you’re my tear @divinelyparkjimin - Tumblr Blog

— miss runner-up [m] | 01

◦ summary ↠ park jimin has always been your greatest rival—effortless, admired, and impossibly hard to beat. but things get complicated when your favorite anonymous camboy starts reminding you a little too much of your least favorite person.

◦ pairing ↠ jimin x reader

◦ word count ↠ 11k

◦ genre ↠ smut, fluff

◦ content warning(s) ↠ academic rivals au, enemies to lovers au, camboy au, camboy!jimin, suggestive/explicit content, dirty talk, penetrative sex, f. and m. orgasm, rough sex, dom!jimin, sub!reader, vouyerism, thigh riding, cum denial (?)

a/n: finally a series! it’ll probably be a short one but i hope you guys enjoy <3

(make sure to leave a comment if you’d like to be added to my general taglist!)

masterlist

The lecture hall of the Honors Colloquium was a vacuum of tension, the kind of room where the air felt expensive and the silence was heavy with the scent of old paper and ambition. You sat in the third row, your spine a rigid line of defiance as you stared at the back of Park Jimin’s head.

He was the golden boy of the department. He was brilliant, devastatingly popular, and the possessor of a smile that seemed to make everyone else lose their collective minds. To the rest of the world, he was a masterpiece; to you, he was a migraine in a designer cashmere sweater. You had dealt with him since high school, where he’d effortlessly occupied the top spot you worked yourself to the bone for, and college was proving to be no different. He was always perfectly polished, leaning back in his mahogany chair as the afternoon sunlight caught the dark strands of his hair, spinning a ballpoint pen between his long, slender fingers.

"You’re staring again," Jimin said, not even turning around. His voice was low, carrying just enough to reach you over the hum of the overhead vents. "Is there something on the back of my neck, or are you just trying to memorize the features of the person who’s going to beat your GPA this semester?"

"In your dreams, Jimin," you snapped, flipping a page of your textbook a little too hard. "You got lucky on the last midterm. It won't happen again."

"Lucky?" He finally shifted, turning his head just enough to give you a glimpse of a smirk that didn't reach his predatory eyes. "I call it talent. But I appreciate the dedication you put into being my runner-up. It’s cute."

You bristled, huffing a breath just as the heavy doors at the back of the hall creaked open. Two familiar figures hurried down the tiered steps, sliding into the empty seats beside you just as the professor began to clear his throat.

First was Yunjin, your closest confidante and the sharpest wit in the program; she was the only one who truly understood your drive, though she often tried to balance your intensity with her laid-back, "cool girl" energy. Beside her was Sakura, a sweet but boy-crazy genius who lived for campus gossip and had a soft spot for anything aesthetically pleasing. They were your support system, the only people who made the cutthroat atmosphere of the honors track bearable, but even they weren't immune to the "Jimin Effect."

Yunjin leaned over, smelling faintly of the iced Americano she was trying to hide under the desk. "Did we miss the opening act? Or has he already started being a menace?" she whispered, nodding toward Jimin's back.

"He's been a menace since 2018, Yunjin. You know this," you muttered.

Sakura, however, wasn't listening. She was already propping her chin on her hand, her eyes glazed over with a wistful sigh as she watched the way the sunlight hit Jimin's shoulders. "God, look at him," she breathed, her voice a singy-songy hum of adoration. "He didn't even open his textbook during the break. How can someone be that attractive and have a brain that functions at a 99.9% percentile."

"I heard he already got an offer from the Blue House internship program," Yunjin added, her voice dropping as she leaned across you to join Sakura’s gawking. "And he’s still so nice. He helped the freshmen with their thesis abstracts yesterday like it was nothing. He’s just... perfect."

You felt a sharp, familiar spike of irritation fill your chest. You gripped your stylus so hard the plastic creaked. Perfect. If only they knew the version of Jimin that existed in the margins of your life—the one who had been your shadow and your goad for years. They didn't see the ego beneath the surface, or the way he would linger by the digital leaderboard in the hallway just to watch you see his name above yours.

The chatter died down as Professor Han began walking down the aisles, the rhythmic thud of graded midterms hitting desks sounding like a heartbeat. When the professor reached your row, he handed you your paper with a curt, respectful nod.

96/100. A solid A. A masterpiece of sleepless nights and caffeine-induced tremors. You felt a brief, soaring surge of triumph—until Jimin shifted. He didn't look at his score immediately; he waited until the professor moved to the next row, then he slowly turned in his chair, draping an arm over the back of the wood. He looked at your paper, his dark eyes scanning the red ink, and a small, devastatingly handsome smirk played on his lips.

"Ninety-six," he murmured, his voice smooth but laced with a needle-sharp edge. "Impressive. You really lived in the library this week, didn't you?"

"Get lost, Jimin," you snapped, pulling your paper closer to your chest. "What did you get? Or are you too embarrassed to show it because you actually had to work for once?"

He didn't say a word. He simply flicked his wrist, turning his paper over so the bold, circled score faced you.

98/100.

"Two points," he whispered, leaning just an inch closer. "So close. It’s almost tragic, really. Maybe if you spent less time glaring at the back of my head and more time on the actual class content, you’d actually see the view from the top for once."

"It was a subjective question, Jimin. Han is notorious for favoring your work," you hissed, your face heating up.

"Results don't care about 'subjective,' sweetheart," he replied, his eyes dancing with a patronizing warmth that made you want to scream. "They only care about who’s first. Better luck on the final. I’d hate for the gap to get any wider."

He turned back around with a fluid grace, leaving you fuming. When the lecture finally ended, the inevitable happened. The digital leaderboard in the honors lounge had refreshed with the new weighted averages. A small crowd gathered.

Park Jimin – 4.0 GPA / 98.2% Avg.

Y/N – 4.0 GPA / 97.5% Avg.

“God, they’re at it again,” a familiar voice drawled from somewhere behind you, amused and far too entertained for your liking.

A few people laughed.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who said it, but you did anyway.

Mingyu stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his varsity jacket, tall enough to tower over most of the crowd gathered around the leaderboard screen. He had that effortless, charismatic grin people gravitated toward. The kind of guy who made friends without trying. Jimin’s shadow since high school. Loyal. Observant. Always watching.

“Don’t drag me into your war,” he added with a shrug, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m just here for the free entertainment.”

You rolled your eyes.

Jimin was standing at the edge of the crowd, tucked into his long charcoal wool coat as he caught your eye through the sea of students. He gave you a short, mocking tilt of his head and a silent "after you," before turning on his heel and walking toward the exit. His stride was confident, leaving you standing there staring at the glowing screen until the pixels blurred into a singular, infuriating point of light.

"He's such a prick," you muttered, the words barely a whisper as you felt the heat of frustration rising in your throat.

Yunjin placed a grounding hand on your shoulder, her expression softening from its usual sharp wit. "Hey, ignore him. You'll get it next time. You’re only behind by a fraction of a percent."

"It shouldn't even be a fraction," you whined, turning toward her. "I was ahead of him just a month ago. I had the top spot secured, and then suddenly he just... took over again. It’s like he knows exactly when to push just hard enough to stay an inch out of reach."

"We know, we know," Sakura added, giving your arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "But look at it this way: if you weren't pushing him, he wouldn't have anyone to play with. You're the only one in his league. Take it as a compliment?"

"I'd rather take his spot on the leaderboard," you retorted, though the tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. You let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the day finally catching up to you. "I think I’ll probably head home now though. See you guys tomorrow?"

"Yes, go home and eat something that isn't from a vending machine, please." Yunjin ordered with a knowing look. You could feel the fondness in her voice and smiled at her support. "We'll see you in the lounge tomorrow!"

After bidding your goodbyes, you walked out into the cool evening air. The campus was quiet, the orange glow of the streetlamps casting long, lonely shadows across the pavement.

The walk back to your apartment was a blur of cold wind and the echoing memory of Jimin’s soft, mocking laugh. You finally reached the sanctuary of your studio, kicking off your shoes and letting the heavy silence of the room wash over you. You needed to shed the skin of the "perfect student," to wash away the scent of the library and the lingering, woody trace of Jimin’s cologne that seemed to have haunted you all day.

After a long, scalding shower that turned your skin a delicate, flushed pink, you retreated to the comfort of your bed. The dampness of your hair seeped into the silk of your pillowcase as you reached for your laptop. Just as you settled against the headboard, a notification pinged—the only one that truly mattered.

NocturneJ is Live.

A traitorous heat bloomed in your chest. You were a top subscriber, a secret you’d rather die than admit to anyone, but you couldn’t help it. There was something about him that set him apart from the many performative creators on the platform. He wasn’t cringey or over-the-top; he was quiet, focused, and possessed a dark elegance that felt oddly sophisticated.

The stream flickered to life. The chat on the side was already a frantic waterfall of emojis and messages from thousands of viewers, but you minimized it, focusing only on the high-definition frame. The room on screen was dim, washed in a moody, deep violet and crimson haze. NocturneJ sat there, draped in a heavy black silk robe that pooled around his thighs. His face was hidden by the cut of the frame to right around his neck, highlighting his collarbones.

He reached out, his long fingers readjusting the camera lens. Your breath hitched as his silver rings caught the light. The usual. He’d always worn a thick band on his index finger and a couple interlaced ones on his middle. You had them burned into your memory.

"Welcome back, everyone," his voice vibrated through your headphones, the digital distortion making it feel like a physical caress. "It's been a long day. Let's make the night a little better."

The silk robe slid down his arms with a liquid hiss, falling into the shadows of his chair and leaving him entirely exposed. The air in your room suddenly felt too thick to swallow as the camera caught the full, unapologetic length of him.

He was thick—a heavy, daunting weight that rested against his thigh, the skin a shade darker than the pale porcelain of his stomach. His cock pulsed with a life of its own as a single, pearly bead of pre-cum clung to the slit. It shimmered in the light before trailing slowly down the underside of his shaft. You could see the prominent veins wrapping around him like vines, twitching with every frantic beat of his heart.

As his ringed hand reached down to wrap around himself, the contrast was devastating. The cold, unyielding silver of his rings pressed into the tanned skin of his shaft. He began to stroke, a slow, full-fisted slide from base to tip that made his entire body visibly tense.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your own hand was slick, your middle and index fingers diving beneath the cloth of your panties to find your clit, which was already throbbing and swollen. You let out a jagged moan as you began to rub in a tight circle, mirroring the heavy rhythm on the screen.

"God," you whimpered, your head falling back against the headboard.

On the screen, NocturneJ’s pace was increasing. He wasn't just stroking now; he was gripping himself with a desperate intensity. You watched the way his thumb would occasionally graze the sensitive underside of his head, causing a visible burst of pleasure through his frame. He began to thrust his hips forward, meeting his own hand halfway. His stomach muscles rippled and snapped over the ink of his tattoo. The ink read ‘NEVERMIND’ and seemed to dance as he bucked, the letters stretching over his ribs.

Driven by the sight of him, you slid two fingers deep inside yourself, the sudden fullness making your hips jerk upward. You were soaking, your own natural heat meeting the cool air of the room as you worked your fingers in and out, your thumb never leaving your clit. You were stretching yourself, imagining the weight of that heavy, veined cock sliding into you instead of your own hand.

The sound in your headphones was a symphony of filth with the wet, rhythmic slap of his hand against his skin and the sharp, hissed breaths he took through his teeth. He began to move faster, his rings catching the light in a blur of silver. His head rolled back, exposing the straining cords of his neck, his lips parted as he gasped for air.

You were right there with him, your internal muscles clenching around your fingers as you neared the edge. You doubled your pace, your touch becoming frantic, almost rough, as you chased the high behind your eyelids.

"Yes... please," you choked out, your body vibrating with the effort of holding back.

Finally, the tension snapped. The boy let out a sharp, choked-off cry, his body going rigid as he pumped a thick, hot stream across his own stomach. At the exact same second, your own walls pulsed in a rhythmic contraction. Your orgasm had shattered through you, pulling a restrained moan from your throat as you clamped your legs together, trapping your hand against your soaking core.

For moments after, the only sound was the static of the stream and your own breaths. He sat there, spent and glistening with sweat and seed, his chest heaving. He slowly reached up, his fingers waving goodbye to the camera lens as a final gesture.

"Goodnight, everyone," he whispered, the words like a physical caress against your ear.

The screen went black, leaving you in a sudden, ringing silence that felt heavy and thick. You shut your laptop before falling back into your bed. Your fingers were still twitching, the friction lingering in your nerves.

With a low, shaky exhale, you reached for a stray tissue, cleaning the mess from your thighs and stomach with sluggish, heavy movements. Your body felt full of relief, finally silencing the obsessive academic anxieties of the day. You snapped the laptop shut, the metallic click sounding like a definitive period at the end of a very long sentence.

You had just pulled the duvet up to your chin, sinking into the soft mattress, when the sharp buzz-buzz of your phone on the nightstand startled you. The blue light cut through the darkness of the room, jarring against your tired eyes.

A notification from the main Honors Program group chat popped up first. “Everyone’s meeting at the bar nearby tomorrow night to celebrate finishing the exam! Be there or be boring,” Mingyu had messaged. You didn't even read the replies; you simply swiped the notification away, your brain too fried to even contemplate a crowded bar and loud music.

But a second later, the private chat you had with Yunjin and Sakura began to explode.

“Are we going? Please tell me we’re going,” Sakura’s text flashed across the screen.

“I’m already picking out my outfit,” Yunjin replied instantly. “And Y/N, you better be coming too.”

You let out a defeated huff, the persistent pings finally breaking your resolve. “Yes, yes. I’m in. Exams are finally over, I guess I can afford one night out.”

“YAY! That’s the spirit!” Sakura messaged back.

“See you guys tomorrow!” Yunjin sent, followed by a heart.

You smiled fondly to yourself as you set the phone face down, the silence of the room returning. You closed your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids was still painted with the hazy violet light of the stream. You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, finally falling into a deep, heavy sleep.

The next morning, the sterile, white-tiled hallways of the honors wing felt even narrower than usual. You walked toward your advanced seminar with a heavy, caffeine-deprived walk. The lecture was a blur of complex theories and Professor Han’s monotonous voice, but your focus was elsewhere. You kept catching the back of Jimin's head two rows down. He was wearing a simple, high-necked black sweater today, his posture as impeccable as ever. Every time he raised his hand to offer a perfectly articulated critique, you felt that familiar, sharp tug of annoyance. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, you practically bolted. You needed sugar, and you needed to be away from his suffocating aura.

You rounded the corner toward the vending machine, eyes on the small display of pastries and drinks. You needed this. A quick study break after class, that is. It was the one thing you allowed yourself to in order to escape thoughts of him.

But of course, he was already there.

He glanced up, saw you, and raised a single brow. “Looks like I’m faster today,” he said lightly, grabbing the last chocolate croissant you had been aiming for.

You froze, scowling, then crossed your arms. “Lucky you. Next time, I’ll be quicker.”

Jimin just tilted his head, a cheeky expression on his face. “I’d like to see that.”

You rolled your eyes and stuck your hand into your bag to grab a bill. The machine beeped angrily as you fed it money, refusing to take it, despite your passionate efforts. Jimin stepped forward, calmly pressing the bill right in, along with the combination to free your snack. “See? Always better to stay calm under pressure.”

“Thanks,” you said sharply, snatching it from the dispenser. “I didn’t need your help.”

“I know,” he replied, already walking toward the exit. “Just thought I’d offer, since you clearly can’t beat a machine on your own.”

You stood by the machine for a beat longer than necessary, staring at the space he had just occupied until the door to the hallway finally swung shut. With a sharp exhale, you adjusted your bag and made your way toward the honors lounge, your sneakers squeaking loudly against the polished tile. The morning was already draining, and you needed the familiar aura of the study area to reset.

Pushing further through the heavy glass doors of the lounge, you immediately spotted Yunjin and Sakura. They had claimed their usual circular table in the back corner, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the campus quad. As you approached, you could see the condensation from their iced coffees pooling on the surface, blurring the edge of a stack of scattered research papers.

"You look like you're about to fight a wall," Yunjin noted, not looking up from her laptop as you pulled out a chair. Her fingers continued their rapid-fire tapping across the keys.

"I just had a run-in at the vending machine," you muttered, sliding into the seat and dropping your bag onto the floor. You flipped your textbook open, the heavy paper fluttering before settling on random page.

"We saw," Sakura giggled, leaning over her pile of flashcards. "We were coming down the stairs when he walked out. He looked way too pleased with himself for someone who just bought a snack."

"He's a menace," you said, but then you shook your head, forcing the image of his smirk out of your mind. "Anyway, are we actually going to finish this case study today, or are we just going to stare at the screen until it’s time to leave?"

"Case study first, drinks later," Yunjin said, finally closing a tab and looking at you with a small, supportive smile. "Let's just get through this last push."

For the next few hours, the scratch of pens and the lounge’s air conditioning replaced the morning's tension. You helped Sakura deconstruct a tricky theory, and Yunjin pointed out a flaw in your latest data set that actually saved you an hour of re-calculating.

As the sun began to dip behind the campus, casting long shadows across the carpet, Yunjin finally slammed her laptop shut.

"Alright, brain-rot over," she declared, stretching her arms until her joints popped. "It’s six o’clock. If we want to look like people who didn't just survive a week of finals, we need to move. Sakura, lead the way."

The transition from the sterile university atmosphere to Sakura’s apartment was quick. The air there was thick with the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume, the speakers thumping with a high-energy playlist that finally drowned out the echoes of all your worries. Sakura was a whirlwind of glitter and curling irons, insisting on doing your eyeliner "just a bit sharper" to match the energy of the night.

"You look incredible," Sakura chirped, stepping back to admire her handiwork. You were wearing a dark, form-fitting top that felt bold compared to your usual library hoodies, and the sharp wings of your eyeliner gave you a boost of confidence you desperately needed.

"Let’s go," Yunjin said, checking her reflection one last time and grabbing her coat. "Tonight is about drinks, snacks, and absolutely zero mention of our classes, please. If anyone brings up the final, they’re paying the entire tab." You chuckled to yourself, knowing that you may have been the reason behind her statement.

By the time you arrived at the bar, the atmosphere was already high. It was a popular spot for the honors crowd—low ceilings, warm amber lighting, and the constant, rhythmic clink of soju glasses. The savory, heavy smell of fried chicken and spicy stews hit you instantly.

"Over here!" Mingyu’s voice boomed from the back, cutting through the low roar of the crowd.

He was at a cluster of tables pushed together, looking every bit the charismatic centerpiece. He was already halfway through a bottle of beer, his arm draped lazily over the back of his chair as he roared with laughter at something his and Jimin’s friend, Hoseok, had said. As you wove through the crowded tables and your friends took their seats, you realized with a sinking heart that the only remaining seat was directly next to Jimin.

"Great," you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for the person beside you to hear. "Just what I needed."

Jimin, who had been leaning back with a glass in his hand, caught your remark. He didn't snap back or roll his eyes. Instead, a faint, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he shifted his chair just an inch to give you room. "I'll try to keep my ego from taking up too much of your personal space tonight," he said, his tone kinder than you’d expected.

Despite your internal grumbling, the night started off surprisingly well. As the first few rounds of soju and fried chicken arrived, the conversation stayed light and loud. Jimin wasn't the cold, calculating rival you usually faced across a leaderboard. He was charismatic, leaning into the group’s energy and making sharp, dry jokes that had even Yunjin doubling over. He was polished, yes, but he was undeniably likable, and it was frustratingly difficult to maintain your grudge when he was being so… human.

A few drinks in, the table grew more animated. You reached for a napkin just as someone bumped the table, and your glass of soju tipped. The clear liquid splashed across the wood, soaking into the hem of your top and spilling onto your lap.

"Shit," you hissed, jumping slightly as the cold liquid seeped through the fabric.

Before you could even grab a napkin, Jimin was moving. His reaction was instinctive, his hand reaching out with a cloth to catch the spill before it could ruin your outfit. But in the dim, crowded chaos of the bar, his touch was more intimate than intended. His fingers pressed the cloth against the damp fabric near the curve of your neck, his other hand reaching down to quickly blot the spill on your thigh.

The air in your lungs vanished. The heat of his hand through the thin material of your top was searing. Jimin seemed to realize the proximity at the exact same moment you did. He froze, his fingers lingering just a second too long against your skin before he pulled back with a genuine look of fluster crossing his face.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping into a low, hurried register. "I–I wasn’t thinking."

"Woah, woah!" Hoseok barked from across the table, his eyes wide and full of mischief. "Since when did the department rivals get so close? Are we witnessing an enemies-to-lovers arc in real-time?"

A chorus of oohs and whistles went up from the table. Your face felt like it was on fire. "Shut up, Hoseok," you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You stood up abruptly, clutching your damp top. "I’m going to go clean this up."

Sakura was on your heels in an instant, following you into the cramped, neon-lit bathroom. As soon as the door clicked shut, she turned to you, her eyes practically sparkling.

"Did you see his face?" she whispered, leaning against the sink as you dabbed at your neck with a wet paper towel. “Who knows, maybe you two could actually be a thing after all.”

"Yeah, right," you retorted, tossing the damp paper towel into the trash. "He was just being a decent person for once."

She gave you a look—half knowing, half unconvinced—but you didn’t linger long enough to argue. With a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself off the counter and headed for the door, your friend’s voice trailing behind you as you stepped back into the hallway.

By the time you made it to your seat beside him, the irritation had softened into something quieter. Jimin didn’t make a joke when you sat down. He just gave you a small, apologetic nod and a soft smile. It was the kind of quiet kindness you’d never seen from him before.

You tried to settle back into the conversation, reaching for a fresh glass. As you did, your eyes caught his hand as he rested it on the table.

There they were. The infamous silver rings. The thick band on his index finger and the interlaced ones on his middle. Your heart did a violent, sudden somersault. Wait… no. You felt a cold shiver of recognition, but you immediately forced it down. It’s just rings, you told yourself, gaslighting your own memory. Half the guys in Seoul wear silver rings. It’s a trend. Don't be a psycho.

You watched as he absentmindedly twisted the thick band on his index finger while listening to Mingyu tell a story—a habitual, restless gesture that shouldn’t have meant anything.

And yet, it did.

Because you’d seen that same movement before. Late at night, washed in violet light through the blur of a screen. It familiar enough to make your chest tighten, but not enough to be certain.

Not enough to say it was him.

Stop imagining things, you thought, taking a long, desperate gulp of your drink. It’s just a habit. Everyone has habits.

The seed was planted, but as Jimin turned to you with that same soft, lingering smile, you did your best to bury it deep.

The cool night air was a shock after the alcohol-soaked heat of the bar. The group spilled out onto the sidewalk, a messy tangle of loud laughter and sluggish footsteps. Before everyone could drift off to their respective apartments, Hoseok clapped his hands together, regaining some remnants of authority.

"Hey! Don’t forget!" he shouted over the noise of a passing car. "Festival prep starts at 9:00 AM sharp tomorrow. We’re the face of the Honors Program, so if you show up late and hungover, I’m putting you on cleaning duty for the entire day!"

The annual Spring Festival was the biggest event on the university calendar. It’s a three-day chaotic celebration where every department competes for the most popular booth. The Honors Program took it dangerously seriously. This year, the cohort had spent weeks planning a high-end snack stall, complete with custom goodies and branded merchandise to "advertise" the program to prospective students. It was meant to be a bonding exercise, but for you, it just meant another twelve hours of labor.

The stroll back to your studio passed quickly. The moment you locked your door, you didn't even bother changing out of your clothes. You threw yourself onto your bed, heart racing, and pulled up your laptop.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you navigated to NocturneJ’s archived streams. You found the one from last night, the one that had left you breathless and ruined. You paused the video at the exact moment his hand reached for the camera. You zoomed in until the pixels began to blur.

A thick silver band on the index finger. Two interlaced rings on the middle finger.

You looked at the screen, then at the memory of Jimin’s hand resting on the wooden table at the bar. The weight, the width, the way they sat against his knuckles… it was a perfect match.

"No," you whispered into the empty room, shutting the laptop lid with a sharp clack. "It’s a coincidence. It has to be…"

You tried to toss the thought aside, forcing yourself to focus on the logistics of the festival. You told yourself that half the men in the city probably shopped at the same jewelry boutiques. You told yourself you were just projecting your secret obsession onto your real-life rival because the tension between you was already so high.

But as you drifted into a fitful sleep, your dreams were a chaotic mix of violet studio lights and amber bar lamps, of masked whispers and dry, academic wit.

The sun was far too bright when your alarm blared the next morning. You groaned, realizing you’d overslept by twenty minutes.

"Shit!"

You scrambled out of bed, throwing on your Honors Program staff polo and a denim skirt. You barely had time to tie your hair back before you were sprinting across the quad toward the festival grounds.

The campus had been transformed. Brightly colored banners fluttered in the breeze, the smell of charcoal grills and sugar-dusted churros already beginning to fill the air. Music blared from a dozen different directions as student organizations scrambled to set up their tents.

You finally spotted the Honors Program booth. It was a sleek, white-tented structure near the center of the main walkway.

"You're late!" Yunjin called out, though she was smiling as she handed a crate of bottled water to Mingyu.

"I know, I'm sorry," you panted, reaching the tent and leaning against a support pole to catch your breath.

"Don't worry about it," a smooth, familiar voice said from behind you.

You straightened up, still slightly out of breath, to find Jimin standing there. He was leaning against one of the metal support beams of the tent, looking infuriatingly put-together for someone who had been drinking soju with you until the early hours of the morning. He had already started on the heavy lifting, his navy polo sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the lean, corded muscle of his forearms.

He didn't have his usual biting remark ready. Instead, he just held out a cold bottle of water he’d pulled from the ice chest.

"You look like you ran a marathon," he said, his voice quiet enough to stay between the two of you. "Drink this before you pass out. Hoseok’s on a power trip today, and I’d rather not have to carry you to the infirmary in front of the dean."

"I'm fine," you muttered, though you took the water, your fingers brushing against his for a fleeting second.

You couldn't help it. Your eyes dropped immediately to his hand. The silver rings were gone and his fingers were bare against the condensation of the bottle. You felt a wave of confusing relief followed by an even sharper sting of doubt. He took them off for the festival? Or was I just hallucinating last night?

"Is there something on my hand?" he asked, his tone shifting back to that playful, observant edge. He flexed his fingers slightly, holding your gaze with a look that felt like it was peeling back your thoughts.

"No," you said quickly, unscrewing the cap and taking a long, distracting swallow of the cold water. "Nothing at all. Let's just get this stuff done."

He watched you for a beat longer, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, before he turned back to the stack of flyers. "Whatever you say. Just try to keep up."

"You two! I’m trusting you can suspend the cold war for one afternoon. This stand isn’t gonna decorate itself," Your program leader, Seokjin, shouted while pointing a frantic finger toward the front of the booth. "The main banner is sagging, and the decorative garland is falling off the left side. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?" You both nodded in agreement.

The 'main banner' was a heavy, vinyl beast that spanned the entire top of the tent. It was currently lopsided, one corner drooping sadly toward the pavement. To make matters worse, there was only one rickety metal ladder available.

"I'll go up," you said immediately, not wanting to give Jimin the high ground, literally. "You just hold the ladder and hand me the zip-ties."

"Bossy," Jimin murmured, but he stepped back, anchoring the base of the ladder with his boots.

You ignored him, climbing the rungs until you were eye-level with the top of the tent frame. The sun was beating down, making the metal poles hot to the touch. You reached up, stretching your arms as high as they could go to pull the heavy vinyl taut.

"A little higher on the right," Jimin called out from below.

"I’m trying!" you huffed, standing on your tiptoes on the narrow top step. You reached for a stray piece of garland that was tangled in the frame, but as you pulled, your foot slipped on the slick metal rung.

The world tilted. You let out a short gasp, your stomach dropping as you began to tip backward.

Before you could even think to scream, two large, warm hands clamped firmly onto your waist. The grip was solid, his fingers digging into the fabric of your polo and the skin beneath it, jerking you back against the ladder and steadying your balance.

The contact sent a violent rush of butterflies through your stomach, a dizzying, electric spark that you absolutely hated.

"Got you," Jimin’s voice vibrated through the ladder, low and steady. He didn't let go immediately. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips through the denim of your skirt, his touch lingering in a way that felt far from accidental.

"I’m fine," you choked out, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You can let go now."

"And let you crack your head open on the pavement?" He looked up at you with a dangerous smirk spreading across his lips. From this angle, his eyes looked darker, hooded by the bright sunlight. "I don't think so. You're a liability when you're this flustered."

"I'm not flustered, I—I… slipped," you retorted, though your voice was an octave higher than usual.

"Right. Slipped," he repeated, his grip tightening just a fraction before he finally slid his hands away. The absence of his touch felt strangely cold. "You know, for someone who spends so much time trying to stay on top of the leaderboard, you’re remarkably bad at staying on top of a ladder."

"Maybe I just like the view from up here," you snapped, trying to focus on the zip-tie instead of the lingering heat on your waist.

"The view is pretty good from down here, too," he countered, his tone dripping with a suggestive playfulness. "Take your time. I’m not going anywhere."

You bit your lip, fumbling with the banner. Every time you moved, you could feel his gaze on you. It was heavy, observant, and entirely too much for you to handle. You hated how easily his flirtatious remark worked on you, the heat climbing up your neck in a visible blush that you couldn't hide no matter how hard you stared at the vinyl.

When you finally risked a glance down, your heart sank. He wasn't even pretending to look at the ladder anymore. He was leaning back slightly, arms crossed, wearing a smirk so satisfied it was clear he was enjoying every second of your panic.

"Stop staring and just pass me the decorations," you snapped, trying to regain some shred of authority, though your voice lacked its usual sharp edge.

"I’m just being a diligent assistant," he said, his grin widening as he reached for a bundle of the garland. Instead of just handing it up, he held it just out of your reach, forcing you to lean down and meet his eyes to take it. "You seemed... remarkably distracted for a second there. I thought maybe the heat was getting to you."

"I was tripping, Jimin. Anyone would be shaken up after almost falling six feet."

"Sure, if you say so," he murmured, though you could feel the tease in his tone.

In your haste to finish and get off the literal pedestal, you reached high to tuck the last bit of garland into the frame. As your arm stretched, Jimin reached up at the same time to steady the pole. His shirt shifted, riding up just high enough for you to see the ink painted into his skin.

NEVERMIND.

The elegant, cursive script was unmistakable. It wasn't just a coincidence anymore. The air left your lungs in a sharp, silent wheeze. It was him. The man who whispered praises into a high-end microphone at 2:00 AM, the man who ruined your sleep schedule, was the same man currently smirking at your boots.

You felt sick. You felt electrified. Most of all, you felt like a fool. You had spent countless nights melting over the persona of NocturneJ, only to find out you were pining for the person you claimed to despise most in the world.

"You okay up there?" Jimin asked, his voice losing its teasing edge for a second as he noticed your sudden stillness. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"I’m fine," you choked out, practically jumping down the last two steps of the ladder. You didn't look at him. You couldn't. Every time you looked at his lips now, you didn't see your academic rival; you heard the low hum of his "Good girl" echoing in your headphones. It was humiliating. You felt a hysterical urge to laugh or maybe just run until you hit the campus gates. But you knew you had to simply accept your situation and act normal.

"Hey, Y/N!" Hoseok called out, waving a stack of napkins at you. "Can you pull up the master schedule? I think we mixed up the rotation for the snack stand and the merch table. You’ve got the doc on your laptop, right?"

"Yeah, on it," you managed to say, your voice sounding a little too high-pitched even to your own ears.

You moved to the central table, your movements stiff and robotic. Jimin followed right behind you standing close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his shoulder. You set your laptop down, your mind a frantic mess.

Just be cool, you told yourself. Open the laptop, find the Excel sheet.

You flipped the screen open.

The brightness hit you first, and then the horror. You hadn't closed your browser from the night before. Right there, in a massive window, was a paused high-definition frame of NocturneJ’s latest stream. His hands were front and center, mid-gesture, frozen in a shot that was intimately close. In bold letters, the tab displayed the name of that streaming site followed by a dash and the name that had been haunting your thoughts: — NocturneJ.

You slammed the laptop shut with a violent snap that made Sakura jump next to you.

"Whoa, easy there!" she laughed. "The laptop didn't do anything to you."

You stood there, your heart doing a frantic dance against your ribs. Did he see? You didn't dare look up. Maybe the screen didn't load fast enough. Maybe the sunlight was hitting the glare. Maybe he’s just as distracted as I am.

When you finally forced yourself to sneak a glance at him, his face had an unreadable expression. The lack of an immediate reaction allowed a small, desperate hope to bloom in your chest. Surely, if he saw he would’ve reacted right? You sighed to yourself in relief.

"I... I think my laptop is overheating," you stammered, grabbing the device and hugging it to your chest like a shield. "I need to... go find a charger. I’ll be back."

You were already halfway out of the booth when Seokjin’s voice pulled you back like a leash.

"Wait! If you’re heading toward the building anyway," he called out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, "can you do me a huge favor? We’re short on power for the snack warmers. Take Jimin with you to the storage room and grab those heavy-duty extension cords and a few extra power strips."

Your heart, which had just started to slow down, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. "Oh, I—I can just go by myself. It’s not that much to carry."

"Nonsense," Seokjin insisted, already turning back to a group of early-bird freshmen. "Those industrial cords are heavy. Jimin, go with her."

"Of course," Jimin replied. His voice was steady, devoid of the teasing lilt from earlier, which somehow made it worse.

You didn't wait for him. You turned and started walking toward the humanities building, your laptop pressed so hard against your chest that the edge of the case was starting to dig into your ribs. You could hear the steady thump-thump of his sneakers on the pavement behind you, a constant reminder that the man who lived in your headphones was currently six feet away in the physical world.

The walk was agonizing. You tried to focus on the distant sound of the festival music, the smell of fried dough, anything other than the quiet, heavy presence of Park Jimin. You kept telling yourself he hadn't seen the screen. He was a provocateur; he wouldn't just let a discovery like that slide.

As you reached the heavy double doors of the storage wing, the silence between you finally felt like it was going to snap. You reached for the handle, but his hand got there first, pulling the door open for you.

You marched toward the back shelf where the orange industrial cords were coiled and scanned the other shelves for more.

"The power strips should be on the third shelf," you said, your voice sounding thin and brittle in the vast room. "If you grab those, I’ll get the cords."

Jimin didn't move toward the third shelf. He didn't move at all. He just stood by the door, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching you with an expression that had shifted from unreadable back to that slow, devastatingly sharp focus.

"You're in an awfully big hurry to get away from me today," he said. The steady, neutral tone from the walk over was gone, replaced by a low rasp that made your knees feel like water. "Even more than usual."

"I’m not in a hurry. I’m just being efficient," you lied, reaching for a heavy coil of wire. "Everyone is waiting."

"Are they?" Jimin took a step forward. Then another. The sound of his sneakers on the concrete floor echoed like a countdown. "Because I was under the impression you were more interested in some other things. On certain... private platforms."

Your hands froze on the orange cord. The breath hitched in your throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you whispered, though your face was already beginning to burn.

"Don't you?" He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you just like it did in your dreams. He reached out, his hand resting on the shelf right next to your arm. "The tab. That big gold subscriber badge isn’t exactly subtle, you know? Especially when it’s followed by such a... loyal viewing history."

He leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from your ear. "I had no idea you were such a big fan. If I’d known, I would’ve used it to my advantage in the library weeks ago."

The sheer audacity of it snapped something in you.

"God I cannot—"

You turned around to retort, but you only succeeded in pinning yourself between the shelf and his chest. Your mere shock to the situation silenced you mid sentence.

The air between you felt like it had been sucked out of the room, leaving only the sharp, clean scent of his cologne and the oppressive heat of his body. You were trapped, your back against the cold metal and your chest nearly brushing his, the retort dying in your throat as the sheer reality of him overwhelmed you.

Jimin didn't give you a second to recover. He moved with a suddenness that made you jump for a moment, his hand leaving the shelf to cup the side of your face. His thumb dragged heavily across your cheekbone before hooking under your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact.

"Cat got your tongue?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, velvety register. "That's a first."

"Shut up and kiss me already," you breathed, the words coming out as more of a desperate plea than a command. You reached up, your fingers tangling into the front of his polo, and pulled him down until his mouth was a sliver from yours.

Jimin’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine surprise being quickly overtaken by a look of raw, focused hunger. "Is that an order?" he whispered, hovering over your lips, though he didn't wait for a confirmation.

He closed the distance, his mouth crashing onto yours. You let out a muffled moan into the kiss, your body falling against him as you finally stopped fighting the magnetic pull.

He didn't hold back, and neither did you. His mouth was firm and wet, moving over yours with a heavy pressure that forced your lips apart. You felt the slick, hot slide of his tongue as it pushed deep into your mouth, sweeping over the roof of your palate and tangling with yours in a restless rhythm.

The taste of peppermint was sharp and cool against the humid heat of the kiss. You could feel the slight friction of his teeth catching against your bottom lip as he bit down gently, tugging on the sensitive skin before soothing it with another deep, open-mouthed sweep of his tongue. Your breaths were coming in short, jagged hitches, each one swallowed by him before you could fully exhale.

His hand at the back of your head tightened, his fingers curling into the hair at your nape to hold you steady as he tilted your face, seeking a deeper angle. Every time you tried to find a rhythm, he changed it, sucking on your tongue or tracing the inner line of your teeth until your head felt light.

You were clutching the front of his shirt so hard your knuckles ached, pulling him into you until you could feel the solid heat of his chest through the fabric. The kiss grew messier and more desperate by the second.

He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his lips down to your jaw, his breath hot and ragged. Slowly, he brought his hand back up to your face, his thumb dragging across your lower lip until it dipped into the heat of your mouth. He pressed down, urging you to open for him, and when you did, he slid two fingers inside, resting them over your tongue.

All you could feel was the weight of his fingers as he watched you with an intense focus. You instinctively sucked on them, your eyes fluttering shut as a heavy heat pooled in your stomach.

"What a dirty girl… you've been practicing for this, haven't you?" he rasped, his voice an echo throughout your body.

You could only offer a broken, wet sound in response, your fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled his hand deeper, your submission becoming the only thing that mattered in the quiet of the room.

He didn't pull his hand away immediately, watching with a heavy, hooded gaze as you struggled to catch your breath around his fingers. Finally, he slid them out slowly, the wet friction dragging over your bottom lip until he released you. He didn't move his hand far; he kept his thumb hooked under your chin, tilting your face up to ensure you couldn't look away from his gaze.

“I never thought I’d see you like this,” he murmured, his thumb still tracing the wet line of your lower lip where his fingers had just been. “So desperate and needy for me.”

"Well, savor it," you panted, your voice a shaky mix of defiance and raw heat. “I can’t promise it’ll last too long.”

"Oh, I will," he murmured, his gaze darkening as he took in your flushed face. "I'm going to savor every single second.”

He stepped deeper into your space, sliding his thigh firmly between your legs. You gasped, your head hitting the shelf behind you, but he was already moving. His hands slid down your back to cup your ass tightly.

Your legs hooked around his waist as he hoisted you onto his thigh. Now, you were eye-to-eye, your chest heaving against his. He began a slow grind, guiding your hips to ride against the solid muscle of his leg. The friction was agonizingly perfect, hitting exactly where the ache was most intense.

"Jimin," you choked out, your nails digging into the soft fabric of his polo. "It’s so... I can’t—" You cut yourself off with a sharp gasp as he shifted his angle, the muscle of his leg rolling perfectly against you.

“Yeah? Tell me how good it feels.” He commanded, eyes glued to your bouncing body before him.

A jagged, broken breath escaped your lips as the friction of his thigh hit the mark. The sensation was so sharp it was almost dizzying, blurring the edges of the room until there was nothing but the weight of him and the slow pull of his skin beneath you.

While he kept you balanced, his fingers migrated to the hem of your shirt. He pulled the fabric up and over your head, tossing it aside hastily. Your breasts spilled out, the cool air of the storage room hitting your now heated skin.

Jimin pulled back as he looked down at you. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he took in the sight of you—half-undressed, flushed, and riding his leg in the middle of the humanities building.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, his hands tightening on your waist. "Who knew ‘miss runner-up’ had such a nice rack?” His hands were heavy as they fully cupped your breasts, squeezing with a firm grip that made you cry out against his mouth. He watched with a dark, focused intensity as they overflowed his fingers, his thumbs working in circles over your nipples. Every time he flicked the peaks, a sense of pleasure shot straight down to where his thigh was still working between your legs.

The rhythm of his leg was only growing in intensity now. He wasn't just grinding, he was driving his thigh upward, pinning your clitoris against the rough denim of his jeans with every heave of his hips. You were caught in a crossfire of sensation with the stinging pleasure of his thumbs on your chest and the throbbing pressure of his leg below.

"Look at you," he rasped, taking in the sight of your bare body. "Eyes rolling back, tits out, coming apart on my leg like a desperate little slut. Where’s all that competitive attitude now?"

He suddenly pulled back, his breathing ragged. In a single impatient motion, he yanked his own polo over his head and tossed it into the shadows. His chest was broad, his abs defined and slick with a fine sheen of sweat. He grabbed your hand and slammed it against his stomach, forcing your fingers to curl over the hard ridges of his muscles.

"Touch me," he commanded, his eyes burning into yours. "Feel what you’ve been rubbing that cute pussy of yours to in the dark."

You let out a strained whimper, your palm sliding over his hot skin. As if he could tell you were growing closer to your high, he stepped back, removing the support of his thigh abruptly. The sudden loss of friction felt like a physical blow. You slumped against the shelf, your legs shaking, but he didn't let you fall. He crashed his lips back onto yours for a messy, tongue-heavy kiss while his hand dived straight down into your skirt.

He didn't go under the lace yet. He kept his palm flat, grinding your panties against your soaking slit with a steady pressure.

"Please," you sobbed into his mouth, your hips bucking against his hand. "Jimin, please... more. I need it."

"You need what? Use your words and tell me exactly you want from me," he taunted, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace but staying right on the edge.

"I want you... please, put your fingers inside," you begged, your voice breaking. "I'm so wet for you."

"Good girl," he hummed, and finally, he slid two fingers past the silk and deep into you. You let out a piercing cry, your head hitting the shelf as he found your rhythm instantly. "God, you're a mess. You've been waiting for this all day, haven't you? Just a dirty little fan wanting a piece of the main attraction."

He didn't let you finish. He tore your skirt and panties down your legs, kicking them aside before hoisting you up onto one of the reinforced metal shelves. He shoved your knees apart, baring you completely.

He stood between your open legs, his hands going to his belt. You watched, mesmerized, as he unbuckled it with a sharp clink of metal, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He lowered his trousers, revealing black boxers that could barely contain the heavy, thick outline of his cock. It was massive, straining against the fabric, the head of it already dampening the cloth.

Instinct took over. You reached out, your small hand wrapping around the heated length of him through the boxers. He let out a hissed breath as his head fell back, tightening his grip on your thighs.

"You're so greedy," he growled, looking down at you with a look of pure, unadulterated lust. "You really want it that bad? You want to see if the real thing is too much for you to handle?"

He hurriedly stripped his boxers down until he snapped free, his cock thick and pulsing. He grabbed your waist and positioned the wet head of his length right against your opening.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commanded. "I need to feel really good, princess."

He didn't give you a moment to adjust. He gripped your thighs and lunged forward. The first thrust was heavy and filled with power. It felt like he was claiming every inch of your internal space. You let out a strangled cry as he buried himself deep, his thick, pulsing length stretching you open.

The feeling was overwhelming, your slick walls struggling to accommodate his girth. It felt like being split open from the inside out, a delicious, heavy ache that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

"Fuck, you’re so tight.” he rasped, his forehead dropping against yours as he stayed buried deep for a second, letting you feel the rumble of his pulse against your own. "It’s like you were made for my cock.”

He began to move, pulling back until he was almost out before driving back in with a forceful slap of skin against skin. The pace was rough and intense, his cock hooking against your G-spot with every upward tilt of his hips.

Suddenly, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. The distinct murmur of students laughing and discussing a midterm drifted through the thin door of the storage wing.

Your eyes went wide, a panicked gasp beginning in your throat, but before you could make a sound, Jimin’s hand clamped firmly over your mouth. His palm was hot, smelling of his cologne and your own arousal, and he used the leverage to pin your head back against the shelving.

Instead of stopping, he increased the pace. He went harder, his thrusts becoming shallow and rapid, hitting that sensitive internal nerve over and over again. You tried to scream, but the sound was caught against his palm, coming out as desperate, muffled whimpers into his skin.

"Look at you," he smirked, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic sort of pride as he watched your face flush a deep crimson. "Struggling so hard to stay quiet while I’m destroying you. Do you think they can hear how wet you are for me through the door? Do you think they know their department’s little ace is currently being filled up in the dark?"

He leaned in closer, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "I love how much you’re shaking. Try to contain it, sweetheart. See if you can keep from snapping while I give you exactly what you’ve been begging for."

He shifted his grip, pulling your legs even wider to spread your folds along with them. He continued to pound into you, each thrust slamming against your cervix. You could feel a pressure building behind your eyes as you grew closer and closer.

The voices outside faded, but Jimin didn't slow down. He removed his hand from your mouth only to wrap it around your throat, not to choke, but to hold you steady as he delivered the final, crushing blows.

"Tell me," he groaned, his voice breaking as he neared his limit. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you're never going to look at another screen again without thinking about how this feels."

You couldn't even form words. You could only sob his name, your body finally giving in as a climax shattered through you. You gripped his shoulders, your nails leaving red crescents in his skin.

He let out a loud, unrestrained curse, his body shuddering as he followed you over the edge, filling you with a hot, heavy release that made you feel complete for the first time in months. He stayed buried inside you, his chest pressed against yours. The quiet of the storage room returned, leaving only the sound of your shared breathing.

The sharp jingle of a heavy keychain coming from outside was like a bucket of ice water. The "clack-clack" of heels stopped right in front of the storage wing, and the handle rattled with a metallic thud.

"Wait, I think the extra banners for the festival are in 302B," a muffled voice said from the hallway.

The spell shattered instantly. Both of you scrambled, the high-stakes heat of the last few minutes replaced by breathless panic. Jimin’s cool composure broke, his eyes widening as he lunged for his discarded polo.

"Shit," he hissed as he yanked the shirt over his head, the fabric getting momentarily caught on his damp skin.

You were fumbling with your own buttons, your fingers feeling stiff. "My shorts—Jimin, the festival supplies—where are my—"

He spotted the heap of lace and fabric by the base of the shelf and snatched them up, thrusting them into your hands. For a good thirty seconds, it was a blur of movement in the shadows. You hopped on one foot, trying to pull your panties up while Jimin sat on the edge of the shelf to shove his feet back into his shoes.

"Your shirt," he whispered, stepping toward you. His hands were shaking just a little as he reached out to help with the middle buttons you were struggling to align. He didn't look like the untouchable camboy now. He looked like a guy who was terrified of getting caught in a storage closet with one of the department's top students.

"Is the door locked?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Yeah, for now," he panted, smoothing the collar of your shirt. He reached up, his fingers working quickly to rake through your messy hair, trying to tame the mess the two of you had created. "You have a... there’s a mark. Right there." He gestured to your collarbone, his face flushing a deeper shade of red.

"Fix yours too," you whispered back, reaching up to straighten his rumpled collar and flatten the hair at the back of his head.

He grabbed the large orange extension cords and your bag, while you grabbed the power strips. He took a deep breath, adjusting the set of his shoulders until that familiar, arrogant mask started to settle back into place.

"Okay," he muttered. "We just came in to grab the wires. Act bored."

He pushed the door open with a casual shove of his shoulder, just as a faculty member and a student volunteer turned the corner.

"Oh, hello Mr. Park, Miss Miral," the professor said, pausing. "Gathering the rest of the supplies for tonight?"

"Yeah! Just getting some last minute stuff," Jimin said, his voice remarkably steady, though he shifted the wires to hide the fact that his belt wasn't quite centered. He flashed a quick, practiced smile. "We wanted to make sure the lighting kits were accounted for."

"Excellent. Glad to see such dedicated collaboration," the professor nodded, moving past you into the room.

Walking side-by-side toward the quad, the weight of the tangled cords in your arms felt absurdly mundane compared to the dark, heavy atmosphere you’d just left. Only when you reached the main festival grounds did he slow down.

He looked at you, his gaze lingering on your swollen lips for a moment too long. "Collaboration," he repeated with an eyebrow raised. "I think that’s a fair way to put it."

You let out a quiet scoff, rolling your eyes. “If that’s what you need to call it,” you muttered, though the heat rising to your face betrayed you.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then the humid evening air hit your skin as you stepped forward, back into the center of the action. The festival grounds were a hive of activity now. The quiet academic atmosphere had been swallowed whole by the smell of street food and the distant boom of a bass test from the main stage.

The booth was nearly finished, a skeleton of wood and canvas that looked surprisingly professional. You and Jimin approached, dropping the heavy power strips onto the table with a loud thud.

"Finally!" Sakura called out, wiping a smudge of glitter from her forehead. She and Yunjin stopped their task of hanging a neon sign to look at the two of you. "Where were you guys? It’s been nearly forty-five minutes. We were about to send a search party to the storage wing."

"We... well, the thing is—" You started to stammer, the heat climbing up your neck as you prayed the dimming sunlight was enough to hide the flush on your skin.

"The inventory was a disaster.” Jimin interrupted, his voice smooth and devoid of any suspicion. He leaned casually against the booth's frame, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We had to do some serious digging and untangling before we could even get the cords out. Everything was knotted together in the back."

"Typical," Yunjin sighed, rolling her eyes. "Storage 302B is where organization goes to die. Glad you made it back before we lost the light."

Nice save, you thought, letting out a long, shaky breath.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the area truly came to life. Someone flipped a master switch, and all the lights illuminated at once. The power strips you’d hauled over buzzed to life, and the rest of the group drifted back, pausing to admire the view in awe.

As the group started to disperse to grab food before the official opening, you felt a presence loom behind you. You turned at the subtle shift behind you, only to find Jimin there, closer than he had any reason to be.

He leaned past you to adjust an extension cord at your feet, his shoulder brushing yours in the process.

"Untangling," he whispered, his voice so low it was for your ears only. "A pretty accurate description of what we were doing, don't you think?"

He pulled back, but not before his gaze dropped pointedly to your collarbone, where your shirt was still a little more wrinkled than it had been an hour ago. He reached out, his fingers grazing your hand in a not-so-accident kind of way.

"See you tonight, Miss Runner-up," he said, his eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of mischief. "Try not to get too... tied up in the festivities."

He walked away to join a group of guys from the IT department, leaving you standing under the neon lights, your skin tingling and your heart knowing.

masterlist

a/n: first part! let me know your thoughts and feel free to send requests :) comment for tag!

taglist: @mar-lo-pap @parkjiminsholythighs @itsmina29 @imjustcrabby @chocolatereignz @kingsqueensandvagabonds

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