that’s left is your brother’s cologne, your shame, and the warm, suffocating hug of Egyptian cotton.
You’ve survived.
Barely. Again.
ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶
Apparently, the universe’s little circus isn’t over—because you wake up to absolute hell.
Screaming. Panic. More screaming. Your head's ringing like a fire alarm inside a blender.
“WE DON’T HAVE TIME, GET YOUR ASS UP!” Adriana screeches into your ear like she’s been personally cursed by your existence. Her hair whips your face as she flails.
“Me? Up?” you croak, arms flopping outward like a hungover Disney princess. The sun slaps your eyes like it has a grudge.
“Yes. You. Thirty minutes to class. Move or die,” she barks, mid-panic.
You consider the consequences. Maybe you could bribe someone. Fake a fever. Forge a death certificate. Because right now, your body feels like your soul was mugged during the night and duct-taped back in upside down.
“Don’t even think about skipping,” Adriana calls from the bathroom. “Miss Scarlett will roast you alive. And frankly? You’ll deserve it.”
She’s halfway through yelling when she adds, “Taehyung dropped off your uniform. No time to shower. Perfume. The toxic kind.”
Of course she’s redoing her makeup—you could tell by the one tragic winged eyeliner she had when she burst in.
You drag yourself upright, groaning like a wounded animal. On your nightstand: painkillers, water, and a folded note.
Through half-shut eyes, you read:
I can only imagine what you look like waking up. These should help with the hangover.
P.S. Uniform’s on the bed.
Love,
Your Suffering Brother, Taehyung.
You pop the pill, chug the water, and wonder if reincarnation might’ve been the better option.
Meanwhile, Adriana’s speed-dressing like she’s going to war. “You're still not ready? We’re so dead. Like expelled-into-the-sun dead.”
“She can’t be that terrifying,” you mutter, finding your uniform with the grace of a reanimated corpse.
“She’s the nightmare. I think she might be legally undead. Move your ass.”
She herds you into the bathroom like a furious shepherd with eyeliner.
You splash your face and shout out, “Where are the other girls?”
“Gone. Ran for their lives. Unlike you, I’m the idiot who stayed to parent the hungover cryptid in bed.” Her voice is both dramatic and deeply offended.
Next thing you know, you’re hauling yourself through a stampede of half-awake students, backpack flapping, skirt barely surviving the wind resistance. Adriana’s voice slices through the chaos like a siren from hell.
“Hurry up! I’ve seen senior citizens sprint faster!”
You nearly trip, grabbing your skirt before it catches a breeze and reveals your existential crisis.
Adriana gets there first—of course she does—and doubles over, wheezing like she just ran a marathon in heels.
“You run like there’s a funeral waiting for you at the finish line,” she gasps, then wheezes out a laugh.
“Look who’s talking,” you snap, wiping sweat off your face.
“That was fun. I won’t even be mad if the Black Widow of Academia puts me on her naughty list.” She shoves the lecture hall door open. More students shuffle in—thankfully, you’re not the last disaster to arrive.
The room looks like a medieval wine cellar had a baby with a TED Talk stage. Stone walls, creaky beams, and just enough modern tech to remind you you’re still paying tuition in the 21st century.
You don’t think. You just follow Adriana like a moth trailing glitter. She’s your GPS through the hangover haze.
You sit down next to her. Or collapse. Depends on your definition.
“Exactly how much did you drink?” you mutter, massaging your temples.
“Enough to spiritually leave my body,” she says, fixing her eyeliner in a compact mirror with terrifying precision.
“Then why do you look like a goddess while I look like a legally dead raccoon?”
“Genetics. Or witchcraft.” She shrugs. “You don’t look that bad. Kind of tragic-chic.”
“You don’t feel hungover? Not even a little?”
“It’s my gift. That, and supernatural intuition. Like right now—I can feel her coming. Miss Scarlett. My knees are buzzing.”
“You sound like someone’s grandma who predicts rain based on joint pain,” you scoff.
“And yet you’re still following me like I’m the last functioning neuron in your brain,” she fires back.
Touche.
You're still laughing—genuinely, for once—when a presence flutters into the periphery. Janessa. All gloss and effortless grace, like she stepped out of a skincare ad and into your personal space. She drops into the seat near yours with the elegance of someone who’s never had to hustle for anything but attention. Her smile is bright, a little too bright—like she’s selling something and you just haven’t realized you’re the product.
You wave back, because manners. And possibly mild brain damage.
“I wouldn’t trust her if she came wrapped in bubble wrap and wearing a clergy badge,” Adriana murmurs, not looking up from her mirror.
You glance sideways. “Sorry, what?”
“She’s got that look—like someone who’d cry at your funeral, but only after switching out your medication.”
You stare at her.
Adriana sighs like you’re the slow one. “I’m just saying. Something about her feels... curated. Like if you scratched the surface, you'd find a copyright symbol.”
“Oh, so it’s one of your psychic episodes again?” you ask. “Is it the breeze talking this time? Or did your bronzer start humming the Twilight Zone theme?”
Adriana laughs, honest and sudden, nearly dropping her compact. “You’re awful,” she grins, and there’s something proud in it.
Then her expression softens—no drama, no eye-roll, just that rare, unnerving seriousness she keeps tucked behind all the sass. “But seriously. I’m not trying to play bodyguard. You can make your own choices. I just know what I feel. And what I feel is: if that girl ever hugs you, check your pockets after.”
You turn back toward Janessa. She’s still smiling. Legs crossed just so. Hands folded like she’s never cursed in her life.
You nod slowly.
Just in case.
She storms in like she’s been summoned by Satan and the Board of Education—burning holes in reality with that laser-beam stare. Her gaze alone could cremate a man. Glasses adjusted with surgical precision, heels clicking like death knells, and not a single wrinkle in sight—her outfit’s so pristine it could file taxes and judge you for your credit score.
She looks like someone who’s never made a typo, never cried in public, and definitely never farted in her life. The sheer smugness rolling off her like an expensive perfume triggers your gag reflex, especially before breakfast.
For the next hour, she lectures about the legal system like she invented it during a blackout. Adriana whispers that she teaches finance and literacy too, which makes you consider a career change. Or death. Honestly, either sounds peaceful.
You almost start clawing at the desk with your bare hands until it happens—a boy checks his phone under the table. Big mistake. She slaps her palm against his desk with the kind of force that could legally qualify as domestic terrorism. And then launches into a rant about discipline and respect that lasts longer than the explanation of the actual curriculum.
Adriana doesn’t say a word. She simply mimics pulling out an invisible pistol, cocks it dramatically, “fires,” and lets her head drop onto the desk with a theatrical flop. You press your hand to your mouth, wheezing silently. Because if you laugh, even once, you’re pretty sure she’ll pull a real gun from that briefcase and give you both a pop quiz on mortality.
Final lecture of the day: Applied Math. Just the name sounds like a punishment. The classroom’s been Frankenstein’d together with three other departments, so when the doors open, it’s less of an entrance and more of a stampede—like someone just detonated a student bomb.
You and Adriana managed to survive lunch off-campus, inhaling overpriced sandwiches and gossip, then sprinted back like you were being chased by debt.
You tug at your uniform—it’s less of an outfit now and more like a synthetic exoskeleton. Adriana drags you to the seat near the window. “Best vibes here,” she says with the confidence of someone who’s saged her dorm. Oddly enough, you believe her. Outside, the rain’s started: slow, brooding, theatrical. Perfect for dread and main character crises.
The class itself? Surprisingly tolerable. Mr. Hanks—who looks like he sleeps in spreadsheets—actually makes math sound coherent. Adriana, meanwhile, is plotting your evening. She’s booked dinner for both of you, and no, you didn’t get a vote. Her threats are always wrapped in charm and thinly-veiled blackmail.
Then—you feel it.
The weight. The presence.
Jungkook.
Of course, he’s here. No uniform. No effort. Just that brooding aura that screams I ruined three hearts this week and don’t even feel bad about it. He’s staring again. Those absurd eyes of his practically reading your browser history. You try to look away. You fail. His gaze is a full-time job.
As the lecture ends and people start collecting their mortal remains, Mr. Hanks scans the room.
And then: your name.
Adriana gives you a pep talk that’s one part support, two parts panic. You’re too distracted by the why you of it all. As people file out, Jungkook—because of course he does—walks right past you. Too close. Smirking like a devil who just found his next case study.
Hanks waits until the room’s silent. Then, with the speed of a dying fax machine, he says:
“Miss, I regret to inform you—”
You're already planning your villain origin story.
“—that I must ask you for a favor. Or rather, an assignment.”
“I’m listening, Mr. Hanks,” you manage, barely.
“You’re new here,” he says. “And yet—you were alert, engaged, even… bright. That kind of energy stands out. It’s something we rarely see these days.”
Compliment or trap? You don’t know yet.
“There’s a student—very… unconventional. Difficult. But gifted. I need someone competent to keep him on track.”
Your soul knows what’s coming.
“I’d like you to become Jeon Jungkook’s academic mentor. You’ll receive proper credit, of course.”
You stare. Blink. Your brain briefly disconnects.
“Jeon Jungkook?” you say it like a slur.
“Yes. Any objections?”
So it’s that kind of trap.
“No, of course not,” you lie like a professional.
“Wonderful. Review the materials. Reach out to him when ready.” He shoos you out with a flick, like you’re some cursed intern.
You step into the hallway, universe slightly tilting.
This wasn’t the plan. You were supposed to avoid Jungkook like a bad Tinder match. But now? Now you're his tutor. After what happened. After he touched you like a secret and disappeared like a sin.
Now he’s your responsibility.
Your life just got hijacked by a bad boy with a stare problem. And the worst part? Some twisted part of you isn’t even mad about it.
And something tells you—this is only the prologue.
⋆˙⟡ Summary: You hate your neighbor Jungkook, but you have to ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party to get rid of your annoying boss. He agrees, but you don't even imagine what you'll have to pay him with. Everything goes according to plan until Jungkook reveals his true price during the dance: one night with him or your life in the neighborhood will be hell.
⋆˙⟡ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N
⋆˙⟡ Age restrictions: 18+
⋆˙⟡ Number of chapter: 19/?
⋆˙⟡ Words: 150 649 k (ongoing)
⋆˙⟡ Tags: enemies-to-neighbors-to-lover, fake relationship, hate to desire, dom!Jungkook, heated blackmail, one bed trope (later more than one bed), undeniable chemistry, forced deal, mutual obsession, dangerous game, unexpected feelings, passion on edge, impossible to resist, tension and desire, unprotected sex, sexual tension, slow burning
⋆˙⟡ Dedication: to my biggest love @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @someoneelse0109, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle for loving me for nothing. I love you girls twice as much 🥺🤭💜🫶🏻
⋆˙⟡ Tag list: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @someoneelse0109, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle, @bhonbhon, @ottergirl, @vantelover1306, @deepikhaprakash, @mar-lo-pap, @zeytiable, @lallataegi, @vintagemoonsstuff, @indigomoonchild09, @diame93, @bts-ruu, @asyr97, @taeloversblog, @songbyeonkim, @miniruuu, @hubbytaehyung, @queen1599, @goldenboysmuse , @nikkinikj, @kookiesncreamri, @guwol, @unholyforjk, @hisdecalcomania17, @kooklovee, @theycallmebaepsaee, @kash98, @aqueshasteele, @xsyruhh, @byjeonjungkooked, @pbell7, @jungkook26273, @luckysuitwasteland, @drwonderbread (If you want to be on the tag list, let me know)
⋆˙⟡ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹
≡ Index chapters ↴
⟡ Chapter 1. An enemy turned savior
⟡ Chapter 2. The price of a lie
⟡ Chapter 3. A sweet falling
⟡ Chapter 4. A problem of your own making
⟡ Chapter 5. A Game of Love for Freedom
⟡ Chapter 6. The dissonance of sympathy and hatred
⟡ Chapter 7. Time to start
⟡ Chapter 8. Established and Violated
⟡ Chapter 9. Stay away, stay close
⟡ Chapter 10. Home
⟡ Chapter 11. The love he doesn’t know and the desire he can’t control
⟡ Chapter 12. The first date
⟡ Chapter 13. Who are we?
⟡ Chapter 14. Past mistakes
⟡ Chapter 15. Bond. Devotion. Submission. Madness
⟡ Chapter 16. Fate, which mocks
⟡ Chapter 17. Fate, which destined
⟡ Chapter 18. A real arranged marriage
⟡ Chapter 19. The truth as it is
ִ ࣪ ˖ ࣪ hungover — jeon jungkook ! series ᰔ ִ no taglist
summary: you’re back in town, not sure for how long— temporary, maybe. and definitely not expecting to see him. because it’s been five years. five years of no calls, no messages, no reason to cross paths again.
but you do, and it doesn’t hurt. it feels unsettlingly easy, like muscle memory. like nothing’s changed .... except you start to realise , everything has.
genre / au :
smau + written blurbs
ex-situantionship to ???
slow burn + heavy nostalgia
content: (post-university) working lives, mature themes, mentions of past intimacy, unresolved feelings, emotional whiplash (one minute they argue, the next they laugh), soft angst, bittersweet moments, some awkward moments, slow pacing, swearing, mild jealousy.
it doesn’t start with love. it starts with a glance at a party and a mouth that tastes like smoke and something she’s never been able to forget. one night turns to two and suddenly it’s three months of 2 am texts of craving each other like poison and returning to each other like a bad habit.
it’s not love, it can’t be. because love would mean facing it, naming it and choosing it. so they keep fucking instead. keep lying instead. keep hoping the hunger will swallow the ache.
warnings: mature themes | sexual activity | oral sex (f & m recieving) | explicit sexual content | choking | intense sex | fingering | unprotected sex | rough sex | dirty talking | overstimulation | multiple orgasms | sex at semi public spaces | birth control pills | creampie | desperate intimacy | sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism | consensual sex while intoxicated | masturbation | strong language | smoking | alcohol I drug | toxic | avoidance | commitment issues | self sabotage |
index:
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 00. first glance (2.9k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 01. smoke (1.6k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 02. heat (1.9k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 03. aftermath (2k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 04. inked (3.8k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 05. inked deep (2.7k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 06. pound (3.1k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 07. cruising (5.6k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 08. back and forth (1.5k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 09. ruin (4k)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ 10. something like love (7.7k) (final)
extras:
✧ looked like love (3.8k)
moodboard | cast |
taglist | guide to struberri-verse
hi everyone , it’s riri !! i’m finally posting a fic , something i’ve wanted to do for the longest time. i’ve had a bunch of ideas living rent free in my head , but laziness always won lol. anyway , i’m super excited to finally share this with you and i really hope you enjoy it. mwah >⩊<
this story is inspired by 2AM by sza and come and see me by partynextdoor & drake. the vibe of those songs is just too good and honestly , the fwb trope has me in a chokehold especially when the guy is jeon jungkook.
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. all characters, events and scenarios are entirely fictional and is created for entertainment purposes only. this story is not meant to reflect the real personalities or lives of the idols mentioned. please read with an open mind and remember that everything here exists in a fictional universe. please do not copy or spread hate.
You and Jungkook have known each other your whole lives. Childhood best friends turned almost something more. He’s charming, popular, and scared of commitment. You’re ambitious, guarded, and tired of being a maybe.
After one kiss changes everything, you realize wanting him isn’t enough if he won’t choose you back. But walking away is easier said than done.
University brings distance, jealousy, and new people. You’re ready to move on. He’s finally starting to realize he can’t. Not when it’s always been you.
pairing: childhoodbestfriend!jungkook x (fem) reader
genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, kinda toxic but delicious, mutual pining, fluff & eventual smut
➥ SUMMARY: you’re a newbie to the busy streets of brooklyn, new york. you’ve left everything behind to accomplish your dreams of being a famous american director, it’s all you’ve ever wished for. but brooklyn has a lot more plans for you, bringing two of the most beautiful men into your life.
➥ PAIRING: jungkook x fem!reader | neighbours | fckboy!jungkook ⋆ jimin x fem!reader | friends to lovers? | french!jimin
➥ WARNINGS: major f!ckboy jungkook, cheating, mentions of eating disorders, implied and actual smut, bad language, smoking, drinking, mentions of death, trauma, miscommunication, implied and physical violence, lack of self respect and more.
pairing: jeon jungkook x reader
genre: lowkey chaebol, boyfriend!jugkook, angst, fluff, light smut. boyfriend au.
summary: your boyfriend's pretty girl best friend isn't your biggest fan and keeps hogging up your alone time with him.
note: this was written a lifetime ago! it hasn't been re-visited since i finished writing it so there may be plot holes so like 🙏 ignore those pleek
Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, angst, smut, fluff
Word Count: 15k (currently)
Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.
Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, smut, fluff, childhood lovers, abandonment, ghosting, young (teenage) pregnancy, mentions of parental death, mentions of absent parent, resentment, angst, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, brief homelessness, shelters, co-parenting, growth, unintentional parental neglect, depression, fighting, arguments, explicit: praising, kissing, missionary, doggy, riding, oral (f. & m. receiving), unprotected sex, breastplay, riding, phone (FaceTime) sex, body worship,
A/N: OKAY so I know the title sounds weird asf but it’ll make sense, i promise 😭 bold is jk’s pov - regular text is y/n’s. Since this is an ongoing series, I'll update warnings as needed.
♡ MASTERLIST
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Part 1: 8.9k
Part 2: 6.4k
Part 3: formatting
Part 4: formatting
Part 5: writing
tba!
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♡ MASTERLIST
♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡
These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.
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