mona lisa

fiorella | she/her | 25 | m.list | minors dni

[hobi-side]

TAKE TWO | jjk (one)

— pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

— playlist: valentine - laufey, do i wanna know - hozier, cariño - the marias, apocalypse - cigarettes after sex, lovefool - the cardigans, no song without you - honne, mine - jea mira

—  summary: In Busan, you and Jungkook grew up trading songs and stories — first love stitched into music rooms and rain-soaked walks home. Years later, you’re a filmmaker chasing your dreams, he’s a musician-turned-bar owner carrying unfinished melodies. When your new film needs a score, you realize the only voice that fits is the one you left behind.

A story of art, memory, and the love that lingers between them.

—  word count: 40.6k

—  warnings: angst · coming of age · screenwriter x musician!jk · second chance romance · misunderstandings & miscommunication · heavy arguments · reader can be difficult (sometimes) 18+: thigh riding · fluffy/intense love making · kisses & hickeys · jk’s neck obsession · unprotected sex · they literally need each other

—  note: this one took me forever to finish, to the point i got tired of rereading the same sentences over and over. it started with me spiraling after a kdrama and falling into a writing slump where i couldn’t figure out how to end it. i tried for months and honestly thought i’d never post it. but here it is; not perfect, but finally out in the world. maybe one day i’ll come back and fix it up completely.

thank you so much for waiting and for reading this whole thing. it’s not as wild as some of my past posts (sorry 🥲) but don’t worry, something absolutely unhinged is coming right after this one.

also yes, the jungkook calvin klein event last week permanently altered my brain chemistry.

PART 2

 Jungkook has been with you for half your life.

Or at least, that’s how it feels. Time is strange when you look back — it folds in on itself, pulls certain years into focus and others into fog. But Jungkook? He’s sharp in every memory. Like a thread you didn’t know you’d been following.

You met him when you were fifteen. First year of high school. New city. New walls. New uniform that didn’t quite fit. You’d lived in Seoul your whole life — chaos in your blood, the sound of subways like a second heartbeat. Moving to Busan felt like dropping into someone else’s dream. The streets were quieter. The people slower to smile. The sea was always somewhere in the background, humming like it knew something you didn’t.

You were just… trying to make it through. You kept your head down, spoke when spoken to, ate your lunch like it was a chore. No one really noticed. You didn’t expect them to.

Except him.

You didn’t meet Jungkook so much as sense him. You’d heard the murmurs before you ever caught his name — “He’s a trainee, you know.” “He could debut any time.” “He doesn’t even need school, he’s just here to pass the exams.” “He barely talks to anyone.”

Jeon Jungkook sat in the last row by the window — hood up, gaze out, headphones in. He looked like someone who’d been born in his own orbit. Not mean. Just... far away. Very far away.Like the rest of you were swimming in the shallows, and he lived somewhere deeper. Somewhere quieter.

You weren’t supposed to notice him, and he wasn’t supposed to notice you. But somehow, you did. Both of you. In those small, unremarkable ways that add up over time.

You’d glance up during homeroom and find him sketching in the margins of his math book. You caught him tapping out beats on the edge of his desk when he thought no one was listening. He didn’t speak much, but when he did — to the teacher, to a classmate, once to the librarian — his voice was low and a little raspy, like it got caught in his throat on the way out.

And then one day, he spoke to you.

“You dropped this,” he said quietly, holding out your pencil.

It was simple. Nothing special. But you looked up at him and he was already looking at you like he’d been waiting for an excuse to talk.

You took it from him, nodded.

“Thanks.”

That was all. But you remember the way your fingers brushed. The way his hand lingered just a second too long.

After that, it was small things. He’d nod at you when you passed in the hallway. You started sitting a little closer at lunch. One day he let you borrow his eraser and never asked for it back.

You didn’t fall in love with him then. You didn’t even know him.

You didn’t understand the ache of it yet — that slow, stretching ache of someone starting to matter. You just knew that the days felt different when he was near.

Jungkook has been with you for half your life. Not always close. Not always good. But from the very beginning, there he was — a boy with his headphones in, a rhythm under his skin, and a quiet kind of gravity you didn’t understand until it was far too late.

It started on a rainy Tuesday.

Not the dramatic kind — not thunder or lightning or chaos. Just a steady, persistent drizzle, the kind that makes everything feel heavier. School let out late, and most people rushed for the buses, the subways, anything that would take them out of the cold.

You forgot your umbrella.

Of course you did.

You were standing at the school gate, pretending you weren’t freezing, pretending the rain wasn’t slipping down your collar and soaking through your socks. You checked your phone even though no one was texting you. You debated running home. You decided against it. And then —

“You’re gonna get sick.”

His voice came from behind you, quiet but clear.

You turned. Jungkook was standing there, hands in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t look at you directly. He never really did. But he held out his umbrella, shaking it once, like an invitation.

You blinked. “What?”

“You don’t have one,” he said, still not quite meeting your eyes. “You live near Haeundae, right?” “…Yeah.” “So do I.”

You stared at him for a second too long, your brain catching up to the idea that he noticed where you live.

“We can walk,” he said, finally glancing at you.

That’s how it started.

You walked side by side under his umbrella. You didn’t talk much at first. He had his headphones around his neck, but he didn’t put them on. That felt like something. A quiet offering.

The sidewalk shimmered in the rain, the streetlights making everything look softer, blurred. You kept sneaking glances at him — how calm he looked, how his fingers played with the frayed strap of his bag, like there was always a beat running through him. Something internal. Private. Untouchable.

It hit you, then: Jungkook always seemed like he was living just slightly apart from the world. Not in a mean way. Just… differently. Like everyone else was moving in straight lines and he was on a curved track only he could see.

“You’re always in your own head,” you said without thinking.

He blinked. Looked at you.

“What?”

You shrugged. “Just — you seem far away sometimes.”

He was quiet for a moment. The rain kept falling, soft and steady. You thought maybe you’d said too much. But then he spoke:

“It’s easier there.” “Easier than what?” “Everything else.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. But your hand brushed his when you shifted the umbrella. He didn’t pull away.

From then on, you started walking home together. Not every day. Not always with words. But often enough that people started to notice.

“You’re friends with him now?” someone asked in class one day. You didn’t know what to say. Were you?

Maybe. Probably. It felt like it.

He started sharing music with you. Not over Bluetooth or phones — this was 2012. He’d pull one wired earbud out of his ear and hold it out without a word, the long cord stretching across the library table between you. Sometimes it was tangled, sometimes the rubber was starting to split.

You'd lean in, careful not to yank it, and listen in silence as some beat looped in your head. Usually something raw, unfinished. His work.

“Too slow?” he’d ask, eyes still on his notebook. “Maybe,” you’d whisper. “But it feels honest.”

He’d nod. Like that mattered.

After that, it was small things. Always small things.

Jungkook didn’t suddenly become talkative. He didn’t start sitting with you in the cafeteria or texting you good morning. That wasn’t his style. But you started noticing patterns.

He’d wait a beat longer at the school gate on rainy days, even if the forecast said clear skies. He’d pause his music if you sat down next to him. He’d steal fries from your tray without asking — just once, just enough to see if you’d notice. You always did.

You found him in the music room once — late, when most of the lights in the building were already off. He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a keyboard in his lap and his hoodie pulled low over his face. You almost walked away.

But then he looked up.

“Come in,” he said, like he’d been waiting.

That night was the first time you saw it — the real him. Not the boy with the rumors, not the one the teachers called “distracted but talented,” not the one with the headphones and blank stares. Just Jungkook.

He played for you. Nothing fancy. Just chords. A progression that kept circling back like it was trying to say something. He hummed along with it, low and imperfect, but still good. So good.

“You wrote that?” He shrugged. “It’s not done.” “It doesn’t have to be,” you said. “It’s beautiful.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was trying to believe you.

From then on, the music room became yours. After class. Between study sessions. Sometimes when the day felt too heavy. He’d play. You’d listen. Sometimes you'd write lyrics together in the margins of your notebooks — dumb lines, cheesy rhymes, things you never meant to keep. But they stayed anyway.

He started texting you. Sparingly. Clipped, quiet texts that still felt like something sacred.

JK: music rm JK: u eat?

He didn’t like capital letters. Or emojis. You learned to read the space between his words instead.

You started to feel like you knew him better than anyone else did. And maybe you did.

You knew he hated loud alarms and bitter coffee. You knew he never listened to his own voice recordings because he thought he sounded weird. You knew he missed his older brother, who’d moved away for university, and that he was scared of auditions even though he’d never admit it out loud.

In return, you let him know you. Not the version of you who smiled in class or played nice with teachers. The one who overthinks, who doesn’t feel like they belong anywhere, who keeps everything buried because feeling too much never got you anywhere before.

“You’re not weird,” he said once, when you’d confessed something you’d never said out loud. “You just feel things harder than other people.”

You think that was the moment you started falling.

You weren’t in love with Jungkook. Not yet. But you were close. So close it almost hurt.

It built slowly, like snowfall — quiet and soft, unnoticed until suddenly everything was buried.

It was around that time people started assuming things. You heard whispers in the halls, saw glances during lunch. And then one day, a girl in your class — the one who always lingered near his desk — turned to you during group work.

“So,” she asked, all casual. “Are you two, like… a thing?”

You blinked.

“Who?” “You and Jungkook.”

You laughed too quickly. The kind of laugh that sounds like a lie even if you mean it.

“No. We’re just friends.”

Just friends. The phrase felt like chewing on gravel.

“Really?” she tilted her head. “Because… you kind of orbit each other.”

She didn’t mean it cruelly. That made it worse.

You told Jungkook about it later, trying to sound amused.

“Apparently we give off ‘domestic couple’ energy now.”

He snorted. Didn’t look up from his notebook.

“Gross.” “Right?” you smiled. “Super gross.”

You didn’t mean it either.

But when you turned away, you saw him stop writing — pen hovering just above the page. He didn’t write anything for the rest of the afternoon.

That night, he sent you a melody. Just a soft loop, like walking home under streetlights with the sky threatening to rain.

[JK]: too cheesy?

You played it over and over, the way you sometimes reread old messages just to feel something again. It sounded like the things neither of you ever said out loud.

You wanted to ask if it was about you. But you didn’t. You just wrote back:

[You]: it’s perfect

You never spoke about it again.

It started with the rain. A Tuesday. Late dismissal. Grey sky. That kind of steady drizzle that blurs the edges of the world and makes the pavement glow.

Jungkook had seen you standing by the gate before he meant to. You weren’t doing anything dramatic — just standing there, phone in your hand, eyes flicking toward the sky every few seconds like you were bargaining with it. Your uniform looked damp at the shoulders. Your socks were already wet.

You didn’t have an umbrella. Of course you didn’t.

He didn’t mean to say anything. Usually, he didn’t. He watched people more than he spoke to them — watched from behind the music, from behind the desk in the last row.

But something about you — the way you didn’t flinch under the rain, didn’t hunch your shoulders or curse the sky — felt like something he couldn’t keep ignoring.

So he stepped closer. Held out his umbrella. Said the first thing that came to mind:

“You’re gonna get sick.”

You turned, eyes meeting his. He regretted speaking instantly. Regretted everything — his voice, his presence, the umbrella in his hand. But you didn’t laugh at him. You just blinked.

“What?” “You don’t have one,” he said, still avoiding your gaze. “You live near Haeundae, right?” “…Yeah.” “So do I.”

He waited, breath caught somewhere in his chest. You didn’t hesitate long.

You stepped under the umbrella like it was the most natural thing in the world. No dramatics, no big declarations. Just a quiet choice.

You walked home together in silence at first. Your bag brushed against his side. The rain tapped against the umbrella like a metronome.

He didn’t put his headphones in. He always had them on — always — but not today. Somehow, it felt wrong to shut you out.

“You’re always in your own head,” you said after a while.

He startled. Looked at you fully for the first time. You weren’t teasing. Just observing.

“What?” “Just — you seem far away sometimes.”

That one sat heavy in his chest. No one had ever said it like that before. No one had noticed and not made it sound like a flaw.

He thought for a moment.

“It’s easier there.” “Easier than what?” “Everything else.”

You didn’t answer. But your hand shifted to steady the umbrella, and your fingers brushed his — light, accidental, warm.

He didn’t pull away.

After that, you started walking together more often. It wasn’t planned. He never asked. You just… found each other by the gate. Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. It didn’t matter.

One day in the library, he handed you an earbud. Didn’t explain, just watched as you slid it in and tilted your head, listening. It was a beat he’d made the night before. Unfinished. Messy.

“Too slow?” he asked, eyes flicking to your face. “Maybe,” you said. “But it feels honest.”

That stayed with him. You didn’t say it was good. You said it felt honest. That meant more.

You started bringing snacks sometimes — gum, tangerines, hot cans of coffee from the vending machine when it was cold. You underlined things in your notebook like you were writing scripts in your head. You talked about lighting and story beats and how no one ever got the pacing of real life right.

And he listened. Because you were starting to feel like something real. Like a thread he hadn’t noticed was waiting to be pulled.

He didn’t know it then, not really. But that was the beginning.

One umbrella. One shared earbud. And you — Seoul accent and ink-stained fingers — walking beside him like you'd always meant to.

He would remember that walk for the rest of his life. Even after the rain stopped. Even after you stopped walking together. God, he was fucked. Utterly fucked.

It didn’t happen all at once.

He noticed it one afternoon, when you laughed too hard at something someone else said.

It was some guy from class — second year, louder than necessary, probably didn’t even know your last name. You were sitting on the stairs outside the art building, sun hitting your face just enough to make you squint, and Jungkook had been walking up to you like he always did. Quiet. Steady. Like you were a part of his route home.

And then the guy said something, and you tilted your head back and laughed.

And Jungkook stopped walking.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t understand the ache that bloomed so suddenly in his chest. He’d seen you laugh before. Heard you laugh because of him.

But this one? It wasn’t for him. And something about that burned in a way it shouldn’t have.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. That it was fine. That you were allowed to have other friends, and he had no claim to the time between classes or the way your smile stretched when you weren’t tired.

Still. He sat next to you later, and you handed him your other earbud like always. But it felt heavier. Like something unsaid had settled between you.

“That guy,” Jungkook said, trying not to sound weird. “From earlier. You know him?”

You looked at him, confused for half a second.

“Oh. Him? Not really. He just said something stupid about the physics exam. Why?”

“No reason,” he said quickly. “Just curious.”

You didn’t push. You never did. But you did tilt your head and watch him a little longer than usual before focusing on the music again.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t stop hearing that laugh.

The shift was slow, almost imperceptible — the way a shadow grows longer when you’re not looking. You didn’t change. Not really. You still sat next to him in the library, still shared your notes, still handed him an earbud like it was second nature. But lately, Jungkook was hyperaware of everything.

How close your shoulder got when you leaned over to show him a passage. How you bit your pen when you were deep in thought. How you laughed more easily with everyone else — freer, lighter — and with him… it was quieter. Private.

He started wondering if that meant something, or nothing at all.

One day, you showed him a scene you were writing. Just a snippet. Two characters sitting in the back of a bus, sharing headphones, pretending they didn’t want to hold hands. You didn’t say it was about you two. You didn’t say anything.

But Jungkook read it three times before handing it back, ears burning.

“It’s good,” he said, careful. “Feels… real.”

You smiled softly.

“Yeah? Thought it was kind of stupid.”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “It’s not stupid.”

He wanted to ask. He wanted to say, Is it about us? Are we— But he didn’t.

Instead, he kept walking you home like always. Watched your breath curl in the cold air. Noticed how your hands stayed stuffed in your pockets.

And that night, he opened his DAW, started a new project, and titled it with your name.

He never let you hear that one.

It was almost midnight by the time you both left.

The group project had dragged on way longer than expected — too many opinions, too much chaos, and not enough glue sticks for that stupid tri-fold board. Everyone else bailed hours ago once the bare minimum was done. But not you.

You’d insisted on staying behind. Said "we’re not turning in something half-assed." And Jungkook — of course — stayed too.

Not because he cared about the project. Because it was you. Because it was always you.

Now the two of you were walking down empty streets, under the flicker of old streetlamps, your breath rising in little puffs against the night.

“They’ll still mess it up during the presentation,” you mumbled, stuffing your hands into your coat pockets. “All that work, just for Minseok to forget his lines again.”

Jungkook huffed a laugh, kicking a rock down the sidewalk.

“You’ll carry them like always.”

You didn’t reply, but he caught the way your shoulder lifted — like the praise meant more than you’d let on.

The city was quiet around you. Busan felt smaller at night. Like it belonged only to the two of you.

“What’s your plan?” he asked suddenly. “After we graduate.”

“College,” you said, like it was obvious. “Writing, if I can. Something with film, maybe.”

You didn’t look at him, but your voice softened.

“Feels stupid, saying it out loud.”

He stopped walking. Not dramatically. Just… slowly.

“It’s not stupid.”

You turned to face him.

And there it was — that look. The one that made his chest ache in ways he didn’t have language for yet.

He wanted to say it then. Not I like you, not even don’t leave. Just something real. Something that lived in the space between your sentences.

“You’re cold,” he said instead, pulling off his scarf and wrapping it around your neck.

You stared at him.

“Next time, bring gloves,” he added, barely above a whisper.

“Thanks, mom,” you teased, voice light. But you didn’t give the scarf back.

He didn’t walk away. Not right away. He just stood there, watching the light in the stairwell flicker behind you as you unlocked your front door.

You looked back at him once. He said nothing.

And that was the first night he realized silence could feel heavier than words.

It was raining again. Of course it was.

The library felt colder than usual, like the storm had crept in through the windows and settled into the corners of the room. The light was dim, filtered through clouds that never broke, and the only sound was the steady, monotonous hush of rain sliding down glass. You were both supposed to be studying — reviewing notes for midterms, flipping through textbooks that neither of you cared enough about — but the air between you had shifted. Subtly, slowly. It had been shifting for weeks, and Jungkook was starting to notice how much he didn’t want it to shift back.

You sat beside him, not across. Always beside. Maybe that was the beginning of the end — or the beginning of something else entirely. You leaned over his shoulder now, peering at his half-scribbled notes with your usual mix of curiosity and judgment.

“Seriously,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, “you’ve highlighted the entire page. This doesn’t count as studying. This is just… coloring.”

Jungkook didn’t smile, though the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to. He didn’t trust himself to look at you when you were this close. He could smell your shampoo. Could see the soft curve of your cheek from the corner of his eye. Could hear every shift in your breathing like it was a song he’d heard a hundred times.

Instead, he reached for the earbud that had been hanging loose and held it out to you. No words. Just the quiet offer of sound — the same way he always shared little pieces of himself: clumsily, without warning.

You didn’t hesitate. You never did. You took it from his hand and leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. You didn't even realize, but he did — immediately, helplessly. You were so warm next to him, so present, like you lived in color while the rest of the world stayed gray.

The music you heard was raw. Unfinished. One of his demos from a week ago, vocals shaky, guitar muted. He hadn’t meant to show it to anyone yet. But now it was there, in your ears, and you were listening without flinching.

Your head tilted slightly, eyes drifting toward the window, watching the rain instead of him.

“It’s beautiful,” you said eventually, voice soft and thoughtful. “Kinda sad, though.”

He stared at the notebook in front of him, words and numbers blurring together. He felt like he was splitting in two — the version of him that kept pretending this friendship was safe, and the one who wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth when you spoke.

“It’s not finished,” he said. The words came out rougher than he meant them to. Thinner, like they’d traveled from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You smiled, barely. Just enough to make his pulse skip.

“Yeah, well. Neither are we.”

You didn’t look at him. You said it like it meant nothing — like it was just a passing comment. But it sat there between you two.

Your phone buzzed against the table. A sharp sound. Too real.

You startled. Pulled back. Muttered something about your mom and curfew, fumbling to pack your things. You didn’t meet his eyes.

When you left, the door swung shut behind you with a hollow echo. The rain was still there. The music still played.

And Jungkook sat alone in the silence, scarf still damp from the night before, earbud still warm from where it had touched your skin — wondering how a person could feel so full of someone they’d never even touched.

The cold had settled in earlier than expected. Not the kind that bit, but the kind that crept up the sleeves of your hoodie and made your fingers stiff. The windows were cracked open in the classroom, and the sharp autumn air curled in, smelling like dry leaves and old dust.

Everyone else had gone home. Of course they had — it was past six and the project was due Monday. No one cared but the two of you. Or maybe… maybe you were the excuse he’d been clinging to.

You sat side by side, papers spread across the desk, your voice low as you read through your scribbled script notes. You were always more serious about these things. Maybe that’s what made you different — not just the Seoul dialect, or your big-city shoes, or the way you always looked like you were thinking about five things at once — but that intensity. The way you cared.

Jungkook leaned over, pretending to read the same paragraph. You were mouthing the words again, like you always did. He watched your lips. Your eyes. The way your breath hitched when a sentence didn’t sound right to you.

He shouldn’t have been looking at you like that.

“Do you think this works?” you asked, pointing at a line of dialogue. Your handwriting was a mess. He knew it now. Recognized it. Kind of liked it.

He nodded, but his voice didn’t come right away. “Yeah.”

It came out too soft.

You turned your head, and suddenly, you were close. Really close. Not in the clumsy way you sometimes were — bumping shoulders in the hallway, laughing too hard during lunch. This was still. Intentional. The kind of closeness you notice.

Neither of you moved.

Your eyes met his for a second too long.

Not enough to change everything.

But maybe enough to start something.

Jungkook’s heart was thudding. Not loud — just heavy. Like it wanted to speak for him. Like it had something to say that he didn’t dare voice.

He wanted to say you look really pretty when you’re focused. He wanted to ask if you noticed how he always walked slower when you were next to him. He wanted to tell you that this — this project, this quiet, this little corner of time — was the best part of his day.

But he didn’t.

Because you were his friend. Because he didn’t want to be wrong. Because he didn’t know how long this would last.

You looked away first. Barely. Just enough to break the current.

“We should finish this by tomorrow,” you said, reaching for your pen.

Your hand brushed his — warm skin against his cold fingers — and you didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

Outside, the wind rattled a loose window. Dry leaves scraped across the pavement like whispers. He didn’t want to go home.

He didn’t want this moment to end.

You should’ve left a while ago.

The group project had ended hours ago, the classroom empty except for two notebooks, a crumpled chip bag, and the low hum of the building settling for the night. It was past midnight. The hallway lights flickered low, and the janitor had already passed by once, giving you both a pointed look before retreating with his cart.

Still, you stayed. And so did he.

Jungkook sat across from you, hunched forward over a half-finished sketch in the corner of his notes, pen resting idle between his fingers. He looked half-elsewhere, like he always did when he was thinking — somewhere in that liminal space between now and the song that hadn’t been written yet.

You knew that look. You’d memorized it. The way his brows pulled together just slightly. The way he chewed the inside of his cheek when he was stuck. The way he refused to meet your eyes when he was on the verge of saying something that mattered.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with him. But it had weight.

“I think we did okay,” you said, just to break it.

He didn’t look up. “We’ll get an A.”

You smiled. “Confident.”

“I had you on my team.”

It should’ve been a simple thing to say. Just a compliment. But something in the way he said it made you look at him longer. Like maybe he meant it for more than just the project.

He finally glanced up, and for a second—just a second—it felt like the air shifted. Your breath caught. Something silent passed between you, like recognition. Like realization.

You dropped your eyes to the table, tracing the peeling laminate edge with your nail. “We’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing between you. “Staying late. Talking about nothing. Pretending we’re not... I don’t know.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t pretend not to know.

You could hear your own heart beating. Loud in your ears. Like your body already knew what you were trying not to say.

“I think about saying something,” Jungkook said quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath hitched.

“Then why don’t you?” you asked. Voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, his gaze searching yours like he was afraid of what he might find.

“Because once I say it,” he said, “everything changes.”

You swallowed. “Maybe it’s already changed.”

Silence again. But this time, it trembled.

You watched him breathe. The way his chest rose — slow, careful, like he was trying not to break whatever this was. His fingers brushed the edge of your notebook, then stopped. Waiting for you.

You didn’t move away.

So he touched your hand.

It wasn’t grand. Just a tentative curl of his fingers over yours. But it was steady. Real.

And when you looked up — when you saw the fear in his eyes lined with something braver — you knew it.

You leaned in first.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was hesitant, slightly off-center. His lip caught on yours, and you nearly laughed, except the moment was too full to do anything but feel it. His hand came up, cupping the side of your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like touching you might make it true.

The aching relief of something that had been held back for too long finally letting go.

When you pulled back, his eyes were still closed. Like he was trying to memorize it.

You spoke first, voice small. “So…”

His eyes fluttered open. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just said, “I don’t want to lose you.”.

You squeezed his hand and said, “Then don’t”.

Back then, Jungkook’s bedroom felt like the inside of his mind — chaotic, pulsing, impossible to fully map out. Every wall was plastered with torn magazine pages, scraps of lyrics, and Post-it notes with single words scrawled in thick black ink: escape, light, burn. The desk was a mess of empty soda cans and USB drives, the shelves stacked with secondhand records and cracked jewel cases. It smelled faintly of cheap cologne, instant ramen, and the warm plastic of overworked electronics — a scent that, years later, would be enough to send you straight back to him.

You’d sit on his bed with your legs folded, watching him work the way some people watch the ocean. It was constant motion — headphones around his neck, one ear pressed to a speaker, fingers drumming against the desk in time to a beat only he could hear at first. He’d open a blank project file and just… start. No hesitation. A kick drum here, a snare there. He’d hum under his breath, not even aware he was doing it, and you’d see his shoulders change shape when something clicked. Then came the layering — maybe a grainy guitar sample from a thrift store record, or the muffled echo of someone’s laughter he’d recorded in the school stairwell because he liked the reverb. His process was messy, instinctive, and it worked.

As someone who lived for stories — who spent weekends holed up editing short films with friends like Seoyeon and Minjae, arguing about camera angles and lighting setups — you understood the fever of creation. You knew what it was like to get lost in a project until the world outside faded. But with Jungkook, it was different. He didn’t just make music; he made rooms inside his songs, spaces you could step into. The way he’d get so lost in building a soundscape that he’d forget you were even there — until he’d suddenly turn, eyes bright, and hold out one side of his headphones.

You’d lean in, press the earcup to your head, and let the half-finished track fill you up. The bass might be too loud, the melody might stutter — but beneath it all, you could hear the final version, the way he did. It gave you chills every time. People like him, the ones who burn that hot for what they love, they always make it in the end. You didn’t know when or how, but you were certain: someday, someone else would see him the way you did. The rest of the world just hadn’t caught up yet.

Sometimes you’d drift into easy conversation while he worked, trading small updates about school. Seoyeon had gotten into a fight with her debate club partner. Minjae had blown off studying to work on a new short script with you. He’d tease you about your “pretentious filmmaker phase,” and you’d nudge his chair with your foot until he grinned. Other times, it was quieter — just the glow of the desk lamp on his face and the hum of the computer fan.

And then there were the kisses. Not urgent, not hungry — just soft, absentminded things that seemed to happen in the pauses between beats. He’d lean back in his chair to think, you’d lean forward to see what was on his screen, and your lips would meet halfway. A brush, a hum, maybe a small smile before he turned back to the track. It was the kind of closeness that felt like breathing; so natural you didn’t notice how much it meant until later.

The nights blurred together: the taste of grape soda, the squeak of his chair, the low murmur of him testing a verse under his breath. You’d lie back on his bed, watching his silhouette move in the glow of the monitor, and feel this sharp ache in your chest. Not sadness exactly — more like the weight of knowing you were watching the very beginning of something extraordinary. He was building a future in front of you, one kick drum and melody line at a time, and you were lucky enough to see it before anyone else.

Jungkook is so damn proud of you.

You always had dreams so big they scared him — not in a bad way, but in that dizzying, awe-struck way you feel when you’re standing at the foot of a mountain so high you can’t see the peak. You were the kind of person who believed in leaping first and finding the landing on the way down, the kind who’d burn every bridge behind you just to make sure you couldn’t turn back. And he loved you for that. God, he loved you so much it made his chest hurt. But it also terrified him.

Because he knew what kind of love it takes to chase a dream like yours, and he wasn’t sure he could match it. Not when his own dreams were already fraying at the edges. You deserved someone who could run at your speed, someone who could keep up. So, he told himself the kindest thing he could do was let you go before he became the reason you slowed down. Being in love means wanting the best for them, right? Even if it means you’re not in the picture. Even if it means breaking your own heart in the process.

He told himself he’d move on. He told himself it was the right choice. But seven years later, he’s still paying for it. Seven years later, he’s still the idiot who cries over the same girl when the bar is closed and the only sound left is the low hum of the fridge. Seven years later, the wound has healed into something worse — not an open cut, but a scar so deep it’s part of him now.

Some nights, when the place is quiet, he catches himself wondering what it would’ve been like if you’d stayed. If he’d fought harder. If maybe you’d both be sitting in some cramped apartment right now, eating cheap takeout while you read him a scene you just wrote, while he strummed half-finished songs on his guitar. If maybe he wouldn’t be here, closing tabs on a Wednesday night, feeling too old for the dreams he used to have.

That night, he’s wiping down the counter when the TV above the bar catches his eye. He almost doesn’t notice at first — the news is usually just background noise, talking heads filling the silence between the clinking of glasses. But then your name flashes across the screen, and he freezes.

It’s you.

You’re sitting in a chair on some low-budget interview set, smiling shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear the exact same way you used to when you got nervous. The host is asking you about the indie film you wrote the screenplay for — the one making its rounds at festivals, the one people are actually talking about. You’re laughing, saying something about late nights and coffee, about trusting your gut.

And then he hears it. Your next project is with Lee Hana. The Lee Hana.

The funny thing is, the only reason he knows who that even is… is you. He remembers the way you used to talk about her films — the way you’d pause a scene to point out something about the lighting or the framing, words spilling from your lips like they were just as important as the air you breathed. He didn’t understand most of it, not really, but he liked listening to you talk. He liked the way you lit up when you were in your element. Everything he knows about film, he learned from the moments you let him into your world.

You finally live in that world. Your wold.

Gosh, he’s so proud. So fucking proud While he… well, he owns a bar.

It’s not nothing. He tries to remind himself of that. He went to university for music, imagined stages and lights and applause, the rush of a crowd chanting his name. But somewhere along the way, the dream shrank. The reality was heavier, slower, less kind. The gigs dried up. The industry felt like a door that had quietly locked itself while he wasn’t looking. And when the rent came due, he took the job that paid. Then another. And another. Until one day he realized this was it — his life now fit neatly within the walls of a place that smelled like beer and old wood.

Some nights, when the band’s good and the crowd’s loud, it almost feels right. Like he’s close to the dreams he always chased. But most of the time, he knows this isn’t the life he imagined. It’s not the one you once imagined for him, either — He still writes his music though. All the time if he’s really honest. 

And yet, watching you talk, hearing the pride in your voice, the steadiness in your answers — he feels proud. He feels so damn proud. Proud in a way that makes his chest ache, that burns hot and cold all at once.

He wants to call you. He wants to tell you that he saw, that he remembers everything, that he’s not surprised you made it, not even a little. But he doesn’t. He just stands there behind the counter, cloth in hand, watching the segment end and the anchor move on to some other story.

The bar feels too quiet after that.

And the ache in his chest? It doesn’t go away.

You were running late—of course you were running late—and that was a terrible first impression to give the people you were about to spend months working alongside. Not just “people,” either. It was the crew. The one you’d dreamed about, back when your scripts lived in mismatched Word documents and the only people who ever read them were friends and maybe Jungkook, when he wasn’t buried in his music.

Today was the pre-production meeting. The one where the story stopped being just yours and became everyone’s to carry. The meeting was set for this morning: the first read-through, the first ideas, the first glances exchanged between strangers who would eventually feel like family.

And somehow, Lee Hana had chosen your script to set all this in motion. You still didn’t fully understand why. It wasn’t a loud or flashy story—just two people whose lives bent toward each other again and again over the years, never quite meeting at the right time. A coming-of-age that didn’t end when you turned twenty, aching and tender and threaded through with the kind of sadness that never fully leaves. The sort of thing you’d written late at night, when the world was quiet and Jungkook’s voice—half-finished songs, hummed in the dark—kept you company.

You’d met Hana once before, briefly, at a festival where everything smelled like coffee and rain, but today was different. Today meant her assistants, the producers, maybe even some of the department heads. Today meant showing up like you belonged here.

Except you were trapped in Seoul’s morning traffic, stuck in that relentless sea of red brake lights. Your fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel—unconsciously matching a beat Jungkook used to play when he was thinking. The memory hit without warning, and you almost smiled despite yourself. Funny how some things never left you, no matter how far you tried to drive past them.

The light changed. You pressed the gas, carrying that small ache with you.

You made it to the building right on time, a quiet satisfaction settling in your chest as the elevator doors slid open. The familiar buzz of the production office hit you immediately—phones ringing, assistants darting past with armfuls of folders, the low hum of conversation from behind closed doors.

The meeting room was bright with morning light, and at the far end of the table, Lee Hana stood, sleeves rolled to her elbows, script in hand. Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“There you are,” she said warmly, crossing the room with quick, sure steps. “I was hoping you wouldn’t get caught in the subway mess this morning.”

“Not a chance,” you replied with a small smile, setting your bag down. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Hana gave a short laugh, then gestured toward the table cluttered with marked-up scripts, floor plans, coffee cups gone cold, and a scattering of location stills. “Come, sit. We’ve got a lot to cover before lunch.”

The moment you settled into your chair, the conversation began—not rushed, but thorough. Hana flipped open her script, her pen already uncapped.

“Let’s start with the pacing. I’ve been thinking about how we handle transitions between time periods,” she began, looking between you and the assistant director. “I don’t want hard cuts unless they’re emotionally justified. If we’re going to move between past and present, it has to feel… inevitable.”

You nodded, considering. “We can use visual echoes—objects, colors, gestures—to carry us between timelines. That way the audience doesn’t feel jerked around.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.” She scribbled something in the margin, then turned a still photograph toward you—a shot of a narrow, rain-slick alley. “For the confrontation scene here, I’m thinking handheld camera, slightly too close. It should feel like the walls are pressing in on them.”

“Claustrophobic,” you agreed. “Almost like they can’t breathe, and neither can we.”

One of the producers chimed in from across the table. “We can manage that with location choice, but weather might be tricky. We’ll need to plan for rain rigs just in case.”

Hana waved a hand. “We’ll make it work. I’m more concerned with performance beats than the technical side right now.” Her gaze returned to you. “Especially the morning-after scene. It’s quiet, but the emotional load is huge. How do you want to handle it?”

You thought for a moment. “Keep them apart physically, but give the sense they’re orbiting each other. No touching. Just… the weight of what isn’t said.”

She smiled slowly. “That restraint will kill the audience—in the best way.”

The conversation moved fluidly—storyboards, blocking ideas, the kind of camera work that would make or break key moments. By the time a production assistant slipped in with a tray of fresh coffee, half the whiteboard was covered in diagrams and arrows, the shape of the film starting to take form in front of you.

The coffee was passed around, and Hana leaned back for the first time since you arrived, twirling her pen between her fingers.

“Now,” she said, tapping the cover of the script, “we need to talk about Jiwoo’s arc. She’s our emotional center, but she’s not the narrator. That’s a tricky balance.”

You nodded. “She has to carry the emotional truth without driving every plot beat. We want her choices to ripple through the story, but not in a way that steals momentum from the other characters.”

Hana’s brow furrowed in thought. “Exactly. She’s quiet, but she’s not passive. I want the audience to feel her presence even in scenes she’s not in. And I think the way we frame her—slightly off-center, just on the edge of focus—will hint at her distance from the main action, while still keeping her integral.”

“That works especially well for the midpoint,” you said. “When she’s standing just outside the café window, watching the others inside. We can let the reflections blur her face, make her unreadable.”

One of the associate producers flipped through their notes. “You mentioned color theory last time—muted tones for the present day, warmer for the past. Do we want that applied strictly to wardrobe and lighting, or to production design as a whole?”

“Whole picture,” Hana answered without hesitation. “If the past is warmer, I want the wood grain in the furniture to feel rich, the curtains to catch golden light. In the present, I want cool glass, steel, and gray. Like time itself has drained some of the life out of the spaces.”

You added, “That contrast can also tell the audience when we’re shifting without needing a title card. They’ll feel it before they know it.”

Hana gave you a look—half gratitude, half mischief. “You get it. I knew you would.”

The discussion drifted toward secondary characters, particularly the antagonist. “He’s not a villain,” Hana reminded everyone. “He’s a man who believes he’s right, and that makes him dangerous.”

You leaned forward. “We could layer in moments where the audience almost agrees with him—right before he crosses the line. That way, when he finally does something unforgivable, the betrayal stings harder.”

There was a hum of agreement around the table. Someone scribbled the idea down.

For the next twenty minutes, the room became a tangle of ideas—structuring the opening montage, finding a signature visual motif for each major character, debating whether a pivotal confrontation should happen in an alley or an empty train car. The whiteboard became crowded with arrows, underlines, and hastily drawn rectangles.

When Hana finally capped her pen, she glanced at the clock. “Alright. That’s the bones of our film,” she said. “We’ll refine it, but the spine is here.”

She looked at you again, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Seeing it take shape?”

Hana took a sip of coffee, her gaze drifting toward the storyboards scattered across the table. “Now that we’ve got the bones…” She let the sentence hang for a beat, her pen tapping a steady rhythm. “We need to talk about how this breathes. And for me, that means the score.”

The shift in her tone was subtle but unmistakable—less pragmatic producer, more artist envisioning the film’s soul.

“I’ve been thinking about pacing and silence,” she continued. “Not just what music we use, but when we let it vanish completely. Jiwoo’s scenes in the present… I imagine long, hushed stretches. Just the sound of the city far away. And then—” She snapped her fingers softly. “—a single instrument cutting in, like a thought she can’t escape.”

You tilted your head. “Sparse, then swelling?”

“Exactly. The past could be richer—strings, layered textures, maybe even voices in the mix. But in the present… I almost want the music to feel afraid to come too close to her. Like it’s approaching from a distance.”

One of the assistant directors leaned forward. “What about thematic motifs? Something that ties past and present together?”

You nodded. “A recurring phrase—maybe just four or five notes. In the past, it’s complete and warm. In the present, fractured. A note missing. A beat skipped.”

Hana’s lips curved in that small, approving smile she’d given you earlier. “Yes. And the final scene—when Jiwoo finally makes her choice—that’s when it plays whole again.”

For a moment, the table fell quiet, everyone picturing it. The silence was comfortable, the kind that comes when a vision starts to settle in everyone’s minds.

Hana finally broke it, leaning back in her chair. Speaking of which… we’ll need the right person to bring that sound to life.” She paused, letting the weight of the thought settle. “I was actually hoping you’d help us with that. This is your voice, after all — the film’s emotional tone rests in your hands as much as mine. If you can find an artist who feels right for this world, someone who understands its silences and its pulse… we follow that lead.”

She didn’t need to say more; you could already feel the unspoken urgency. The crew might still be weeks away from shooting, but in her mind, the search for that sound had already begun.

You left the meeting with Hana’s words still weaving through you — find an artist who feels right for this world.

It sounded simple when she said it. Like all you had to do was flip through a list, circle a name, and be done. But walking down that hallway, you felt the weight of what “right” really meant. The film wasn’t just images and lines on a page — it needed a voice that could carry its soul.

You tried to picture someone else. Someone safe. A name that wouldn’t scrape old wounds or pull open doors you’d locked for years. There were plenty of people you could call. Talented ones. Award-winning ones. The kind that made headlines without making a mess.

But none of them stayed in your head long.

Because then… there was him.

The thought hit like the first note of a song you’d sworn you’d forgotten. Jungkook — not just a voice, but the kind of sound that could hollow you out and fill you up in the same breath. You didn’t even want to admit it, but he wasn’t just an option. He was the heart of it all.

And that was the problem.

Because choosing him meant remembering. It meant risking the quiet you’d built for yourself. But without him… the film would feel like it was missing its pulse. Like the story would breathe, but never quite come alive.

You stood there in the corridor, not moving, your chest heavy with the ache of it — knowing exactly who could give the film its voice, and wondering if you were brave enough to let him back in to give it yours.

Back then, Senior Year.

It was one of those spring afternoons that made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something enormous, even if you couldn’t see it yet. The air in Busan was warm enough for short sleeves, the sun stretching long shadows across the school’s lawn, and the scent of grass clung to everything. You and Jungkook had claimed a spot under the biggest cherry blossom tree, the petals catching in his hair whenever the breeze passed. Your final essays sat abandoned between the two of you, your pens uncapped and idle. He was leaning back on his elbows, knees bent, sketching lazy chord progressions in the corner of his music notebook — they weren’t part of any song yet, just half-formed ideas he hummed under his breath. You didn’t know if he was even aware of it, but you could hear the start of something every time.

“Not even pretending to study?” you teased, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of the page.

“I am,” he murmured without looking up. “Just… not for class.”

You smiled, the kind of smile you’d only ever worn for him, and felt that familiar weightless rush you got when you remembered that soon you’d both be leaving. Not in the heartbreaking way some couples did, with miles and missed calls between them — but still far enough to feel it. Film school for you, a music program for him. Both in Seoul. Both new, both terrifying, both impossibly exciting. It wasn’t the distance you feared, but the change.

Just a few meters away, the rest of your little circle was sprawled across the grass. Taehyung was halfway through teaching Mina how to juggle with three tangerines he’d “borrowed” from Seolhyun’s lunch bag, while Seolhyun pretended to scold him, her laughter giving her away. Jimin lay flat on his back, hands tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on clouds as if he could memorize their shapes. Over the years, the six of you had become your own small universe — the kind of friends who knew not just your dreams, but also the parts of them you were scared to say out loud.

Jungkook’s voice broke through your thoughts, quiet but certain. “You’re gonna make something beautiful,” he said, still watching his notebook. “Movies that… people won’t forget.”

“And you’re gonna make music they’ll never stop listening to,” you replied, softer than you meant to.

He glanced at you then, eyes crinkling in that way that made it hard to breathe. “Guess we’ll find out, huh?”

The petals drifted between you like they had their own timing, their own script. Maybe they did. Because even with the weight of what was coming — leaving your families, finding your places in a city bigger than anything you’d known.

By the time senior year began to fold into its last days, Jungkook wasn’t quite the same boy who had once sat at the back of the classroom, headphones in, untouchable behind an easy smile and a silence nobody dared break. He still had that air—the mystery people leaned toward—but somewhere in between late-night project sessions and shared lunches under the gingko trees, he’d begun letting the world in. Or maybe, more truthfully, he’d begun letting you in first.

It hadn’t happened all at once. At first, you were just the girl who worked with him on that one project, the one he’d text at odd hours with questions that were really excuses to talk. But eight months of friendship, of running into each other between classes, of you dragging him into conversations with people he used to nod at from afar, had done something neither of you had planned. He laughed more now—really laughed—so much that Jimin teased him for turning soft. He joined the circle of friends you’d always floated in: Jimin with his constant jokes, Taehyung with his dreamy questions, Mina and Seolhyun whispering about everything and nothing. He belonged there, and though he would never admit it out loud, you were the reason.

Graduation came in a blur of photographs, flowers, and the sting of knowing things would never be quite the same again. The boys cried in that way boys do, all mock shoves and watery grins, Taehyung pretending to wipe Jimin’s tears only to blink too fast himself. Jungkook didn’t cry, but you caught the way he lingered beside you, hand brushing yours every so often, as though to remind himself you were still here. In the weeks ahead, you would both be moving to Seoul—different universities but the same city, the same skyline. The plans you’d whispered about on late walks were finally real. Film school for you, music for him.

Jungkook was inevitably—sometimes magnetic, sometimes a complete idiot. At least, that’s what Jimin liked to remind him. Jimin, self-taught dancer by night and corporate guy by day, was currently watching him with the kind of exasperated fondness reserved for old friends who have seen every shade of your mess.

“You really need to get your dick out there, you know?” Jimin said, half joking, half deadly serious, leaning back in the cracked leather booth like they had all the time in the world. “You’ve gotta stop doing… whatever this is to yourself.”

Jungkook blinked at him, slow and unimpressed. “I don’t know how the hell my sex life is your main concern right now. I’ve had sex with people, you know.”

“Let me rephrase my question.” Jimin tilted his head, studying him like he was some complicated math problem. “How long has it been since you had anything that actually meant something? Because, man, you’re insufferable lately.”

“The fuck you mean by that?” Jungkook’s jaw tightened, the defensive edge in his voice not quite hiding the exhaustion in his eyes. “The last time I hooked up with someone was, like, two weeks ago. Thanks for your concern.”

“Then why the hell do you look like this?” Jimin’s hands made a vague gesture in the air, as if trying to shape Jungkook’s current state into words and failing.

“Like what?”

“Like a truck hit you. Like you’ve been walking around carrying a ghost on your back,” Jimin said, his voice losing its earlier playfulness. He leaned in. “Is this about my beautiful, brilliant friend living her dreams before you?” There was no bite in his tone now, just a quiet accusation wrapped in worry. “Because if it is, you’re being an idiot.”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but the silence was too telling.

“You know damn well you didn’t lose anything by letting her go,” Jimin pressed. “She moved on a long time ago. And you should too. Christ, you’ve got talent. You’ve got this big-ass bar. You could be making music again. But instead you’re sitting here, pouring drinks for strangers and staring at the floor like it’s gonna give you the meaning of life.”

The words landed heavier than Jimin intended, but he didn’t take them back. He knew Jungkook well enough to know the ache was still there, the kind that no amount of casual flings or loud nights could soften. It wasn’t just about her. It was about the version of himself he’d been when she was around—the one who believed in something, in someone, in himself. And that version felt further away every day.

Jungkook leaned back against the booth, arms folded like the words might bounce off him if he kept his chest closed. “You think I’m mad she made it?” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be. “You think I’m not proud of her?”

Jimin didn’t flinch. He just rested his elbows on the table, studying him like a man who’d known him too long to buy the act. “Didn’t say you weren’t proud. I said you look like hell every time someone brings her up.”

Jungkook’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I am proud,” he said, quieter now, as if saying it any louder might crack him open. “She’s doing everything we used to talk about. All those nights when the world felt like it was waiting for us… she’s living it.”

Jimin tilted his head, voice careful. “And you’re not.”

The words hit like cold water, sinking straight into his bones. Jungkook let out a laugh, the kind you give when you’re cornered and you can’t afford to look wounded. “I’ve got this place. I built it from nothing.” He gestured vaguely toward the bar, toward the polished wood and warm lights.

“Yeah,” Jimin said, slow, like he was turning the thought over. “You built it because the other thing broke you. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a good bar. You’ve made something solid. But it’s not a stage, Kook. You were never meant to be behind the counter.”

Jungkook’s gaze slid toward the shelves, eyes skating over glass and amber, labels lined up in perfect rows. He tried to focus on them, to anchor himself in the tangible, but all he saw was the shimmer of stage lights he hadn’t stood under in years. The kind of light that burned into your skin, the kind that made you feel real. “Hyung,” he said finally, “you ever think maybe that stage was never mine to begin with?”

“Bullshit.” Jimin didn’t even let him finish the thought. “It was yours before it was anyone’s. You didn’t lose it because it wasn’t meant for you. You lost it because you couldn’t hold on.”

The air between them thickened. Jungkook felt that truth like a bruise pressed under a thumb. He hadn’t let it go—not really. It had been torn from him piece by piece, until one day there was nothing left to grip. Until all the fight and want had collapsed into a single choice: stop bleeding, or keep chasing something that was already running from him. And now she was out there making the dream look easy while he stood still, rooted behind a bar, serving strangers their nights while his own kept shrinking.

“Maybe I like it here,” he murmured, forcing a shrug, pretending it was light.

Jimin huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. And maybe I like finance.”

That dragged a laugh out of Jungkook, but it was thin, frayed at the edges. “Shut up, hyung.”

You’d been scrolling for the better part of an hour, chasing threads that led nowhere. His name, the old username you thought you remembered, half-guesses with a city tagged — all of it turning up empty. It was strange. You’d assumed everyone lived at least partly online these days, but Jungkook seemed to have all but vanished. No recent posts, no tags, no casual snapshots in the background of someone else’s feed. Like he’d learned how to slip past the edges of the internet without leaving a trace.

You sat back, phone warm in your hand, and stared at the muted light pooling across your desk. It wasn’t as though you needed to find him — not personally. But the film’s soundtrack had been missing something, an intangible thread you couldn’t name until your mind had wandered back to him. His ear for melody, the way he could make a song feel like it was breathing. If you could just hear what he was making now… if he was even still making anything at all.

The phone buzzed, cutting through your thoughts. Jimin’s name lit up the screen, the little cartoon duck he’d assigned himself grinning beside it.

“Are you free Friday night?” he asked when you answered, his voice easy, familiar. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to be a friend.”

You laughed, leaning back in your chair. “I’m still a friend. Just a busy one.”

“Busy is overrated,” he said. “Come out. I found a café you’ll like — quiet, good coffee, plays actual music instead of whatever algorithm nonsense is on the radio.”

You almost said no. But then you thought of Jimin, all warmth and steady company, and how your head had felt crowded lately in ways you didn’t want to admit. “Fine. Friday.”

The café was the kind of place you could miss if you weren’t looking for it — tucked between a bookshop and an old florist, the door painted a fading green. Inside, it smelled of cinnamon and dark roast, low lamps pooling light over worn wooden tables.

Jimin was already there, scarf loose around his neck, hair falling into his eyes. He waved you over with the same smile he’d had since you met years ago, the kind that made it hard to remember the last time you’d been properly annoyed with him.

“You’re late,” he said as you slid into the chair opposite him.

“You’re early,” you countered, unwinding your scarf.

He grinned, pushing a mug toward you. “I ordered you the good stuff.”

The conversation found its rhythm quickly — catching up on the little things that didn’t make it into texts. He told you about an artist who painted under bridges, you told him about the mess that was your post-production schedule.

It was somewhere between stories, when your phone lit up again and your thumb reflexively unlocked it, that the thought of Jungkook slipped back in. You opened the search bar, typed his name kinda hoping you find him.

“Who are you stalking?” Jimin asked, sipping his coffee.

You didn’t look up, keeping your voice casual. “Nothing, just, huh I’m curious if Jungkook has any socials”

There was a pause, brief but noticeable. “Why?” he asked, a hint of amusement in the question.

You scrolled past an unrelated account, shrugging. “Thought I saw something that sounded like his work. Just curious” you said, letting it hang like it was nothing, like your heart wasn’t quietly pressing against the question. “That’s impossible” Jimin murmured

“What? Why?”

He looked up at you then, lips tugging into a knowing little smirk. “Because he doesn’t… He—” Jimin stopped, chuckling to himself as though the thought alone was absurd. “Look, you’re never gonna find him on social media. He doesn’t use Instagram. Or anything similar” He leaned back, watching your expression with a sort of lazy curiosity. “Huh. But… if you wanna know…”

You rolled your eyes, trying to look bored, but your stomach tightened all the same. “Wanna know what?”

Jimin’s smirk widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that meant he’d already decided to tell you, but only after wringing the most out of the moment.

“Wanna know where he is instead?” he asked, tilting his head like he was offering a secret you’d have to lean in to hear. “He owns a bar. The Velvet Room.”

You blinked. “He owns a bar?”

“On paper and everything,” Jimin said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Friday nights, sometimes Saturday if he’s in the mood. Plays a little, drinks a little. Same old.”

He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, thumb flicking across the screen before turning it toward you. On it, an Instagram profile—muted neon, low-lit snapshots of drinks and stage lights, the handle reading @velvetroomseoul.

“You might find something in here,” he murmured, almost offhand. But there was a glint in his eyes you couldn’t quite place—something that made it feel less like a suggestion.

The second Jimin left, the café felt quieter.

You sat there for a moment, hands wrapped around your mug like it could anchor you, but the warmth had already faded. Conversations from the other tables blurred into a low hum, the kind of background noise you only half-hear. All you could really focus on was the glow of your phone screen.

@velvetroomseoul.

A username. That’s all it was. Simple. Unassuming. But it carried the weight of years you hadn’t let yourself look at too closely.

You tapped the profile open before you could talk yourself out of it.

The grid wasn’t much—just snapshots of dim stage lights, low amber lamps, bottles lined up like soldiers. A haze of neon here, a candid shot of someone tuning a guitar there. It looked less like marketing and more like someone documenting shadows. The kind of place you’d miss if you didn’t know it was waiting for you.

But buried between all the drinks and moody corners was the one thing you’d been hoping for and dreading at the same time: him.

It wasn’t even a full photo. Just the side of his face, blurred by motion, as he leaned over a mic. But you knew. The curve of his jaw. The fall of his hair. The shape of someone who had once been as familiar to you as your own reflection.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, restless.

Seven years was a long time. Long enough to build a life, long enough to unlearn habits, long enough to convince yourself that some ghosts stayed where you left them. And yet here you were—25, supposedly grown, with festival laurels on your script and a future you’d fought tooth and nail for—staring at a boy who had once walked you home in the rain like nothing else in the world mattered.

You told yourself you were just curious. That it was harmless. That maybe you’d stop by the Velvet Room one night, slip in, order a drink, and slip out before he ever noticed.

But your chest felt too tight for it to be harmless.

You set the phone face-down on the table and pressed the heel of your hand against your ribs, like you could hold the ache still.

It was easier when he was just a memory.

Easier when his voice didn’t curl so naturally into the dialogue you’d written, when you could pretend the cadence you heard in your head belonged to no one in particular. But now? Every time you read a line, it came out in him—low, rough around the edges, carrying weight where the page alone could never reach.

You hated that it fit so well.

Because the truth was simple: the film wasn’t complete without him. You could dress it up with technical terms, talk about motifs and emotional arcs, pretend it was all theory. But the moment Hana had asked about the score, you’d known. There was only one sound that would give the story its pulse.

And that sound belonged to Jungkook.

You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an answer. The café was nearly empty now, the last customers gathering coats and scarves, the air thinning as the evening crowd began to fade. But your chest felt crowded. Too crowded.

The rational part of you whispered that it was reckless, unprofessional, even selfish. Surely there were other composers—talented ones, safe ones, names you could put on a pitch deck without having to explain the history stitched into every note.

But none of them lived in your bones the way he did. None of them had built a language with you, piece by piece, until silence itself felt like music waiting to happen.

You picked your phone back up, the screen still open to the Velvet Room’s feed. Neon lights. A mic stand. The blurred edge of his profile.

Your thumb hovered over the call button in Hana’s contact, like you might say something ridiculous—like you’d already found the right person, but you weren’t sure if you were brave enough to ask.

It was easier when he was just a memory.

But memories don’t play live on Friday nights in dim-lit bars.

You told yourself you weren’t going.

That was the first lie.

You sat on the edge of your bed that night, phone screen lighting your face in the dark, the Velvet Room’s grid of photos staring back at you. The longer you looked, the more unreal it seemed. Jungkook wasn’t supposed to be here, alive in pixels, in warm neon light and blurred motion. He was supposed to be sealed away with the rest of those years—untouchable, quiet, safe.

The second lie came the next morning, when you told yourself you were too busy. Pre-production was eating your hours alive, deadlines stacking until sleep felt optional. You didn’t have time for detours. That’s what you told yourself, coffee in hand, script pages spread across your desk like a shield.

But between notes and rewrites, your mind wandered. You caught yourself doodling treble clefs in the margins, your pen tracing rhythms you hadn’t heard in years. You read through dialogue and heard his voice instead of the actor’s. It was like every unfinished thought curved back toward him, whether you wanted it to or not.

The third lie was the cruelest: that you wouldn’t care if you saw him.

Because you would. You knew it. Every nerve in your body knew it. Seeing him again wouldn’t be neutral—it would be tectonic. A shift you couldn’t control.

So you stalled. You let days pass. You buried yourself in edits, in production meetings, in anything that felt solid enough to keep you from drifting.

And yet… every night, you found yourself scrolling back to that account. Watching shaky videos of the bar’s stage, listening for background noise that might catch his laugh, his voice, some proof that the boy who once walked you home in the rain hadn’t been a dream.

You told yourself it was for the film.

That was the only reason you stood outside the Velvet Room, heart pounding like you were sixteen again. Not for him. Not for the ache that had been gnawing at you since Jimin said his name. You were here because the film needed a voice, and his was the only one you could hear when you pictured the scenes.

It sounded practical when you framed it that way. Professional. Almost safe.

But stepping through the door unraveled all of that.

The bar was dim, lit in blues and violets that seemed to hum against the low ceiling. Warm air pressed close, carrying the smell of wood polish and citrus peel, and the noise of strangers blended into a steady undercurrent. And then—above it all—his voice.

That was the thing.

It wasn’t just that it sounded the same. It was that it carried exactly what you’d been searching for in the edit room, what you hadn’t been able to name. The raw edges, the restraint, the weight that lived in the spaces between notes. You could hear whole scenes unfolding inside it—the silence of Jiwoo’s apartment, the tension in the café window, the rain against the glass.

You slid into a shadowed corner, hands tightening around your coat sleeves. It felt ridiculous, almost pathetic, sitting there like some stranger while the boy who used to walk you home filled the room with a sound that belonged to you as much as it belonged to him.

But you couldn’t leave. Not when every line of your script suddenly sounded more alive, not when every beat of his song seemed to know your story before you’d written it.

For the first time since that meeting with Hana, you felt it—the film breathing. And it terrified you.

Because the film wasn’t the only thing coming back to life.

You stayed in the shadows, coat still on, as though keeping it wrapped around you might make you less visible. The hum of the bar faded until there was only his voice.

It wasn’t polished. It never had been. But that was the point. He sang like someone pulling a thread loose from his chest, raw and unguarded, every note carrying more than the words themselves.

And without meaning to, you began to see the film inside it.

The low, steady rhythm — it was Jiwoo’s footsteps down an empty hallway, shoes tapping against tiles after another sleepless night. The way his voice dipped softer at the edges — it was the café scene, your two characters staring at each other through glass, separated by reflections they couldn’t break through. The sharp lift of the chorus — it was the train scene, when the past came rushing back too fast to brace for it.

You pressed your palm against the table to steady yourself.

It was uncanny. Like he’d been writing for your script without ever reading it, like the years between you hadn’t dulled the strange alignment you once shared. Back then, he’d play a loop of chords and you’d scribble lines in the margins of your notebooks, each feeding the other until something larger took shape. And now—seven years later—you were sitting in a bar full of strangers, and it was happening again.

Your throat felt tight.

It wasn’t just the film coming alive. It was memory. Rain-soaked sidewalks. An earbud stretched across a library table. His scarf around your neck the night you realized silence could be heavier than words.

You blinked hard, trying to push it back. You were here for the music. For the film. For work.

But when his voice broke slightly on a note—not cracked, just frayed, like it carried more than it should—you swore it was the exact sound you’d been chasing in your head for weeks. The sound of restraint and longing, of something unfinished but inevitable.

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the small stage.

And you knew.

If you wanted your film to breathe, if you wanted the story to feel true, it had to be him. No one else.

Which was the problem.

You stayed in the shadows, coat still on, as though keeping it wrapped around you might make you less visible. The hum of the bar faded until there was only his voice.

It wasn’t polished. It never had been. But that was the point. He sang like someone pulling a thread loose from his chest, raw and unguarded, every note carrying more than the words themselves.

And without meaning to, you began to see the film inside it.

The low, steady rhythm — it was your character’s footsteps down an empty hallway, shoes tapping against tiles after another sleepless night. The way his voice dipped softer at the edges — it was the café scene, your two characters staring at each other through glass, separated by reflections they couldn’t break through. The sharp lift of the chorus — it was the train scene, when the past came rushing back too fast to brace for it.

You pressed your palm against the table to steady yourself.

It was uncanny. Like he’d been writing for your script without ever reading it, like the years between you hadn’t dulled the strange alignment you once shared. Back then, he’d play a loop of chords and you’d scribble lines in the margins of your notebooks, each feeding the other until something larger took shape. And now—seven years later—you were sitting in a bar full of strangers, and it was happening again.

Your throat felt tight.

It wasn’t just the film coming alive. It was memory. Rain-soaked sidewalks. An earbud stretched across a library table. His scarf around your neck the night you realized silence could be heavier than words.

You blinked hard, trying to push it back. You were here for the music. For the film. For work.

But when his voice broke slightly on a note—not cracked, just frayed, like it carried more than it should—you swore it was the exact sound you’d been chasing in your head for weeks. The sound of restraint and longing, of something unfinished but inevitable.

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the small stage.

And you knew.

If you wanted your film to breathe, if you wanted the story to feel true, it had to be him. No one else.

Which was the problem.

You meant to stay hidden. Just long enough to hear him, to remind yourself he was real, to leave with the proof tucked safely inside you. But fate never cared much for your plans.

The song ended.

The crowd clapped — light, polite — and he dipped his head, fingers brushing the mic stand as though deciding whether to continue. For a second, he looked almost the same as the boy in the music room, caught between the pull of silence and sound.

And then his eyes lifted. Just moving across the room the way performers do, collecting faces. Until they caught on yours.

You froze.

It was less dramatic than you’d feared. No widening eyes, no stumble, no cinematic gasp. Just a pause. Barely a heartbeat. But in that pause lived seven years of things unsaid.

You felt it hit you like a chord struck too hard — recognition, disbelief, something sharper under the surface. His lips parted, the faintest flicker of breath catching. And then he blinked, grounding himself, gripping the mic tighter than before.

“Break,” he murmured into the mic, and the band behind him nodded.

He stepped down.

You should have left. Every instinct screamed it. But your body betrayed you, anchored to the small table in the back as though your shoes had fused with the floor.

And then he was there.

Close enough that you could see the sheen of sweat along his hairline, smell the faint edge of cologne beneath the warm haze of the bar. He stopped a pace away, shoulders taut, like the space between you was suddenly full of ghosts.

“…You,” he said. Not a question. Not even a greeting. Just a word dragged out of him, heavy with disbelief.

You swallowed. “Hi.”

It was pathetic, too small, but it was all you had.

For a moment neither of you moved. The bar carried on around you — laughter, glasses clinking, a bartender shouting for an order. But between you two, silence pressed hard.

His gaze flicked over you, quick, unsteady, as if trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who lived in his memories. And when his eyes met yours again, you swore you saw it — the same flicker you felt in your chest. The ache of something that never really left.

“Hello,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You nodded; throat tight. “Huh, yeah”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Too loud, too weighted. His hand flexed against the mic he’d carried down without realizing, knuckles whitening before he set it on the nearest table. He shifted his weight, like he might leave, like he might stay, like he hadn’t decided what would hurt less.

“You—” His voice caught, low and rough, before he cleared his throat. “You’re here.”

Brilliant observation. Your laugh cracked out too sharp, the kind of laugh you used to use in class when you didn’t know the answer. “Yeah. I, uh… I guess I am.”

Another silence. His eyes dipped to the floor, then back to you, as if afraid you’d vanish if he looked away too long.

“You look…” He stopped, jaw tightening, words dragging like they didn’t want to come out. “Different.”

You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. “So do you.”

That earned you the smallest twitch of his mouth — not a smile, not really, but something close, something tired. “Seven years’ll do that.”

Seven years. You felt the words like a punch, and from the way his shoulders stiffened, you knew he felt it too.

You wanted to say something that mattered. Something worthy of the years that had stretched thin and snapped between you. But all you managed was:

“How’ve you been?”

His laugh was low, humorless, more exhale than sound. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the stage, then back at you. “Depends on the year.”

The answer landed between you, heavy and too honest, and for a second you didn’t know whether to smile or apologize.

So you said nothing.

Neither did he.

The air was thick, crowded with everything you weren’t saying, everything you’d both been carrying alone. And still, you stayed there, frozen in a bar full of strangers, staring at the boy you used to know and the man he’d become.

The silence stretched until it frayed. You caught yourself fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve, the way you used to in high school when you wanted to disappear.

“So,” you tried, voice thinner than you wanted, “this place… it’s yours?”

He nodded once, slow. “Yeah. For a while now.” His gaze flicked away, toward the bottles lined neatly on the back wall. “Pays the bills.”

You smiled—small, uncertain. “It’s… nice. Feels like you.”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp enough to make your breath falter. Then softer, more wary. “You still say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you… know me.”

Your chest tightened. “I used to.”

His mouth pressed into a line, the kind that wasn’t quite agreement and wasn’t quite denial. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders drawing in like he was bracing against something invisible.

“You still writing?” he asked suddenly, almost abrupt.

The question knocked the air out of you. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I… I just finished a script. We’re in pre-production.”

He blinked, then let out a low breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Of course you did.”

“Of course?”

“You always said you would.” His jaw shifted, teeth catching the inside of his cheek. “Guess some things don’t change.”

You wanted to say not everything changed. You wanted to say some things stayed exactly where you left them. But the words stuck.

Instead, you nodded toward the stage. “And you… still playing.”

That one landed. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering there before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “Sometimes.”

The weight in the word was obvious, but you didn’t push. You never had.

For a moment, it was almost like being back in the music room—two kids orbiting each other, neither brave enough to close the distance, both too stubborn to pull away.

And then someone called his name from the bar, breaking whatever fragile thread had held you.

He straightened, stepping back half a pace. “I should…” He gestured vaguely toward the counter, toward the people waiting for him.

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

But before he turned away, his eyes lingered on you one second longer than they should have. Enough to make your stomach drop.

But before he turned away, his eyes lingered on you one second longer than they should have. Enough to make your stomach drop.

Oh, god. Asking him to do this was gonna be uncomfortable and… yeah.

The thought sat like a stone in your throat. You’d spent weeks in conference rooms and editing bays, trying to articulate what the film needed, and now the answer was standing a few feet away — sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, pouring drinks for strangers like it was the only thing holding him steady.

Your film needed his voice. But asking him meant reopening a door you’d nailed shut years ago. It meant admitting that after everything — the silence, the years, the distance — you still carried him inside every story you told.

You pressed your palms flat against the table, grounding yourself. The room around you blurred — laughter, music, the clink of glass — none of it reached you. All you could hear was the rasp of his voice echoing in your chest, the one thing that hadn’t dulled with time.

He reappeared behind the bar, head bent, pouring amber liquid into a line of glasses. You watched his movements, steady but clipped, like the weight of your presence hadn’t left him.

You tried to picture it: walking up, waiting for a lull, saying the words I need you for my film. Professional. Simple. A pitch, like any other. But in your mind it never sounded like business. It sounded like I need you.

Your stomach twisted.

Maybe you’d leave tonight. Pretend you’d just come to listen, to satisfy your curiosity. Maybe you’d find someone else for the soundtrack. Someone safe. Someone who didn’t make your pulse trip over itself.

But then you imagined Hana’s face in the meeting, the way she said the score had to breathe, the way silence had to cut, the way music had to feel inevitable.

And you knew. There was no one else.

You inhaled sharply, the decision lodging in your chest like a secret you hadn’t spoken yet.

He glanced up at that exact moment, catching you staring. His brows drew together, just faintly, but enough to knock the air from your lungs. You looked away too quickly, heat flooding your cheeks.

Shit.

This was going to be impossible.

Jungkook was probably hallucinating. He had to be.

There was no way you were here. Not in his bar. Not after seven years of silence.

What the fuck.

You looked—God, you looked different. Older, obviously. More put-together. But still you. And that was the part that gutted him. Because even though your hair was styled differently, even though your shoulders carried the weight of someone who had lived a few more lifetimes since high school, he recognized you instantly.

And you were beautiful.

No, scratch that — you were unfair. Your smile had softened into something subtler, quieter, but it made you look… radiant. Your eyes were a little tired, shadows tucked in their corners, but they made you real in a way that was even harder to look at. Maturity wrapped around you like a second skin, sharpening you, grounding you. It made you sexier, more magnetic than you’d ever been when you were kids.

Oh, fuck. He was going to cry.

His heart was beating too fast, too hard, like it had never gotten the memo that time had passed. He was stupid — hella stupid — for still reacting like this. For feeling that same pull in his chest, like gravity remembered what his head tried to forget.

He gripped the edge of the counter tighter, fingers digging into the wood.

Because here you were. Older. Steadier. Looking like every version of the future he used to imagine but never had the guts to chase.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes catching his, and for a second it felt like being a high schooler again — the library, the earbuds, the rain-slick sidewalks. Except this time it was heavier, sharper, because now he knew what it meant to lose you.

Woah.

What the fuck.

Jungkook’s throat was dry. His hand twitched on the bar towel, like maybe if he kept moving he wouldn’t say something dumb.

“I… uh…” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Mmm… how are you?”

The words landed between you, flimsy and pathetic, and he winced at himself. Seven years and that’s all you’ve got?

You gave a small laugh, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m… fine. Busy. Tired, mostly.” You shifted in your seat, tugging at your sleeve like you weren’t sure what to do with your hands. “You?”

He shrugged, jaw working. “Yeah. Same. Busy.” His eyes flicked to the bottles lined up behind him like they might rescue him from the silence. “Tired too, I guess.”

The exchange died almost instantly, the air thick with everything unsaid.

You tried again. “This place… it’s yours, right?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, forcing his voice steady. “Opened it a while back.” He gestured vaguely to the stage. “Keeps me… occupied.”

Your lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Feels like you.”

Something in his chest clenched. He looked at you too long, eyes darting over the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth, before he dropped them again. “…You still say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know me,” he muttered, fingers tightening on the towel.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I used to.”

The quiet after that was brutal. He busied himself with wiping down the counter, even though it was already spotless. You tapped your glass like it might fill the space.

Finally, you said it — not looking at him, just throwing the words into the air. “I heard you. On stage.”

That made him freeze. He glanced up, tension written across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, eyes finally meeting his. “You’re… still good.”

Heat crawled up his neck, stupid and unbidden. He gave a short, dismissive laugh, shaking his head. “I’m… rusty. It’s just covers, most nights.”

“That’s not what I heard,” you countered. “It sounded like you.”

That shut him up. His mouth opened, then closed, words caught in his throat. Because what were you supposed to do with that? After seven years, you walk in and tell him he still sounded like himself?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “Guess some things stick.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “I’ve been… thinking about music a lot lately.”

The way you said it — too careful— made his chest tighten. He didn’t know if you were about to compliment him, ask him for something, or drop another silence that would eat him alive.

So he did the only thing he knew: deflect. “Figures,” he said, forcing a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You always did make me your test audience.”

That earned him the tiniest laugh from you. But underneath it, he felt the shift — like the ground was tilting toward something heavier neither of you were ready to touch.

Gosh, Jungkook was struggling. His stomach twisted so hard he thought he might actually throw up. When had it ever been this hard with you? Back then, you were the easiest person in the world to talk to — conversation used to tumble out of him before he even realized what he was saying. Now every word felt like stepping into quicksand.

Why was it like this? Why would you even come here?

He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists, in his temples. Jesus Christ, he was losing his mind. And his heart — God, his heart had already lost the battle the second he looked at you.

You shifted in your seat, eyes dipping to the stage, then back at him. “I… actually came here for a reason.”

The words made him freeze. His chest tightened, the kind of pressure that felt like bracing for impact. “A reason,” he echoed, cautious.

“Yeah.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m… working on a film. My first. And we’re in pre-production, and…” You trailed off, exhaling like the sentence itself weighed too much. Then you looked at him directly. “And I need someone for the score. For the voice. I thought of you.”

The silence that followed was thick, brutal. Jungkook’s grip on the bar tightened until his knuckles went white.

You kept going, your voice wobbling between professional and personal. “When I hear the characters, when I picture them, I hear your voice. It’s the only thing that fits. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

“No.”

The word was out before Jungkook could stop it, cutting the air like glass. He saw the way your face faltered, the way you blinked too fast like you’d just been slapped, and guilt stabbed through his chest. But he held his ground.

You leaned forward, voice tight. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“I don’t need to.” He gripped the bar towel harder, knuckles pale. God, why were his hands shaking? “You want me to sing. To play. To be who I was back then. I’m not. I can’t.”

Your lips pressed together, your shoulders squaring. “Can’t or won’t?”

His jaw worked, heat crawling up his neck. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “Because you didn’t even think about it. Just ‘no.’ Like I’m some stranger asking for a favor.”

The words dug under his skin, sharp and accusing. He let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s exactly what this feels like.”

You flinched but pressed on, your voice unsteady but determined. “Jungkook, listen—this would be good for you. It’ll be good money.”

And that did it. His stomach dropped.

He barked out a laugh, harsh and humorless, shaking his head. “Money. Wow.” He dragged a hand through his hair, disbelief flooding him. “Seven years, and the first thing you offer me is a paycheck? That’s what you think I care about?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Yes, you did,” he cut in, sharper than he meant. “Because that’s what people always mean. They don’t want me. They want what I can give. A song. A voice. Something to make their life easier. And now it’s you, too.”

His chest ached, but the words kept coming, jagged and raw. “Do you have any idea how fucked up it feels? You vanish, you move on, and then you show up because suddenly I’m useful again? Not because you missed me. Not because—” His throat closed around the rest. He swallowed hard, voice breaking quieter. “…Not because of me.”

The silence that followed was crushing. You stared at him, wide-eyed, your mouth opening, then closing, no words forming.

Jungkook’s hands trembled as he tossed the bar towel aside, stepping back, desperate to put space between you before he said something he couldn’t take back.

“I said no,” he muttered, each word clipped, final.

And then he turned, walking away, leaving the weight of his own words like stones dragging in his chest.

Jungkook slammed through the swinging door into the back room, the air cooler, quieter, but it didn’t help. His chest was heaving, his pulse thrumming in his ears like he’d just finished a set he hadn’t practiced for.

He paced, dragging both hands through his hair until it stood on end.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, then louder. “Fuck.”

The walls felt too close. The single light above buzzed faintly, the hum of the bar muffled behind the door. He pressed his palms to the edge of the prep table, bowing his head.

Why tonight? Why here?

Why you?

He’d told himself it was over. That part of his life, that part of himself — done. He had a bar, he had bills, he had his routine. He didn’t need music. He didn’t need the past. He sure as hell didn’t need you walking in and tearing open something he’d stitched shut with both hands.

But you had. Just by existing. By looking at him like you still saw something worth pulling back out of the dark.

And it hurt. God, it hurt so bad he could barely breathe.

He laughed once, hollow. “Good money.” The words scraped out of him like broken glass. He hated them, hated that you’d said it, hated that it mattered. Because money wasn’t the point, it never had been. You could’ve asked him for anything and he probably would’ve said yes once upon a time. But now? Now all he heard was proof of how far apart you’d grown.

He slammed his fist against the counter, the sound dull but sharp enough to sting. “Stupid. Fucking stupid.”

Minutes passed, maybe more. He lost track of time, circling the room like a caged animal, trying to shove everything back down where it belonged. He told himself he’d just go back out, pour a drink, pretend none of this happened.

So finally, when his breathing evened out, when his hands stopped shaking, he pushed through the door, ready to face the room again.

And you were gone.

Your glass sat empty on the table, the chair pushed in neatly. No trace of you, except the hollow ache in his chest that spread wider with every second.

Jungkook’s heart dropped, heavier than before.

Of course you’d left. Why would you stay?

He swallowed hard, forcing his shoulders straight, forcing his face blank, forcing his voice steady as a customer waved for him at the bar. But inside, everything cracked.

Because for seven years he thought he’d been ready if he ever saw you again. Turns out, he wasn’t ready at all.

And now, you’d gone again.

The cold air outside hit harder than you expected. It bit at your cheeks, sharp and clean after the heavy warmth of the Velvet Room, but it didn’t clear your head. If anything, it made the mess worse.

You walked fast, almost tripping over yourself, coat pulled tight even though your palms were sweating. Your heart hadn’t slowed since he’d said it — no — the word reverberating in your chest like a slammed door.

God, why did you say that?

It’ll be good money.

You winced just thinking about it, dragging a hand over your face. Of all the things you could’ve said — about the film, about how much his voice mattered, about the truth of how you hadn’t stopped hearing him for seven years — you had to make it sound like a transaction. Like a bribe. Like you didn’t see him, only what he could give you.

“Idiot,” you muttered to yourself, your voice catching in the night air.

But then the anger rose, hot against your ribs. Because wasn’t he the idiot, too? Acting like you’d walked in for convenience, like you hadn’t carried him through every draft, every late-night rewrite, every scene that didn’t work until you imagined his voice. Did he think you wanted to need him? That you hadn’t tried a hundred other names, a hundred other sounds, only to end up back at him because it was always him?

Your breath fogged in front of you, quick and uneven.

Seven years. And the first words out of his mouth to you were no.

Not even a second of thought. Not even a flicker of trust. Just walls, higher than before.

You slowed when you reached the corner, pressing your back against the cold brick, shutting your eyes. The city hummed around you — cars, laughter, the distant wail of a siren — but all you could hear was his voice, rough and certain.

I said no.

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to scream, or cry, or both. Instead you just stood there, fists clenched in your coat pockets, trying to swallow down the weight pressing up against your ribs.

Because for the first time in years, you’d seen him. You’d heard him. And all it had done was remind you of two things:

You still needed him. And he still hurt you.

The next morning hit hard.

Your alarm blared too early, and the sunlight through your curtains was blinding. Still, there was no time to drag your feet. Pre-production waits for no one. By the time you slid into the office, the conference room table was already covered in draft schedules, coffee cups, and Hana’s perfectly organized binder tabs.

She didn’t even look up before diving in. “Good. You’re here. Sit. We’re on music.”

You dropped into the chair, pulse already picking up.

Hana flipped through her notes with brisk efficiency. “Casting’s almost locked. Locations are ninety percent confirmed. The score, though—” she paused, tapping her pen against the margin, “—the score is non-negotiable. If the music doesn’t work, nothing works. It needs to breathe. It needs to hurt. No filler. No shortcuts.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the coffee cup you hadn’t touched yet.

Hana’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “So? Do you have someone in mind? Because I’ve got names. Solid names. People who deliver.”

Before you could think better of it, the words tumbled out: “I already have someone.”

Hana stilled, her pen hovering. “You do?”

You nodded too fast, forcing a little confidence into your voice. “Yeah. I do.”

“And?”

Your heart thudded. Neon lights. His voice curling through the bar. The way he’d said no, so final, like it cost him something to push you away.

“And he’s perfect,” you said firmly. “The voice is exactly what this film needs.”

Hana jotted a quick note. “Good. Who is he?”

You hesitated for half a breath, then: “Jeon Jungkook.”

Hana frowned slightly. “Is he a new voice? I haven’t heard of him.”

You forced a nod, your throat tight. “Yeah. He’s… under the radar. But trust me. He’s the one.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she shrugged, flipping to the next page of her binder. “Alright. If you’re sure, lock him in. We don’t have the luxury of trial and error here. Whoever you pick has to be ready to deliver. Soon.”

Her tone left no room for hesitation.

You nodded again, but your stomach twisted. “I’ll handle it.”

You tried to breathe, but all you could hear was his voice from last night, jagged and final.

By the time the meeting wrapped, your coffee had gone cold.

You sat there, nodding along to Hana’s brisk rundown of deadlines and next steps, but your head was still back in that bar. Back with him. Back with the sharp cut of his “no.”

You should’ve dropped it right then. Taken the hint. Found someone safer, easier, less complicated. There were dozens of talented voices in the city who’d jump at the chance.

But none of them were him.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t un-hear it. His voice filling that room. His voice curling perfectly into the dialogue you’d written, sliding into the silences of your script like it had always been waiting there.

It wasn’t a crush talking. It wasn’t the past pulling you under. This was the film. Your film. And you knew, bone-deep, that without him it would be less alive, less true.

You could already see it — festival screenings, audiences sitting in the dark, the story unfolding — and his voice carrying it. Lifting it. Breathing into it.

That was the problem.

You closed your notebook slowly, fingers pressing against the leather cover, trying to anchor yourself. Hana’s words echoed in your head: Lock him in. Soon.

You took a shaky breath, but then you nodded to yourself, silent, resolute.

You weren’t giving up. Not after coming this far, not when you knew he was the one. He could push you away, he could throw up walls, he could hate you for asking — but you weren’t going to let go until he said yes.

Because this wasn’t just about you. It was about the film. And deep down, you knew he was the only one who could give it life.

Even if it killed you to keep asking.

The meeting ended in a blur, but Hana’s words trailed after you all the way out of the building. Lock him in. Soon.

By the time you were halfway home, you had your phone pressed to your ear.

Jimin picked up on the second ring, voice bright and teasing. “Well, if it isn’t our future award-winning screenwriter. Should I start practicing my red carpet wave?”

“Jimin,” you said, your voice tight.

He went quiet instantly. “…Okay, that didn’t sound like good news.”

You swallowed. “I need to tell you something.”

And so you did.

You told him about the film, about the score, about how you’d gone to the Velvet Room because you couldn’t imagine anyone else but Jungkook. You told him how you heard his voice and felt the whole story shift into focus. And finally, you told him about the argument — the money, the way he’d shut you down so quickly it still stung.

When you finished, Jimin didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Jimin?” you asked, your voice small.

He sighed, a sound heavy with memory. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You didn’t see him back then,” he said quietly. “After it ended. He was… wrecked. Like, lowest I’ve ever seen him. I had to drag him out of bed some days. He wouldn’t play. Wouldn’t sing. Barely spoke. It was like he’d lost all of it at once — the music and you.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t wanted to picture it, hadn’t let yourself.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” Jimin added quickly. “I’m saying it because if I go to him with this, if I push him toward something he’s been avoiding for years, I don’t know how he’ll react. And I don’t want him spiraling again.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to keep your voice steady. “I get that. I do. But Jimin… this isn’t just about me. It’s about the film. His voice is—” you broke off, searching for the right word. “It’s the heartbeat. Without it, the story doesn’t breathe. I know it’s selfish to ask, but I can’t let this go. Not when I know he’s the only one who can do it.”

On the other end, Jimin let out another sigh, softer this time. “You’re asking me to walk him straight back into the fire.”

“I’m asking you to help me give him a reason to step out of the dark,” you said quietly.

There was silence, and then the faint sound of Jimin cursing under his breath. “You’re insane. Both of you.”

But then: “Fine. I’ll talk to him. No promises, but… I’ll try.”

Relief loosened your shoulders, leaving you almost dizzy. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was gruff now, but beneath it, you could hear the affection. “But if this blows up in my face and I lose my best friend, I’m blaming you.”

The Velvet Room was half-empty by the time Jimin showed up. Jungkook spotted him right away — he always did. Jimin wasn’t the kind of person who slipped into a room unnoticed.

“Look at you,” Jimin said, sliding onto a barstool with his usual grin. “Mr. Owner, Mr. Musician, Mr. Can-I-get-you-anything-on-the-house.”

Jungkook huffed, already reaching for a glass. “You want a drink or just attention?”

“Both,” Jimin shot back, smirking.

They fell into easy banter, the kind they’d had for years, but Jungkook could feel it. The shift. The weight of something unsaid hanging just under Jimin’s words.

He poured the drink anyway. “Alright. Out with it. What’s this about?”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. He swirled the liquid in his glass, studying it like it had secrets written inside. Then he looked up, softer now. “She came to see you.”

The words hit like a punch. Jungkook froze, his chest tightening. “Yeah,” he muttered, forcing his voice flat. “I noticed.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Jimin’s brows lifted. “And how’d it go?”

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Terrible. Obviously.”

Jimin tilted his head. “She said you didn’t even let her explain.”

Something in Jungkook’s chest twisted. “Didn’t need to. I know how this goes.”

Jimin’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook leaned back against the shelves, arms crossed, a shield forming. “She needed something. That’s why she came. Not for me. For the music. For the money. For whatever.”

Jimin sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Kook—”

“No,” Jungkook cut in, harsher than he meant. “Don’t. Don’t start. You weren’t the one sitting there listening to her talk like I was a business transaction. Like seven years boiled down to a paycheck.”

Jimin was quiet for a moment, watching him. Then, gently: “She’s a writer. She doesn’t always… say things the right way. But she doesn’t mean it like that. You know that.”

Jungkook shook his head, jaw tight. “What I know is she left. And I built a life without her. I can’t—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I can’t go back there.”

Jimin leaned forward on the bar, eyes steady. “She’s not asking you to go back. She’s asking you to move forward. With her. With the film. It’s not about fixing the past. It’s about the story.”

Jungkook looked away, throat burning.

Jimin’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “Listen, man. I saw you at your worst. I saw what losing her did to you. I don’t want that again. But I also see you now, standing behind this bar, pretending you don’t care, when I know damn well you do. And I think maybe… maybe this film is the thing that shakes you out of this rut. If you let it.”

Silence stretched, heavy. Jungkook’s chest rose and fell, too fast, his hands clenched at his sides.

Finally, he muttered, low: “She really said that? That it had to be me?”

Jimin’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Yeah. Word for word. She said you’re the heartbeat.”

Jungkook shut his eyes, the ache cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

The words lodged somewhere behind Jungkook’s ribs, impossible to dig out. He hated how much they landed. How much they sounded like something you’d actually say.

He let out a shaky laugh, bitter on the edges. “She always was dramatic.”

Jimin smiled faintly, but his gaze didn’t waver. “She always was right about you, too.”

That silenced him.

Jungkook stared down at the bar, jaw tight, fingers twitching like they wanted a cigarette he didn’t have. The truth was pressing too close, threatening to spill, and he couldn’t let Jimin see it. Not now. Not yet.

So he shook his head, forcing his voice steady. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

Jimin studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, like he’d expected that answer all along.

“Alright,” he said, finishing his drink in one swallow. He set the glass down carefully, deliberately, and pushed himself to his feet. “If that’s how you feel.”

But as he headed for the door, he tossed one last look over his shoulder. “Just remember, Kook… not all chances come back twice.”

And then he was gone, leaving Jungkook alone with the weight of your voice in his chest, the hum of the empty bar, and a silence that felt like it was closing in.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning into his palms. “Fuck.”

Why was life so fucking hard?

Jungkook was wiping down the counter for the third time when the door opened. He didn’t bother looking up — until he heard Jimin’s voice.

“Don’t look so happy to see me.”

Jungkook glanced over, already scowling. “Didn’t you drink me out of house and home a few nights ago?”

And then he froze.

Because Jimin wasn’t alone.

You stepped in behind him, and every muscle in Jungkook’s body went rigid.

Fuck. Not again. Not this soon.

He’d just started convincing himself that last week was a one-off — a ghost surfacing, rattling him, and then disappearing again. But here you were, alive and solid, standing in the doorway of his bar like you belonged in it.

The same coat draped over your arm, the same restless tug at your sleeve when you hesitated, the same eyes that caught on everything but him… until they didn’t. Until they landed square on him, sharp enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

Goddammit.

It wasn’t that you looked different — you didn’t. It was that you were here again, and he couldn’t hide behind the shock this time. He couldn’t write it off as nostalgia or bad timing. He was looking straight at you, with Jimin grinning beside you like he’d planned this ambush, and Jungkook hated how his pulse jumped anyway.

Hopeless. He was hopeless.

Seven years gone, one week since the first time, and already you were under his skin again.

Jimin was saying something about being civilized, about how Jungkook should stop glaring before the customers got scared off, but none of it landed.

All Jungkook could think was: you came back. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t decide if that was the best or worst thing that could’ve happened.

Jimin slid onto the stool with a lazy grin, patting the empty seat beside him. “Sit. Come on, don’t make me referee from across the room.”

You sank down reluctantly, your coat bunched in your lap, while Jungkook stayed behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like he hadn’t decided whether to throw you out or just keep staring.

The silence pressed in heavy, thick.

“So…” Jimin said eventually, stretching the word. “This is nice. Comfortable. Totally not suffocating.”

Nothing. Neither of you moved.

Jimin drummed his fingers on the counter. Then, too casually: “Kook, didn’t you tell me you fucked someone a few weeks ago?”

The words dropped like a brick in the middle of the bar.

Your head snapped toward Jungkook before you could stop yourself. Heat climbed your face so fast it made your ears ring.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

You stared down at your hands, knuckles white where you clutched your coat. Jungkook’s jaw worked like he was grinding down every word he wanted to say.

And Jimin, unbothered, leaned back in his chair like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it between the two of you.

Jungkook’s glare could’ve set him on fire. “You love running your mouth on shit you don’t know anything about.”

The tension was so thick you could taste it, every second stretching. You shifted in your seat, wishing you could disappear into the floor.

Jimin just leaned an elbow on the bar, grinning like he’d won something. “Relax. I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking. The air between you two? You could cut it with a knife. Honestly—” he let his gaze bounce between the two of you, “—if someone walked in right now, they’d assume you’re either about to fight or about to fuck. No middle ground.”

Your breath caught. Jungkook’s hands curled into fists against the counter.

“Jimin,” he bit out, warning sharp in his tone.

“What?” Jimin spread his hands innocently, but his smirk gave him away. “I’m helping. You two clearly aren’t gonna say anything on your own, so I thought I’d speed things up.”

Jungkook looked like he was one second away from vaulting over the counter. You stayed very still, heart hammering, caught between wanting to vanish and wanting to shout just to break the tension.

And Jimin? He just leaned back in his stool, perfectly at ease, like the chaos was exactly what he’d ordered.

The silence dragged, thick and suffocating. The hum of the bar carried on around you, but here, at this stretch of counter, it felt like the world had gone still.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “I didn’t come here for small talk. I came because—because I want you for the movie. For the score. You’re good. You’ve always been good. And I believe in you.”

The words landed and stayed there, raw and too naked. You wished you could snatch them back.

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, a small movement that betrayed more than he wanted it to. He didn’t look at you right away — he stared at the counter, at the damp ring left by someone’s glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful, but not soft.

“I already told you no,” he said. Not cruel. Just final, like he was reminding you of a line that had already been drawn.

Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, your fingers tightening around the edge of your coat.

Jimin’s hand stilled against the bar. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you expected, steady but pointed. “She’s not asking out of pity, Kook. She’s asking because it’s you.”

That only made the silence heavier. You risked a glance at Jungkook. He didn’t glare this time, but there was something in the set of his mouth — tension, maybe even frustration — like he wanted to say more but refused to let it out here. Not with Jimin watching.

Your pulse hammered in your ears. You shifted in your seat, wishing you could disappear into the floor.

Nobody moved.

The silence gnawed at the edges of everything — your breath too loud in your own ears, Jungkook’s jaw tight as stone, your hands locked in your coat like a lifeline.

Jimin shifted in his seat, dragging a hand down his face with the long-suffering groan of someone who’d had enough. “Christ,” he muttered, then sat forward, elbows on his knees. “You two are killing me. It’s like watching a staring contest where the prize is depression.”

You blinked at him, stunned. Jungkook’s knuckles tapped once against the counter, sharp.

But Jimin only sighed, shaking his head, trying to paste on a grin. “Honestly, the air is so thick, I swear if anyone else walked in, they’d think you’d already hooked up in the bathroom or something.”

Your whole body jolted at the words. “Jimin—!”

Even Jungkook’s head turned toward him, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“What?” Jimin raised his hands in mock defense, smirk flickering just enough to show the strain behind it. “At least then I wouldn’t feel like the third wheel in a morgue.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Finally, Jimin pushed himself up from the stool with a little too much energy, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Alright. That’s it. I need a smoke. Or—fresh air. Whatever. You two can… figure out whatever the hell this is.”

He gave Jungkook a look, then you, lingering just long enough to make the back of your neck prickle. And then he turned, muttering under his breath as he headed for the door, “Unbelievable. Both of you.”

The door shut behind him, and suddenly the bar felt enormous, too quiet, like all the oxygen had been stolen along with him.

Now it was just you and Jungkook.

The door shut behind Jimin, leaving a hollow quiet in his wake. The bar still moved around you — laughter, glasses clinking, a chair scraping somewhere — but here, at this stretch of counter, it was just the two of you.

Jungkook exhaled hard through his nose, the sound sharp, controlled. His eyes stayed fixed on the counter, thumb tracing the edge of a water ring like he was trying to ground himself.

“You really came here for this?” His voice was low, clipped. “To corner me in my own place? With him sitting right there?”

Your throat worked, dry. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.” He finally looked at you then, and the weight of it made your stomach knot. His gaze was steady, hard, but not cruel — like every word cost him something to hold back. “You could’ve called. You could’ve sent it in writing. Instead, you show up here, put me on the spot, and… what? Hope I’ll change my mind?”

The sharpness made you flinch. Still, you forced the words out, thin and trembling: “I thought it mattered more if I said it face-to-face.”

For the briefest second, his expression shifted — not soft, but something flickered in the tight line of his mouth, the set of his shoulders. A crack, so small you almost doubted you saw it.

But then his arms folded across his chest, closing it back up. “And what if I still don’t want it?”

The words landed heavy, meant to end the conversation. Yet under them, you caught it — the smallest hitch in his tone, the faintest hesitation that betrayed him. He wasn’t as unmoved as he wanted to be.

Silence pressed back in, suffocating. Around you, life went on, but at this stretch of counter, everything felt suspended, fragile, waiting.

Your chest tightened the moment those words left his mouth — a hot, hollow pressure beneath your ribs, like someone had reached inside and squeezed. It made you feel reckless, stripped raw, but you couldn’t take it back now.

“Even if you don’t want it,” you said again, firmer this time, “you’re still the only person I hear when I read the script. Every pause, every beat — it’s you. It’s always you.”

The silence after was brutal. Jungkook’s jaw flexed, his arms crossed tight like he was trying to cage himself in. His eyes cut away, fixed hard on the counter.

“God,” he muttered under his breath, sharp but not loud, “you don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t move, didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, like the weight of your persistence was pressing down on him. The sound of it was rough, exasperated, but underneath it was something else — the kind of resignation that comes when someone knows they’ve already lost.

“Fine,” he said at last, clipped and almost bitter. “I’ll do it.”

Your breath stuttered. “You—”

“Don’t make me say it twice.” He finally looked at you, eyes sharp, voice tight. “You got what you came for, alright? So stop pushing.”

The words stung, but you clung to the crack anyway, to the small miracle buried under the edge of his tone. You nodded quickly, too quickly, clutching at the fragile thread of agreement. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could think better of them. “Really. Thank you.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just leaned back, crossing his arms again like he was trying to fold the conversation shut. His eyes flicked toward the far wall, anywhere but at you.

The silence stretched, raw and awkward, until the door creaked open and Jimin slipped back inside. He shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the room with a casual air that fooled no one.

“Well?” he asked, eyes bouncing between the two of you.

Neither of you spoke. The tension was still too thick, too fresh.

Jimin tilted his head, then sighed, long and theatrical. “Judging by your faces, I’m gonna guess someone gave in.” His mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Which one of you?”

You shot him a look, but your voice was steady when you answered. “He said yes.”

Jimin blinked, eyebrows arching. Then his grin spread slow, wide, like the satisfaction he’d been waiting for had finally arrived. “Hah. Knew you’d cave,” he said, pointing lazily at Jungkook.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply.

Jimin leaned on the counter, smirk tugging at his lips. “See? Wasn’t that hard. Awkward as hell, sure, but worth it.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, sharp, like if he didn’t he might explode.

You sat very still, pulse racing, caught between relief and the unbearable heat of being watched.

Jimin leaned against the counter, grin tugging at his mouth like he was proud of himself for something he hadn’t actually done. Jungkook stayed rigid at your side, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the far wall like if he didn’t move, maybe the whole moment would dissolve.

The three of you hovered there, the silence stretching thin, awkward enough to buzz in your ears.

You weren’t sure how you made it through the rest of that night.

There was no dramatic goodbye, no clean line under the moment. Just the three of you hovering in silence until Jimin, merciful as ever, tugged you toward the door. You clutched your coat, your bag, your breath — and somehow, before you left, you slid the copy of the script across the counter to Jungkook.

“Read it,” you’d managed, voice steadier than you felt. “It’ll tell you what the music should be about.”

He didn’t look at it right away. Just tapped the edge of the packet once with his finger, like the weight of it irritated him. Then, almost grudgingly: “Fine.”

It wasn’t yes. It wasn’t no. But it was enough.

The number exchange was worse. You held out your phone, screen unlocked, thumb hovering over the new contact form like it was the heaviest thing you’d ever carried. He took it without meeting your eyes, typed quickly, and slid it back across the counter.

“That’s me,” he muttered. Nothing more.

You texted him before you lost your nerve: It’s me.

A second later, his phone buzzed. He glanced down, tapped something, then slid it into his pocket.

“Got it.” One word. Short. Clipped. Like every syllable cost him.

And that was that.

By the end of the week, you were sitting across from Hana in a cramped café, the script between you, her pencil already littering the margins with notes. She leaned forward, her eyes bright, the way they always got when she talked about the project.

“So?” she asked. “Any updates?”

You hesitated for a beat, then couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your mouth. “The music is happening.”

Her eyes widened, then she lit up, relief and excitement spilling over her features. “That’s huge. You don’t know how much that takes off my shoulders.” She tapped the edge of the script with her pencil. “If the score’s locked in, we can start syncing tone across the edits. This is exactly what we needed.”

You nodded, warmth rising through your chest. “I gave him the script already. He’ll read it, and then we’ll meet to talk through ideas.”

Hana leaned back, exhaling like a weight had just lifted. “Good. Really good. This means we’re actually on track.”

Her words buzzed in your ears, but all you could feel was the strange mix inside you: relief, anticipation, and that unbearable edge of nerves.

Because it was official now.

You and Jungkook were working on this film together.

And no matter how clipped his words had been, no matter how stiff his posture was when he agreed — it was happening.

The café was loud enough to cover the silences, but not loud enough to make them disappear. Cups clinked, milk steam hissed, a low murmur of conversations filled the space — and still, the table between you and Jungkook felt like it belonged to another room entirely.

The script sat on his side, unopened, though you’d seen him slip it out of his bag the moment he sat down. He hadn’t looked at you much since.

You wrapped your hands around your coffee, the ceramic warm against your palms. “So… you read it?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on the window. One word, clipped.

Your stomach dipped, but you pressed anyway. “And?”

Jungkook shifted, leaning back in his chair. His thumb tapped once against the handle of his cup, a quiet, steady beat. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” you echoed, too quick, too incredulous.

That finally got him to glance at you. Just a flick of his eyes, sharp enough to make you freeze, before he looked back down. “I get it.”

It should’ve been frustrating — the short replies, the wall he kept putting between you. But the rhythm of it, the pauses, even the absent tapping of his fingers against the cup — it was familiar. Too familiar. Like those old nights bent over textbooks and empty snack wrappers, when whole hours went by in silence and it hadn’t felt wrong.

You forced yourself to breathe steady. “What did you hear?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “When you read it.”

That pulled him still. The tapping stopped. His gaze dropped to the script at his elbow, fingers brushing the edge of it before he finally flipped it open. Pages rustled. He lingered halfway through, frowning faintly as if replaying something in his head.

“It’s quiet,” he said finally, voice lower, the sharpness gone. “Heavy. It doesn’t need anything big. Just something that feels like waiting.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t wrong. He never was.

“That’s exactly what Hana’s been saying,” you admitted, unable to hide the small rush in your voice. “That’s exactly it.”

Jungkook closed the script again with a soft thud, the sound final. He reached for his coffee, taking a slow sip, eyes still on the table. “I’ll put something together,” he said, as if that settled everything. “I’ll send it when it’s ready.”

The conversation should have ended there. Simple. Professional. But neither of you stood.

Steam curled between you from the cups, carrying the faint smell of roasted beans and sugar. Around you, people laughed and ordered and passed by, but the bubble around your table stayed tight, the silence stretching too long.

Awkward. Tense.

And yet, in the smallest ways, familiar.

It hadn’t been years since the last time Jungkook wrote. Not years. He still scribbled lines in his phone late at night, still hummed melodies into the voice notes app when something caught him. But those were scraps, half-formed and left to gather dust. Nothing serious. Nothing with weight.

Which is why this — you, the script, the meetings — pissed him off. Not just you. Jimin, too. Especially Jimin.

Dragging him into this, cornering him in his own bar like it was some kind of intervention. The way Jimin had smirked, then slipped outside to smoke like he hadn’t just lit the match and left Jungkook choking on the smoke.

Later that week, Jimin came back, sliding onto a stool with that same restless energy. No jokes this time, no barbed teasing. Just a quiet sigh as he leaned on the counter.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kook,” he muttered. “I thought maybe it’d get you back on track. You’re too talented to be hiding behind this place forever.”

Jungkook had glared at him, but didn’t answer.

Because what could he say? That he wasn’t hiding, not really? That writing for himself — the little scraps, the silly rhyme he wrote once for his noona’s kid’s birthday, turning the boy’s name into a song — was enough? That those pieces mattered even if no one else heard them?

But this wasn’t that. This was heavy. Serious. A film score. Something people would watch, pick apart, hold up to the light.

He knew what it should sound like. He could hear it already, in fragments. The quiet weight of it, the tension like a low hum under every frame. Of course he knew. He always knew. That was the curse of it — the music came easy.

What didn’t come easy was the knot in his chest, the anger that kept circling back to the same thought: why her? why now?

He tapped the counter with his knuckles, restless, replaying the café meeting in his head. The way you’d said it — “every pause, every beat, it’s you.” Like it was fact. Like you hadn’t just dragged him back into a place he’d tried to walk away from.

And the worst part?

You were right.

That night, after the last glass had been washed and the lights in the bar dimmed, Jungkook sat at the upright piano shoved against the wall of his apartment. It wasn’t much — the keys stuck in places, and the top held a permanent layer of dust from neglect — but it was his.

A half-finished melody sat waiting in his phone, a loop he’d recorded weeks ago and abandoned. He pressed play. The notes spilled out, thin through the speakers, then cut. He frowned, thumb hovering over the screen before setting it aside.

He flexed his fingers. Tapped the keys once. Twice.

For a long minute, he just sat there, jaw tight, staring at the blank stretch of ivory. He was pissed. Pissed at Jimin for dragging him into this, pissed at you for not letting it go, pissed at himself for caring at all.

But then his hands moved. Slowly at first — one note, then another. Heavy. Not a melody, not yet, but the skeleton of something.

He scribbled a line in the notebook propped on the stand. Crossed it out. Wrote another. His handwriting slanted messy, impatient. He muttered to himself under his breath, the way he always had when he worked, a string of half-words that only made sense in his head.

And then, almost without meaning to, it happened. A phrase. Low, pulsing, the kind of sound that sat in your chest rather than your ears. He played it again, then again, shaping it with each repetition.

The tension in his shoulders didn’t leave, but it shifted. The frustration became fuel, the weight in his chest pressing down into the keys until it filled the room.

By the time he stopped, hours had passed. His phone buzzed with a message he didn’t check. The bar, the café, Jimin’s voice, your stubborn words — all of it blurred into the scraps of music scrawled across the page.

He sat back, exhaling hard. The first draft of something real stared back at him. Rough, imperfect, but alive.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that. Too long.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, not to Jimin, not to you — a flicker of relief settled under his ribs.

The file came at midnight.

You were half-asleep, scrolling your phone in the dark, when the notification buzzed. [1 audio attachment]. No message, no explanation. Just the file.

Your pulse spiked as you pressed play.

It was rough — uneven levels, a few notes clipped where the mic had peaked — but underneath, it was unmistakable. The low pulse of chords, the weight of silence built into the spaces between, the sharp pull of a hook that wasn’t quite finished. It sounded exactly like the film. It sounded exactly like him.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the track ended.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before you typed: This is it. This is perfect. Then, after a beat too long: But I want to hear it live. For recording purposes. It’ll help me visualize the scenes.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

The reply came a few minutes later. Short, blunt. Not at the bar. My place. Got a setup there.

You blinked at the screen. Setup?

Another buzz. Rusty. But it works.

Something in your chest twisted. Jungkook had a studio? You hadn’t known — hadn’t even guessed. The thought of him sitting alone in some small room, still writing, still recording, even after everything… it made your stomach pull tight.

When? you typed.

This time, he took longer. A pause that had you chewing your lip, staring at the typing bubble that came and went. Then finally: After the bar closes. 11.

Your throat went dry. 11. Late. Late enough that the streets would be quiet, late enough that the air would hum with something heavier. Late enough that you’d be alone with him.

You locked your phone, then unlocked it again, scrolling back to the message as if the words might change.

But they didn’t.

Tomorrow, at 11, you’d be walking into Jungkook’s apartment. Into a studio you didn’t know existed. Sitting in the same room as him while he made music.

And the thought of it — the weight of it — already made your pulse race.

You sat frozen on the couch, fingers tight in your lap. The air between you buzzed, alive, straining with all the things unspoken.

He hadn’t turned to you, not fully — but his body angled just enough that you could feel it. The awareness of him. The undeniable gravity of being here, alone, late, in his space.

Every second dragged, your heart keeping time with the hum of the equipment still cooling down.

The silence stretched until it was almost suffocating. Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the dark screen. Then, almost carelessly, he broke it.

“Your voice is rough.” A pause. Then, flat and unbothered: “Do you wanna have ramen?”

The words landed too hard.

Your spine went rigid, your breath catching before you could mask it. Not just ramen. Not here, not this late. The phrase echoed in your head, weighted with every implication you’d ever known it to carry.

Heat crept into your face, slow but impossible to stop, crawling up your neck until you could feel it burn against your skin. You shifted, trying to will it away, trying to steady your voice before you spoke.

“That’s…” You cleared your throat, forcing your tone into something even. “You know what that sounds like, right?”

That finally got his eyes on you. Dark, unreadable. “It sounds like ramen.”

Your pulse stuttered. He said it so simply, so literal, like he hadn’t meant a thing beyond noodles in a pot. Maybe he hadn’t. But the lateness of the hour, the intimacy of being here, of being alone, twisted the offer into something you couldn’t ignore.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your hands together in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. “Right. Ramen.” You tried for casual, but your voice still carried that betraying edge of warmth, of nerves.

If Jungkook noticed, he didn’t call you on it. He pushed himself up from the chair, stretching once before heading toward the kitchen. “Instant’s all I’ve got,” he said over his shoulder. “Hope that works.”

You managed a quiet, “It’s fine.”

But your chest was tight, your cheeks still hot, the weight of his words lingering long after he’d turned away.

Because maybe he hadn’t meant it like that. But you had felt it like that.

When Jungkook dropped the word ramen, he swore he didn’t do it on purpose.

It was late. The silence was thick. He’d been reaching for something — anything — to break it. And ramen was the first thing that came out. Simple. Harmless. He hadn’t thought twice.

Until he saw your face.

The way your eyes widened, the way color bloomed fast across your cheeks, the way you froze like the air itself had shifted — he knew exactly what you’d heard. What you thought he’d meant.

And oh, boy.

The implication hit him a beat too late, and it made his stomach twist hard. He didn’t let it show — kept his face flat, his tone clipped. It sounds like ramen, he’d said, and left it at that.

But inside? Jesus Christ.

The weight of it crawled under his skin, humming low in his chest as he moved toward the kitchen. He could still see your reaction burned behind his eyelids, could feel the air between you charged with something he hadn’t planned, hadn’t wanted to touch.

He filled the pot, tore open the packets, went through the motions like muscle memory. Anything to keep his hands busy, to ground himself in the ordinary.

Because if he thought too long about the way your blush had spread, or about what “ramen” meant at this hour, here, with you —

No.

All he could do was keep his head down, cook the damn noodles, and eat his ramen.

Jesus Christ.

The noodles boiled quick, the steam curling up and filling the small kitchen. Jungkook focused on that — the hiss of water, the sharp smell of seasoning powder — anything but the silence behind him.

He set the bowls down on the low table, grabbed a pair of chopsticks for each of you, and sat opposite. The couch creaked as you shifted closer, tucking your legs to the side, and the sound alone made his pulse spike.

He bent his head, broke the silence with the scrape of chopsticks. “Eat before it gets soggy.” His voice was even, flat. Safe.

You nodded, a quiet “thanks” slipping out as you shifted closer. The couch creaked with the movement, and the sound alone made his jaw tighten.

He bent his head, slurped noodles, kept his gaze fixed on the bowl. Bite after bite, broth after broth, as if the act of eating could drown out the weight in the room.

But it didn’t.

Every flicker of his eyes caught you — blowing gently on the noodles, the faint crease in your brow as you tasted the broth, the quiet hum you made when it wasn’t too hot. Too normal. Too familiar. Like nothing had changed.

But it had.

The ramen tasted flat in his mouth, but his chest still twisted, stomach tight with the echo of your earlier blush, the words he hadn’t meant, the silence that refused to loosen its grip.

So he ate. Silent. Mechanical. Pretending it was just food, because it was.

But the weight sat heavy, pressing into his ribs with every clink of chopsticks against ceramic.

And all he could think, all he could repeat to himself, was the same quiet curse.

Jesus Christ.

When the bowls were empty, Jungkook gathered them up without a word, stacking them neatly in the sink. The running tap filled the silence for a moment, the clatter of ceramic against metal breaking it only briefly.

You’d already pulled on your coat by the time he turned back around.

For a second, neither of you moved. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of his computer still on in the corner, the screen long gone to sleep.

You met his eyes, just for a beat. There was no smile, no ease, only that same thick weight pressing between you.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice low, too careful. “You were amazing, Jungkook. I meant it”

He nodded once. Nothing more.

You stepped out into the hall, the door closing soft behind you.

And just like that, the night was over.

But the tension followed you down every stair, clung to your coat, sat heavy in your chest — as if the silence itself had left with you.

Go ahead and check part 2.

[hobi-side]

hello, sorry if im bothering but i have a question

not long ago, i came across one of your hoseok fics called "OFFSTAGE" and i didn't have time to read it then, so i saved the link for it in my notes. but now when i open the link it says "no posts found". i'm just wondering has it been deleted, or is it possible somehow to read it if you decided to delete it or something? 🥰

once again, sorry if i'm bothering and thank you in advance

Hello! First of all, I'm really sorry for the delay. I only just saw your message. 🥺

To explain: the post is currently set to private, so it's not visible right now. The truth is, I wasn't completely happy with how I had written it and felt it needed a little more work and polishing. Unfortunately, real life got super busy and I couldn't get back to it when I originally planned to.

I'm still actively working on it, and I promise I'll post the finished version before the year ends! Thank you so much for checking in, @lilmeowzsworld it means a lot. You'll see it soon, hehe

[raplinenthusiasts]

fit check ☑️

cr. namuspromised

[hobi-side]

happy birthday to my mimi bear. hope he has the bestest bday ever 😞

[drb13695]

Gaza's seaport. 2023 vs 2025.

[hobi-side]

this truly breaks my fucking heart. from the river to the sea FREE PALESTINE

[jkvjimin]

people fainted (me, i am people)

[hobi-side]

who allowed him to go NAKED

[hobi-side]

TAKE TWO | jjk (two)

— pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

— playlist: valentine - laufey, do i wanna know - hozier, cariño - the marias, apocalypse - cigarettes after sex, lovefool - the cardigans, no song without you - honne, mine - jea mira

—  summary: In Busan, you and Jungkook grew up trading songs and stories — first love stitched into music rooms and rain-soaked walks home. Years later, you’re a filmmaker chasing your dreams, he’s a musician-turned-bar owner carrying unfinished melodies. When your new film needs a score, you realize the only voice that fits is the one you left behind.

A story of art, memory, and the love that lingers between them.

—  word count: 40.6k

—  warnings: angst · coming of age · screenwriter x musician!jk · second chance romance · misunderstandings & miscommunication · heavy arguments · reader can be difficult (sometimes) 18+: thigh riding · fluffy/intense love making · kisses & hickeys · jk’s neck obsession · unprotected sex · they literally need each other

part one

Hana was all business when you met again a few days later. Another café, another spread of notes across the table, her pencil moving fast as you updated her.

“He sent over more roughs?” she asked, barely pausing as she underlined a section of script.

“Yeah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “A couple sketches. Different moods. He’s… working.”

That last word sat strange on your tongue — heavier than it should’ve been. Hana only nodded, satisfied, already thinking three steps ahead.

And you let her. Because there was nothing you could explain about how late nights in Jungkook’s apartment lingered in your chest long after you’d left.

The next session was in the same space: his apartment, the makeshift studio humming low, cables tangled like vines across the desk. The air felt heavier when you walked in, the memory of ramen still burning faint at the edges.

He didn’t greet you beyond a nod. You sat. He adjusted levels.

The first hour passed in fits — clipped questions, shorter answers. You asked about tone, about pacing, about whether a theme should reappear in the closing scene. He grunted responses, scribbled notes, tried one phrase, then another.

And yet, somewhere in the repetition, the air shifted.

You caught it in the small things. The way his shoulders dropped as he layered chords. The muttered hums that slipped from him when he tested a melody. The moment he tossed out, without looking, “Too bright?” — and you found yourself answering without hesitation, like old muscle memory.

It wasn’t easy, not really. The silence was still there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing around you.

But by the time the session wound down, something in the room felt different. Less jagged. Almost familiar.

He leaned back finally, stretching, a faint huff escaping his chest. “That’s two more,” he said, gesturing at the laptop. “Could use polishing.”

You nodded, your own lips tugging before you could stop them. “They’re good. They… feel right.”

For a flicker of a moment, the quiet between you wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy.

And that scared you more than the silence ever had.

The following week slipped into the same routine — late nights at Jungkook’s place, the desk littered with empty mugs and tangled wires, the glow of the laptop screen casting both of you in pale light.

But something had changed.

The silence wasn’t as sharp. He still spoke in short sentences, but there was less bite in them. When you asked for something softer, he tried it without the usual delay. When he replayed a phrase, he muttered to himself, not caring that you could hear.

And slowly, you found yourself relaxing too.

By the third track, you were leaning forward in your seat, notebook forgotten, watching as his fingers tapped out rhythms on the desk. When he paused, frowning, you said, “What if it drops here instead?”

He gave you a look — not annoyed, not dismissive. Just thoughtful. Then he adjusted the loop, let it play. The shift was subtle, but it worked.

His mouth twitched, almost like a smile. “Huh.”

The sound of it sent a strange warmth curling low in your chest.

Hours blurred. You lost track of time, caught up in the back-and-forth, in the way his shoulders loosened each time the music landed closer to what it needed to be. It wasn’t perfect — not yet — but the room no longer felt suffocating.

Near the end of the session, when he played a full draft from start to finish, the ease between you was undeniable.

You leaned back, exhaling softly. “That’s it. That’s exactly it.”

Jungkook rubbed at the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the screen, but his voice was quieter than before. “Yeah.”

The track faded, silence settling in its place. But this time, it wasn’t heavy.

For the first time in years, sitting in his space, in his presence, felt easy. Almost too easy.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Back then, first year of university.

Jungkook had chosen business as a minor, almost like a safety net under the leap he’d taken with his music major. You told yourself it was a smart choice — something to ground him, give him options. But every time he dragged himself out of a lecture, yawning, eyes glazed over, you wondered if he was actually learning anything at all.

Still, he survived it. He always did. And you were proud. Proud enough to clap him on the shoulder when he passed, proud enough to wait for him outside classrooms he swore were useless, proud enough to stand in his corner no matter how restless he got.

You weren’t even at the same university, but you made it work. Weekends on trains, long nights on calls, study sessions in borrowed spaces where the line between homework and music practice blurred. You were boyfriend and girlfriend, even when time barely left room for it.

But dating Jungkook meant more than finding time. It meant rearranging your whole life around his.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

Because you didn’t mind. Not at first. You loved him. You loved him enough that missing your own club meetings, skipping out on plans, putting off assignments — it felt worth it if it meant sitting in the back of a practice room while he worked. You told yourself it was fine. That it didn’t matter if your world tilted toward him, if everything else came second.

He gave it back, too. That was the worst part. Jungkook was never selfish with you. If you needed him, he came. If you asked, he stayed. The sacrifices went both ways — and that should’ve made it safe. It should’ve made it balanced.

But it didn’t.

Because one day, you stopped outside a professor’s office, waiting for Jungkook to come out. You’d only wanted to check in, to see how he was doing. Instead, the professor looked up from his desk, recognized your name, and said something you weren’t prepared to hear.

“Jeon Jungkook,” he’d said with a thoughtful smile. “He’s got potential. Real potential. Not this year, of course — he’s just getting started. But later, maybe, I’d recommend him for an internship. He’s got the voice, the ear. He’ll go far.”

Pride had swelled in your chest, sharp and sweet. But then the professor kept talking.

“He’ll go far, as long as he doesn’t spend all his energy elsewhere. A boy like that, he’ll do anything for someone he loves. And if he’s busy holding someone else up, well… he won’t have hands free to climb.”

You’d smiled politely, thanked him, nodded like it was just an offhand comment. But the words lodged somewhere deep, right where the sacrifices had been piling up.

Because it was true. Jungkook would’ve done anything for you. And you — you would’ve done anything for him.

And that cycle, that endless loop of sacrifice, wasn’t going to make him soar. It was going to keep him tethered.

That was the day it began to unravel. Not because of anything he did. Not because you loved him less. But because you loved him too much to watch him limit himself for you.

So you left.

The Velvet Room was nearly empty that night. No crowd, no chatter, just the low thrum of equipment idling and the faint amber glow of the lights along the counter.

Jungkook stood across from you, leaning against the bar with one hand braced flat against the surface, laptop open at his side. He tapped through tracks, head tilted, the glow from the screen cutting across his face.

And you realized — you had never really looked at him. Not properly.

Not since back then.

Back then, he’d been sharp angles and restless energy, all wiry muscle and too-long hair falling into his eyes. A boy still growing into himself.

But now— Now he was broader. His shoulders filled the space of his shirt, his frame solid, grounded in a way that felt immovable. A whole sleeve of tattoos curled around his arm, black ink against golden skin, the shapes shifting as his muscles flexed when he reached for the keyboard. His jaw was stronger, cut sharper, the softness of youth burned away into something harder, more defined.

And his presence, that was the real difference.

He didn’t just stand in the room. He owned it. The air bent around him, heavy, commanding, even when he said nothing at all.

It wasn’t the boy you’d once known. It was a man. And the sight of him — the sheer weight of who he’d become — made something tighten low in your chest.

Jungkook clicked play on a loop, the sound spilling through the speakers, low and pulsing. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, humming under his breath, his hand tapping out a rhythm against the wood.

Your gaze caught on him before you could stop it. The stretch of his arm, the curve of ink over muscle, the slow drag of his bottom lip between his teeth as he listened.

Heat climbed up your neck.

He opened his eyes, caught you staring.

You dropped your gaze too quickly, fumbling with the script in front of you. “This part—” your voice cracked, too soft, too careful, “I think it should swell here. To mirror the scene.”

He didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you, heavy, unreadable, until the silence burned. Then he pushed off the counter and stepped closer, one hand landing on the table beside your notes.

“Here?” he asked, his voice low, leaning over just enough that you caught the faint scent of soap, clean laundry, and something darker underneath.

He tapped the spacebar. The music swelled, exactly where you’d pictured it, the bassline deep enough to vibrate through the floor.

But all you felt was him.

Closer. Broader. Different.

And yet, still the same.

You forced your gaze back to the script, your breath uneven. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Exactly there.”

His hand lingered on the table. His presence pressed against you, filling every inch of space between.

His shoulder brushed yours, the faintest touch, but it lit your nerves like a struck match.

You froze, breath caught in your throat, every inch of you aware of how close he was — the heat of him, the weight of his hand on the table, the ink on his skin just inches from your own.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. The music swelled and fell in the background, bass pulsing through the air, but all you could hear was the thrum of your own pulse.

And then, just as the air tipped into something dangerous, Jungkook shifted back.

The warmth of him pulled away, the space between you widening again. He straightened, cleared his throat once, his face turning back toward the laptop like nothing had happened at all.

The music looped on. The silence between notes stretched, heavy.

Your chest still burned, your skin tingled where his shoulder had grazed yours, but he gave you nothing — no look, no word, no acknowledgment of the current that had just ripped through the room.

He only clicked a few keys, voice flat when he spoke: “We’ll need a softer layer on top. Strings, maybe.”

Your pulse was still uneven, but Jungkook gave you no room to linger on it. His voice was steady, almost clinical, as he layered another track on the loop. “Strings,” he repeated. “Light. Just enough to sit under the piano.”

You nodded, scribbling a note in your margin that you didn’t even read. “Mm. Yeah. That works.”

The room buzzed with the sound of the track as he adjusted levels, his fingers moving quick and precise over the keys. The same fingers that had rested just inches from yours a moment ago, steady and unbothered now like nothing had happened at all.

You tried to focus on the music. On the way the new layers wrapped together, the way the theme began to breathe in full. But your body betrayed you — every shift in the air when he leaned forward, every low hum he made as he tested a phrase, pulled your attention back to him.

It wasn’t awkward silence anymore. It was worse. Heavier. A silence thick with everything unsaid, everything almost said.

By the end of the session, the track had shape, edges smoothed, the beginnings of something whole.

And yet, when Jungkook finally shut the laptop and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head, all you could feel was the echo of his shoulder against yours.

“Same time next week,” he said simply, his tone unreadable.

You nodded, gathering your notes too quickly. “Yeah. Same time.”

The music hung between you, unfinished but alive.

The first day of filming dawned colder than you expected. The sun hadn’t fully risen when you arrived on set, coffee warming your hands as crew members hauled equipment, cables, and props across the lot. The script — dog-eared, marked with Hana’s neat notes — sat heavy in your bag, though you already knew most of it by heart.

Hana stood in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, her voice cutting through the bustle with calm authority. “Scene two goes first. Lighting needs an extra fifteen minutes, so let’s run blocking now. Costumes, please make sure the coat is pressed before the second take. No wrinkles.”

You watched her, a knot loosening in your chest. Hana always made chaos look like choreography.

When she caught your eye, she smiled, brief but steady. “You ready?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The cast filtered in one by one, their faces already settling into character. The lead actor — pale under the fluorescent makeup lights, script in hand — gave you a polite nod before Hana whisked him off for direction. Someone called for quiet on set, and the room shifted instantly into focus.

The camera’s red light blinked alive.

And just like that, it began.

All those months of meetings, late nights, and endless adjustments — the film wasn’t just an idea anymore. It was happening, frame by frame.

Between takes, you found yourself drifting to the monitor, watching scenes unfold in real time. The weight of it pressed against you — these images, this story, something you had built from scratch now moving with its own life.

For a moment, you forgot about Jungkook. About the late nights in his apartment, the music swelling like a live wire between you. For a moment, it was just the film.

And then Hana’s voice cut through again, sharp but pleased: “Good. That’s good. Let’s reset for the close-up.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself. This was it. The project wasn’t in drafts anymore. It wasn’t hypothetical.

It was real.

It was yours.

The home studio was dim, the only light spilling from the monitor and the streetlamp outside the window. Jungkook adjusted a cable, muttered something about feedback, but his focus kept slipping.

Because you were here. Again.

Perched on the couch, script open in your lap, your hair falling forward as you bent to read a note. The glow from the screen caught your profile, painting your skin pale-gold, highlighting the curve of your mouth.

It wasn’t new. He’d seen you like this before, years ago — notebooks between you, music humming in the background. But it felt different now. Heavier.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was boiling between you. The glances you kept cutting his way, the way your voice dipped when you leaned closer, the charged silence that stretched longer than it should.

He told himself to ignore it. To focus. To keep it professional.

But then you stood, crossing the small room to lean over his shoulder, pointing at the screen. “Here,” you said softly, your finger brushing too close to his hand. “It should cut off sooner. Leave space before the next phrase.”

Your sleeve brushed his arm. The warmth of you bled into his skin.

Jungkook stilled.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your hand lingered on the edge of the desk, your body close enough that he could feel the faint heat radiating off you. He smelled your perfume under the faint static of cables and dust.

His pulse jumped, sharp and sudden.

And when you finally glanced at him, your eyes caught his.

The air thinned. The hum of the monitor, the faint city noise outside — all of it blurred. There was only this: the small space between your bodies, the heat coiled tight in his stomach, the pull that had been building for weeks.

He didn’t touch you. Not really. Just shifted slightly, his knee brushing yours, the faintest contact, but it felt like a spark had ripped through the room.

You inhaled sharply, your lips parting, but no words came out.

You leaned in over his shoulder, your finger brushing too close to his hand as you pointed at the screen. “It needs more space,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “If you cut the line sooner, the silence itself will carry the scene. That’s what gives it weight.”

Jungkook’s jaw worked as he tapped the keys again, replaying the loop. He had been sitting here for hours, bent over the same section, tweaking layers until his ears were buzzing, and the last thing he wanted was to hear you tell him how silence should work. He knew silence. He lived inside it. He bled in it.

“It doesn’t need more space,” he muttered, his tone clipped. “It needs weight. If you cut it early, it dies before it lands.”

You shook your head, still leaning close, strands of your hair brushing against his arm. “No, listen—”

“I am listening,” he snapped, his voice harsher than he meant, the tension that had been boiling under his skin spilling out in one sharp line. He stilled immediately, the words already sour in his mouth, but it was too late.

Your head tilted, eyes narrowing, meeting his square on. “Why ask me to be here if you’re just going to ignore me?”

The heat in your voice burned in his chest. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way you said them — steady, unflinching, daring him to push back. He leaned away from the screen, his chair creaking under the shift, and faced you fully for the first time tonight. The space between you was nothing. Barely inches. Close enough that the faintest lean forward would close it completely.

“Because you don’t get it,” he said, his voice low, rough. The words weren’t entirely true, and maybe you knew that, but they came out anyway, edged with the frustration he’d been holding down for weeks.

You blinked, your lips parting, the faintest flush rising across your cheeks. But you didn’t back down. You never did. “I get it more than you think,” you murmured, chin lifting slightly, like you were daring him to tell you otherwise.

The air snapped between you.

It wasn’t about the song. It had never been about the song. It was about the way you were leaning into him, the warmth of your body so close to his, the way your voice dipped low, trembling but firm. It was about the coil of something hot and dangerous that had been pulling tighter every time you walked into his space.

He could smell your perfume under the faint tang of dust and cables, could feel the heat radiating from you in waves, could hear the unsteady hitch of your breath when the silence stretched too long. His own pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough that he wondered if you could hear it too.

Without realizing it, he had leaned closer. His chair shifted forward, the tension in his shoulders drawing him toward you like a magnet. His knee brushed against yours, the barest touch, but it felt like fire.

Your eyes flicked down, just for a second, to his mouth.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his throat dry, his words rasping out lower than he intended. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Your knee brushed his, and the contact felt like fire. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His pulse thundered, every nerve stretched taut, pulling him closer when he knew he should pull back.

And then your mouth opened. Just a breath at first, shaky and broken.

“I…” you began, but nothing followed. Your throat worked, dry, your eyes darting between his and the space hovering between you.

“I, um…” The words came in fragments, stuttered and halting. “I—shit…”

Jungkook’s chest tightened. He could see the way your lips trembled, the flush creeping high on your cheeks, the way you couldn’t quite look at him straight on.

Your voice cracked, trembling, “Jungkook, what are w-we doing?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The question snapped something inside him, and before he realized what he was doing, his hands were already on your waist, dragging you forward.

You let out a startled gasp as he pulled you down onto his lap, straddling him. Your knees pressed into the sides of his chair, thighs bracketing his hips, your chest flush against his. The position alone was enough to make your breath catch — enough to make your body hum with the dangerous thrill of being exactly where you shouldn’t be.

Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing careful. It was hungry. Ferocious. His lips crashed against yours like he’d been holding it back for years, like the dam had finally broken. His tongue slid against yours, deep and messy, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip until you gasped against him.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging, pulling him closer though there was no space left between you. He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth, raw and unrestrained. His fingers dug into your hips, anchoring you hard against him, dragging you down until the friction against his thigh made your body jolt.

You broke the kiss for only a heartbeat, your head tipping back, lips parted, breath ragged. Jungkook didn’t waste a second. His mouth trailed down your jaw, hot against your skin, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive line of your throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and almost broken, his grip tightening. “You drive me insane.”

You ground against him before you could stop yourself, the movement small, instinctive, and his breath stuttered hot against your neck.

Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, more desperate. The kiss turned almost brutal, all tongue and teeth, both of you pushing, pulling, tasting, devouring like you were trying to swallow years of silence in one go.

The studio was gone. The music, the script, the world — all of it dissolved under the sheer force of it. All that existed was this: the heat of his body under yours, the slick slide of his mouth against yours, the ache of wanting that had lived between you for far too long.

Neither of you wanted to stop. And yet, somehow, neither of you could go further.

“Jungkook—” his name tumbled from your lips in a hiss as his mouth dragged over your throat, lips searing, breath hot. “Um… oh god…”

His hands came up, framing your face, steadying you as if you were breakable, porcelain in his grip. The tenderness of it clashed with the chaos of his lips trailing fire down your neck, with the ragged sounds he made against your skin.

“You have no fucking idea,” he whispered, voice hoarse. His mouth grazed the spot beneath your jaw, tongue and teeth skating over tender skin. “No fucking idea… I never thought we’d be like this again.”

The words hit harder than his mouth did, sinking deep into your chest, but your body couldn’t keep up with the weight of them. You were too far gone, too drunk on the heat of him, the press of his thigh wedged between yours. Your hips twitched, restless, grinding down without permission, chasing a friction so sharp it made your breath falter.

“I—” Your voice broke, spilling out shaky and vulnerable. “I want…”

He lifted his head, eyes burning into you, his palms sliding down from your cheeks to your jaw, then lower — gripping your hips hard enough that you gasped. He tilted you forward, pressing you flush against him, his thigh positioned exactly where your body ached for it.

“What you want, baby?”

The nickname crushed you. Baby. The way he said it was thick with memory, with history, with everything you hadn’t let yourself miss.

Your lips trembled. Your hips rolled down harder, helpless against his hold, a shameful moan breaking free before you could stop it.

Jungkook’s teeth clenched, his breath tearing out rough as his grip tightened. He forced your hips to move again, slow, dragging you across the hard muscle of his thigh. The friction bloomed sharp and unbearable, pulling another gasp from your throat.

“There it is,” he rasped, his mouth crashing back against yours, swallowing the sound. His tongue slid against yours, wet and messy, as his hands anchored you down, dragging you into him, again and again.

You tried to break the kiss, to speak, but he wouldn’t let you. His lips chased yours, greedy, relentless, devouring the noise you made as your body stuttered against him.

Your thighs trembled, the pressure coiling tight, each movement against him blurring the line between humiliation and bliss. He held you there, guiding you, forcing you to take what you were too shy to say you needed.

“Fuck—” Jungkook groaned into your mouth, the sound guttural, his chest heaving under your hands. “You feel that? Hm? You feel what you’re doing to me?”

Your only answer was another broken whimper, muffled against his lips, your hips moving without thought, chasing more, chasing everything.

You slumped against him, chest heaving, every nerve still twitching with overstimulation. Jungkook’s arms wrapped around you instinctively, his hands stroking over your back, soothing, grounding, like he wanted to hold you there until the tremors passed.

But the moment clarity crept back, so did the shame.

Your breath caught in your throat. What the hell did you just do? Heat rushed to your face, not from pleasure this time but humiliation. You’d just—on his thigh, like you had no control, like you’d been desperate enough to throw every shred of dignity aside.

You stiffened, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt as if that could anchor you, as if it could hide what had just happened.

“Hey,” Jungkook’s voice came, low, gentle, his lips brushing against your temple. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

You shook your head, burying your face deeper in his shoulder, but it didn’t help. The humiliation gnawed at you, bitter and sharp. How could you have let this happen?

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, tilting your face toward him. His eyes were softer now, but there was something else there too — something tangled and unresolved, something that burned and ached all at once.

“You have no idea,” he murmured again, voice fraying at the edges. “I missed you. I didn’t think… we’d ever…” He trailed off, jaw working, his thumb brushing over your damp skin. “It’s been so fucking long.”

The gentleness cut deeper than anything else. Because you knew it wasn’t simple for him either. The feelings were there — the anger, the longing, the history you’d never truly dealt with. This wasn’t just about desire. It was about everything you’d both lost, and the fact that touching him like this only tore those wounds wider open.

Your chest ached. Your body screamed to stay, but your mind, your pride, the jagged humiliation — it was too much.

You pushed away suddenly, sliding off his lap, your legs trembling under you. “I can’t,” you rasped, your voice shaking, your throat tight. “I—I shouldn’t have…”

“Wait—” Jungkook’s hand reached out, catching at air, his brows furrowed, frustration tightening his features. But he didn’t stop you. He didn’t drag you back.

Because he knew.

You grabbed your bag, avoiding his eyes, and the in-house small studio door felt a mile away even though it was only a few steps.

The last thing you heard before it shut behind you was the sound of Jungkook’s breath, ragged and uneven, filling the silence you’d left behind.

And you ran.

You shouldn’t have let it happen.

The thought looped the second the studio door shut behind you, your chest still heaving, your legs unsteady. Your skin burned where his hands had been, your lips tingled where his mouth had pressed too hard, too hungry. Your body still hummed like it hadn’t caught up with the fact that you’d left.

It was humiliating. Humiliating.

What the fuck had that been? What the fuck were you doing, letting him pull you onto his lap like you’d been waiting for it, moving against him like you’d lost all control? Grinding down on him until you shattered—like you weren’t a grown woman with sense, but someone drunk on something she should’ve left behind years ago.

But the truth, the ugly, humiliating truth, was that you had wanted it.

Every second of it.

The way his mouth crushed yours, the heat of his hands holding you steady, the rough sound of his voice breaking in your ear—it hadn’t felt like crossing a line. It had felt inevitable. Like you’d been circling this moment from the second you saw him again, and resisting had only been a cruel kind of foreplay.

Because yeah, there was tension. Sure as hell there was. But it wasn’t new tension. It was old, familiar, lived-in. It was exes with too much history, too much love that never burned out, trying to pretend they didn’t still want each other.

And failing.

You wanted him. Still. Always.

And worse—he wanted you. That much was obvious. It was there in the way he groaned against your mouth, in the way he called you baby like the word had been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting to be said again.

You pressed your hand against your face, heat rushing up your neck, shame clawing at your chest. You weren’t supposed to feel like this. You weren’t supposed to want him.

But you did.

And no matter how hard you tried to shove it down, no matter how much you told yourself you’d never let it happen again—deep down, you knew.

You would.

You’d let it happen again.

Because you were still his. Even if you hated yourself for it.

The set buzzed with life, cables running across the floor, the smell of coffee and hairspray clinging to the air. Someone called for sound check, another shouted about lighting cues. It was the kind of organized chaos you’d grown used to, and for once, you welcomed it.

Here, there was no space to think about Jungkook. No room for shame to creep in. No echo of his voice in your ear.

Hana’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and precise: “Reset the mark. We’ll need to go again.” She turned toward you, clipboard in hand, a lock of hair falling loose from her bun. “The blocking’s clean, but the timing’s off. Can you run through it with him once before the next take?”

You nodded, tucking the script tighter under your arm, and made your way to the actors.

The lead stood in place, pale under the makeup lights, eyes distant until you called his name. You explained the adjustment, walked him through the beats of the dialogue, the pause before the key line. He nodded, following carefully, repeating the motions until the rhythm clicked.

It was small, a detail no one in the audience would think twice about. But that was the job—making the invisible work, making it feel natural.

By the third take, Hana exhaled with relief, lowering her clipboard. “That’s it. That’s the one.”

Applause scattered across the crew, quick and half-hearted before the rush to set up the next shot began. You smiled faintly, the tension in your chest easing, at least for now.

Still, even here, even in the bright glare of the set, your mind betrayed you. You watched the camera frame a close-up, watched the lead deliver his line with practiced emotion, and all you could hear was Jungkook’s voice—low, rough, breaking when he’d whispered baby.

You shook your head, forcing the thought away.

This was your world. This was your work.

And you weren’t going to let him ruin it.

The days blurred. Call times stacked one on top of the other, notes scribbled faster than you could process, and endless cups of bitter coffee keeping you upright when the hours stretched too thin.

Filming was its own kind of storm—bright lights, too many bodies crammed into too little space, makeup artists darting in with brushes between takes, Hana’s sharp voice cutting through the air with direction after direction.

You lost yourself in it.

There wasn’t time to think about anything else. Not the night at Jungkook’s studio. Not the humiliation curling in your chest. Not the way his voice rasped your name when his hands held you still.

Here, all that mattered was the film.

“Reset the lens.”

“Check the mark.”

“Run it again, faster this time.”

Your world narrowed to the script in your hand, the movements of the actors, the subtle adjustments you called out when the timing wasn’t right. You leaned into the work until it was all-consuming, until the buzzing in your head dulled to static.

By the end of the week, you had half a reel of clean takes, a handful of performances that already hinted at the story’s weight. Hana’s eyes softened when she looked at you, her usual sharpness edged with something that might’ve been pride.

“You’re holding it together,” she said one night as the crew began packing up. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t quite a compliment either.

You forced a small smile, hugging the script closer to your chest. “It’s what we’re here for.”

And maybe that was true. Or maybe it was just easier to hide behind the work than admit how much you were unraveling.

Jungkook was twenty-five. Twenty-five, for fuck’s sake. But why the hell did he feel like a teenager again?

After the way you bolted out of his studio, he’d just sat there, stunned, dragging both hands through his hair like that would clear the chaos buzzing in his head. But it didn’t. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything except sit in the chair where you’d straddled him minutes before, heart pounding like it hadn’t since he was seventeen.

You were perfect on his lap. Perfect in a way he’d never known back then. Sure, there had been kisses and clumsy touches in high school — hands sneaking under clothes, heat building until someone’s parent knocked on a door and ruined it. But this? The way you had unraveled against him, the way your hips had moved, the sounds you made with his name on your lips—

Yeah. That was something he hadn’t imagined. Something he hadn’t lived through until now.

And it made him crazy. Stupidly, recklessly crazy.

He’d cleaned up the place after you left, trying to erase the evidence — the empty mugs on the counter, the papers scattered across the desk. But he couldn’t erase the heat you’d left behind. The ghost of your weight on his thighs. The way your face had looked when you came undone, etched so deeply into his mind he saw it when he closed his eyes.

Jesus Christ. He could feel it still. Your warmth, your shudder, the helpless way you clung to him like you’d fall apart if he let go. It burned into his eyelids, into his bones.

And fuck, it wasn’t just memory. It was hunger.

He was twenty-five, but he felt like a kid again, restless and strung out on the rush of wanting something he wasn’t supposed to want. The difference was, this time he knew exactly what he was missing.

And it was going to drive him insane.

Jungkook was twenty-five, not sixteen. He reminded himself of that as he sat at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing, his skin still buzzing from where your body had pressed into his.

The teenage version of him would’ve been pacing, climbing the walls, texting you a hundred times until he said something stupid. But he wasn’t that kid anymore. He knew better. He knew how to bleed the chaos out of his chest and put it somewhere it belonged.

So he opened his laptop.

The project file blinked back at him, half-finished from earlier that night, but he didn’t care about perfecting it anymore. He pulled his mic closer, adjusted the gain, and just… let it out.

The first line came easy. Too easy. A rough hum, low in his throat, that bled into words he didn’t even think about. Words about heat and distance, about something forbidden, about a touch that felt both brand-new and years too familiar.

He layered it over a bassline, heavy and pulsing, then softened it with piano — notes that sounded like hesitation, like restraint, like the way you’d looked at him when you whispered What are we doing?

It wasn’t a song yet, not fully. It was raw, jagged, messy. But it was alive.

And it was you.

Every inhale, every brush of syllables against the mic, every lyric that slipped out without thought — it was you. The sound of your voice breaking, the shape of your mouth against his, the memory of your hips trembling in his hold.

By the time he leaned back in his chair, throat raw, the file blinking red Recording Complete, he felt calmer. Not fixed. Steadier though.

The chaos was still there, but now it had a place. A song he’d never meant to write, one he wasn’t sure he could ever let anyone else hear.

But it was yours.

And when he played it back, low and rough in the dim light of his studio, he realized he hadn’t failed to get a grip.

He’d just found another way to hold you.

You didn’t expect to be back here so soon.

The hallway smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old paint, the same as the night you’d run. Your stomach twisted as you raised your hand, hesitated, then knocked once on Jungkook’s apartment door.

For a moment, silence. Then the faint scrape of a lock turning.

The door opened, and there he was.

Jungkook leaned against the frame, hair mussed, a worn black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, a pair of headphones looped carelessly around his neck. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes flicking over you in one quick sweep before settling somewhere over your shoulder.

Your stomach dropped, heat rushing up your chest.

“Hey,” you managed, the word smaller than you meant.

He stepped back, wordless, giving you space to enter. You did, brushing past him into the familiar clutter of his apartment. The low light spilled across the narrow living room, the open doorway leading into the studio beyond.

It all looked the same. The cables coiled across the floor. The monitors blinking idle. The chair where you’d—

You gripped the strap of your bag tighter, forcing yourself to breathe.

“Hana said we’d go over the draft today,” you said, your voice steadier this time.

Jungkook shut the door behind you with a dull click. “Yeah.” His voice was clipped, controlled. “Okay.”

You set your bag down at the table, pulling the script free with hands that wanted to shake. He followed you in, not close but close enough, the weight of him filling the room the way it always did.

For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of the equipment.

Then Jungkook cleared his throat, sliding the headphones off his neck and onto the desk. “I worked on the track you asked for.”

The words were too casual. Too neat. A lie you both could hear.

“Okay,” you said softly, eyes fixed on the script in your hands.

But your body betrayed you. Heat prickled your skin, memories pressing down too heavy: his mouth on yours, his hands gripping your hips, the sound of your name breaking in his throat.

And out of the corner of your eye, you caught the smallest shift — Jungkook leaning back in his chair, his jaw flexing, his gaze sliding toward you just once, sharp and brief, like he was remembering too.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

The silence stretched, thick, broken only by the faint hum of the equipment. You forced your eyes to stay on the script, reading the same line over and over without actually seeing it.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to let something go. But then his jaw tightened, and his voice cut through the quiet.

“You ran.”

Your head snapped up, eyes catching his. He wasn’t looking at you, not directly — his gaze was fixed somewhere near the monitor — but his words landed sharp.

Your throat went dry. “I…” The protest died before it left your lips.

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head once. “Guess some things don’t change.”

The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t even cruel. But they burned, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

Your chest tightened, breath caught somewhere between shame and anger. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t that simple. But the truth sat raw in your stomach.

You had run.

And from the way his jaw worked, the way his fingers tapped against his arm like he needed to move or break something, you knew he wasn’t going to let himself forget it.

The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, until you finally looked back down at the script, your voice barely above a whisper. “We should just… start.”

For a long moment, Jungkook didn’t move.

Then he reached for the keyboard, shoulders tense, his voice low but steady. “Yeah. Let’s start.”

But the crack had already split the room wide open.

At first, you both tried.

You sat at the table, script spread open, pretending your pulse wasn’t racing. Jungkook hunched over the console, replaying loops, pretending his hands weren’t twitching with every second of silence. The room filled with the sound of music, notes weaving into each other, but the air between you stayed jagged, raw.

“Here,” you said finally, pointing at the bars on the screen. “Cut it shorter. It should bleed into the dialogue, not stretch over it.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. His jaw flexed. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. It needs to carry through. Otherwise the scene falls flat.” His tone was clipped, dismissive, like the decision had already been made.

You stared at him, heat creeping up your neck. “You asked me here to give feedback. I’m telling you what works for the scene.”

“And I’m telling you it doesn’t,” he shot back, finally turning to look at you. His eyes were sharp, his mouth set in a tight line.

The silence pulsed. Your chest tightened.

“This isn’t about the fucking song, is it?” you said, your voice low but shaking.

Jungkook laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, you figured that out, did you?”

Your stomach dropped. “Then what the hell are we doing here?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding, his gaze cutting into you. “You tell me. You show up, act like nothing happened, sit there with your script like you didn’t—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No,” you snapped, standing now, anger surging hot in your chest. “Say it. You think I don’t feel it too? You think I don’t know exactly what happened?”

His eyes darkened, his voice dropping low. “Then why the fuck did you run?”

The words cracked the air open, sharp and raw.

You froze, lips parting, but nothing came out. Heat crawled up your neck, shame clawing at your chest, the memory of his thigh under you, his mouth on yours, flashing so vividly you thought you might choke on it.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, pushing back from his chair and standing, his height suddenly too much, his presence filling the room like it always did. “That’s what I thought.”

You shook your head, breath coming faster. “It’s not that simple.”

“The hell it isn’t.” He took a step closer, eyes burning into yours. “You wanted it. Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “I—”

“Say it.” His voice was low, almost a growl now, frustration bleeding into something heavier. “Say you didn’t want me. Say you didn’t want that. Look me in the eye and fucking say it.”

You couldn’t. God, you couldn’t. Because you had wanted it — more than you wanted to admit, more than you wanted to feel. The silence between you stretched, your chest heaving, your palms sweating where they clutched at the script.

Jungkook’s jaw worked, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know whether to shake you or kiss you again. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, voice breaking this time, softer but no less sharp.

“Stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Please, just… stop.”

But he didn’t. He stepped closer, close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him, close enough that his voice hit you like a strike.

“Why’d you run, then?” His eyes searched yours, desperate, burning. “Why the fuck did you run if you wanted me as bad as I wanted you?”

The words slammed into you, sharp and demanding. You opened your mouth, but for a second nothing came out — just a strangled breath, your chest heaving, your eyes stinging hot.

“I—” Your voice broke. You swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. “I don’t know, Jungkook. I don’t know, okay?”

He stared at you, jaw tight, eyes hard, waiting.

You shook your head, words spilling too fast, too raw to catch. “Of course I wanted you. I still fucking want you. You think I don’t? You think I haven’t thought about this a thousand times, about you, about us—” Your throat cracked, your voice collapsing into a ragged whisper. “I wanted it so much it scared the shit out of me.”

Jungkook’s expression shifted, his breath catching, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

“I ran because I didn’t know what to do with it,” you spat, tears of frustration burning at the corners of your eyes. “Because I knew the second I gave in, I wouldn’t stop. Because it’s you, Jungkook, and it’s always been you, and it makes me feel fucking insane.”

The room rang with the confession, the words hanging there, messy and broken, impossible to take back.

Jungkook’s hands flexed at his sides, his throat working as he stared at you like you’d just torn him open. His voice came rough, uneven. “You think you’re the only one losing your mind?”

You blinked at him, stunned.

He laughed then, short and sharp, running a hand over his face like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Jesus, you’re not the only one fucked up over this. You think I slept that night? You think I could forget the way you looked on me? The way you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head hard. His voice cracked low, almost pleading. “I haven’t been able to breathe without it replaying in my head.”

The silence between you buzzed, both of you cracked open, the weight of your confessions still echoing in the room.

You pressed a hand to your face, shaking your head, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I never told you why I left. I just… disappeared. And you deserved an answer, but I couldn’t—”

Jungkook’s eyes snapped to yours, dark and sharp, his voice hoarse. “Then tell me. Tell me now.”

Your throat closed, shame biting deep, but the words forced their way out anyway. “Because you were so in love with me, Jungkook. You would’ve given up everything if I asked. And I was so scared you’d lose your career, your future, because of me.” Your chest heaved, your voice breaking into a sob you hadn’t planned. “I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was break us.”

Jungkook stood frozen, your words hitting him like strikes. His jaw clenched, his hands flexed — and then he moved.

Two steps, and he was in front of you. His hands found your face again, rough but careful, holding you steady. His breath was uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needed the contact to stay upright.

“You think you ruined me?” His voice cracked, raw and trembling. “You saved me and destroyed me in the same breath. I loved you so much it hurt, and when you left…” His hands shook where they held you. “I didn’t know how to fucking breathe without you.”

Your eyes blurred, your chest aching, and before you could stop yourself, you surged forward.

Your mouth crashed against his, messy and wet, your hands clutching at his shirt like you were drowning. The kiss wasn’t clean. It wasn’t controlled. It was desperate, unfiltered — every year of silence, every unanswered question spilling out in the heat of your lips and the tremor of your body pressed to his.

Jungkook groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space. His kiss was rough but shaking, as if he wanted to devour you and cradle you at once.

“I hate you,” you gasped against his lips, the words contradicting the way your hands fisted in him, pulling him closer. “I hate you for still making me feel like this.”

He laughed, a broken, bitter sound, his mouth chasing yours again. “Then hate me harder, baby.”

Your mouths clashed again, raw and uncoordinated, teeth clicking, breaths uneven. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t practiced. It was desperate.

Jungkook’s hands slid down your back, gripping like he was afraid you’d vanish again, pulling you so close your ribs ached. Your own fingers twisted into his shirt, knuckles white, terrified that if you let go you’d fall apart completely.

But then it shifted.

The frantic edge softened, his mouth slowing against yours, gentling even as your tears stained his lips. His hands spread across your back, no longer gripping but holding — steady, grounding. His forehead pressed to yours as his breath hitched, a broken laugh caught between his chest and yours.

And suddenly you were clinging. Just holding. Your arms looped around his neck, his shoulders broad and solid under your palms. His chin dipped into the curve of your shoulder, his chest trembling with the weight of everything unspoken.

It felt like collapsing. Like letting go of something you’d carried for too long.

You buried your face against his neck, eyes shut tight, the scent of him so achingly familiar it made your throat close. His arms banded around you in return, strong but shaking, like he didn’t know whether to keep you there or push you away before it killed him.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you dared.

Because in that fragile, breathless moment, words would’ve broken it.

So you just held on. Two people stitched together by old wounds, old love, and the unbearable pull that had never gone away.

A mess. Together.

And for once, neither of you tried to fix it.

The light was merciless, the kind that made everything feel too sharp, too real.

You stirred first, realizing slowly that you were still pressed against him — his arm loose around your waist, his chest rising and falling against your back. Jungkook.

For one dizzy second, you thought about sliding out of bed, about escaping before the moment had a chance to collapse. But your body didn’t move. Your bag sat on the chair across the room, your shoes lined up by the door. Leaving would mean getting up, making noise, turning this fragile quiet into something else.

So you stayed.

Jungkook shifted behind you, breath catching as he woke. His arm lifted, then fell back to the mattress, as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold on or let go.

“You’re awake?” His voice was hoarse, still heavy with sleep.

You hesitated, then nodded, eyes fixed on the thin strip of light cutting across the floor. “Yeah.”

Silence. Too long. Too heavy.

You turned slightly, just enough to see him propped on one elbow, hair messy, eyes unreadable as they searched your face. For a second, neither of you spoke. Neither of you breathed.

Finally, Jungkook cleared his throat, voice flat but low. “You don’t have to stay.”

Something twisted in your chest. “I know.”

Another pause. Your stomach knotted. “Do you… want me to leave?”

His gaze flicked away, toward the window. “That’s not what I said.”

The words hung there, clumsy and sharp, impossible to smooth out.

You pushed yourself up slowly, tucking your knees to your chest, suddenly aware of how small the bed felt, how close your bodies still were. The silence buzzed, awkward and unbearable, but neither of you moved to break it.

The silence stretched too long. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on the strip of light across the floorboards. Every part of you screamed to get up, to move, to leave — but you stayed.

Jungkook sat back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over his face. The tension in the air was unbearable.

Finally, you cleared your throat. “The soundtrack…” Your voice cracked, and you tried again. “The soundtrack’s nearly done. I think it’s finally ready to show Hana.”

Jungkook let out a low hum, eyes flicking to you before landing back on the wall. “Yeah. It’s… it’s close.”

“More than close,” you pressed, words spilling too quickly just to fill the space. “It’s strong. It pulls the story together. She’ll—she’ll love it.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound almost like a laugh but not quite. “You sound like you’re convincing yourself.”

Your stomach tightened. You glanced at him, but his expression gave nothing away — just that sharp line of his jaw, the tired set of his mouth.

“I’m not,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “I mean it. It’s good. You’re good.”

That made him look at you. His eyes held yours a beat too long, unreadable, and you felt your pulse hammer under your skin.

He nodded once, short and rough. “Then show her.”

Later that day, you sat across from Hana in her office, the script spread out between you. She adjusted her glasses, flipping through the notes you’d left her. “So you think the music’s ready?”

“Yes,” you said, steady. “But it’s not just me saying that. Jungkook should explain it himself. He knows exactly how the sound’s meant to sit under the dialogue. It’ll make sense when he lays it out.”

Hana gave you a skeptical look — not about the music, but about bringing him in. Still, she sighed and nodded. “Fine. Set it up. I’ll listen.”

When the day came, Jungkook sat in the small meeting room, laptop open, wires coiling across the table. He was calm, focused, every explanation clean and precise — this transition under the fight scene, this motif repeating in the softer dialogue, this silence punctuated only by piano to carry the weight of the ending.

Hana leaned back when it was over, tapping her pen against the table. Then she smiled, faint but real. “It works. It works better than I expected.” She nodded once. “We’ll go with it.”

You exhaled, relief washing through you. Across the table, Jungkook gave the smallest nod, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before he shut the laptop.

And that was it.

With Hana’s approval, the film rolled on. The soundtrack was locked in, filming neared its end, and soon enough there’d be no more late-night sessions, no more forced mornings, no more excuses to be in his apartment at all.

When the wrap came, he’d get paid. That would be the end of it.

At least, it should have been.

But the weight in your chest told you otherwise.

The final stretch of filming felt like running on fumes. Call times bled into nights, every inch of the set buzzing with urgency. The actors moved through their scenes with a precision that only came after weeks of repetition. Camera crews shifted quietly, almost instinctively now, hitting their marks without waiting for direction.

You were everywhere at once — crouched behind the monitor, script in hand, signaling cues, scribbling last-minute changes in the margins. Your coffee intake had tripled. Your sleep had evaporated. But none of that mattered.

Because it was almost done.

The last scene wrapped just as the sun began to rise. The clapboard snapped shut, Hana’s voice rang “cut,” and for a moment the entire set exhaled together. Applause broke out, half-relief, half-celebration. Someone popped open a bottle they’d been saving.

You stood off to the side, script clutched to your chest, watching it unfold. Pride swelled so heavy in your ribs it nearly hurt. This thing — this story, this film — it had lived inside your head for so long. And now it was real. Tangible. Yours.

For a moment, the exhaustion disappeared. For a moment, you let yourself feel it. The weight of creation, the ache of sacrifice, the sharp, burning pride of knowing you’d built something no one could take away.

Beside you, Hana pressed a hand to your shoulder, her voice softer than you expected. “You did it.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice, eyes stinging as the noise of the set carried on.

It was yours.

Even if soon, it wouldn’t belong only to you anymore.

The bar was buzzing when you arrived, crew scattered across tables, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Jungkook was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, tattoos stark under the dim lights. He caught your eye when you walked in, something unreadable flickering across his face, but he poured the drinks anyway.

Hours blurred. The set wrapped, Hana toasted, the crew drifted out one by one until the noise dwindled to silence. It was just you at the counter now, empty glass spinning beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook leaned on the bar, wiping down a spot that didn’t need it. “You’ve had enough.”

You laughed, sharp, bitter. “Don’t start with me. We finished the damn film, Jungkook. Let me celebrate.”

He didn’t answer, just set the rag down, watching you too closely.

The alcohol warmed your veins, loosened your tongue. “You know what’s funny?” You leaned forward, squinting at him. “I thought I left to protect you. To keep you from… from throwing it all away for me. But look at us.” You gestured wide, nearly knocking over the glass. “You own a bar. I’m making films. We’re fine.”

“Are we?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You flinched, heat crawling up your neck. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know better. Like you still—” Your throat tightened, but the liquor pushed the words out anyway. “Like you still love me.”

The silence after was brutal. Jungkook’s jaw flexed, his hands tightening around the bar.

“You think it’s that easy?” he asked, voice hard. “That I could just stop?”

Something inside you cracked, years of guilt bubbling up ugly. “You should’ve. God, Jungkook, you should’ve let me go. You should’ve hated me after what I did to you.”

He laughed, sharp and bitter. “You think I didn’t try? You think I don’t wake up every damn day wishing I could erase you?” His voice broke, raw now. “But I can’t. And you know it.”

Your chest heaved, tears burning hot as the alcohol twisted everything louder, sharper. “Then why the fuck are we here, Jungkook? Why are we still tearing each other apart if neither of us can move on?”

Neither of you had the answer.

The bar sat quiet, heavy, the air between you thicker than the liquor in your veins.

The fight hung in the air, sharp and raw, both of you breathing hard like you’d been running. The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable.

Jungkook finally broke it, grabbing the rag he’d tossed aside. “Bar’s closed.”

You blinked, bleary. “What?”

He gestured to the door, already flipping the lock. “Closing up. You’re too drunk to go home like this.”

You bristled, pushing clumsily off the stool. “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can.” His tone was dry, flat. He caught you by the elbow when you swayed. “Come on.”

You tried to shake him off, but your balance betrayed you, your body tipping into his. His grip tightened, steady, familiar.

“Don’t—” your voice cracked, soft and slurred, “don’t act like you still get to do this.”

His jaw flexed, eyes dark as they locked on yours. “I don’t want to,” he said, rough. “But I’m not letting you stumble home alone. So either I call someone, or you’re coming with me.”

Your chest squeezed, the fight draining into something heavier. “You’re still bossy as hell,” you muttered, but your voice was softer now, tired.

He didn’t rise to it. Just slipped your arm over his shoulder, steadying your weight as he guided you out the back door, locking up behind him.

The night air hit cool against your flushed cheeks. The walk was quiet, your steps uneven, his hand a solid weight at your side. Every brush of contact sent sparks through you, even now, even after everything you’d said.

The apartment was dim when he guided you inside, the familiar clutter of cables and papers scattered across the desk in his little studio corner. You stumbled over your own shoes, muttering a curse, and Jungkook caught you again—hands firm on your waist this time, steadying you before you could fall.

“Careful,” he murmured.

Too close. Way too close.

You squirmed in his grip, heat crawling up your neck, the alcohol buzzing too loud in your veins. “I said—I can handle myself.”

“Sure,” he muttered, not letting go.

The steadiness of his hands made your chest clench. You tried to pull back, to shrug him off, but your body betrayed you, tipping forward instead. The sound that left you—small, broken, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper—slipped out before you could stop it.

Both of you froze.

Your cheeks burned, humiliation searing through the fog of liquor. His breath caught, his fingers flexing against your sides, but he didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t pull. Just held you there, solid and silent, while the sound hung in the air like a secret neither of you knew what to do with.

Then, slowly, Jungkook exhaled. His hands loosened just enough to guide you toward the couch. “Sit,” he said, voice low, rough, but controlled. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep fighting me.”

You dropped onto the cushion, burying your face in your hands. The alcohol churned in your stomach, your chest tight with the echo of that humiliating sound.

Jungkook disappeared into the kitchen, the clink of a glass and the rush of water filling the silence. When he came back, he set it on the table in front of you, his eyes carefully avoiding yours.

“Drink,” he said simply.

You nodded, too ashamed to argue.

And that was it. Nothing happened. Nothing but the heavy weight of your own body remembering his touch, your own voice betraying you

The night ended without another word. Jungkook guided you to his bedroom, setting you down on the edge of the mattress. You mumbled a protest, but he just shook his head, pulling a blanket over you.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said firmly, voice flat. “Sleep.”

When you woke, the sun was already streaming through the blinds, soft and golden across the sheets. The headache was sharp, but not as sharp as the jolt of realizing whose bed you were in.

The sound of movement drew you out of your haze. Jungkook was in the kitchen, hair messy, shirt wrinkled, a glass of water and two aspirin in his hand. He paused when he saw you sitting up, blinking at him blearily.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was low, still rough with sleep, but gentler than you’d expected. He crossed the room, setting the glass on the nightstand. “Take these. You’ll feel better.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “You… you gave me your bed?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. “I wasn’t gonna let you sleep on the couch like that.”

Something in your chest twisted. He didn’t owe you this. He didn’t owe you anything. And yet here he was, quiet, careful, making sure you were okay.

You took the aspirin with shaking fingers, sipping the water. The silence pressed in until you couldn’t stand it. “Why are you—” Your voice cracked. “Why are you still like this with me?”

That made him look at you. His eyes were tired, dark, but soft in a way that stripped you bare.

“Because it’s you,” he said simply, almost like he hated himself for it. “And I don’t know how not to be.”

The words hit like a strike, your breath catching, your chest tightening until it hurt.

That softness—the care in his hands, the quiet in his voice—was worse than anger, worse than the fight, worse than every kiss and every touch. Because it reminded you of exactly why you’d fallen in love with him in the first place.

“Jungkook…” His name came out as a whisper, broken, like saying it might undo everything.

But then he moved.

Two steps, and he was right there, standing over you, his shoulders broad enough to block the light. His hand came up, hesitating for just a second before brushing a strand of hair from your face. His thumb lingered at your temple, the touch so careful it made your eyes sting.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours. “But I can’t stop.”

And before you could answer—before you could breathe—he bent down and kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate like the last time, wasn’t rushed or clumsy. It was slow, the kind of kiss that said I’ve been waiting for this since the second you left me. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that only made the heat coil tighter in your chest.

You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He shifted, sinking onto the bed beside you, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking soft over your cheekbone like you were something fragile even as the kiss deepened.

The taste of him, the warmth of him—it was overwhelming. A flood. A relief. A punishment.

When you pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his, the space between you gone.

“I was so scared of ruining you,” you whispered, voice trembling.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you steady. “You never ruined me. You just… left me.” His voice cracked, low and raw. “And I don’t think I ever stopped waiting.”

Tears blurred your vision, but you kissed him again anyway—because words were too small for what you felt. Because after everything, after all the running, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.

Not this time.

The kiss turned frantic, years of restraint shredding in seconds. Jungkook’s hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to touch first—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your thigh. Each graze of his calloused fingers set your skin on fire.

You tugged at his shirt, desperate, and he broke the kiss only long enough to drag it over his head. The sight of him—broader now, ink curling over his skin, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths—made your stomach flip, your throat tighten.

“Fuck,” you whispered, reaching for him like you were starved.

He caught your hand, pressing it to his chest, his eyes burning into yours. “Tell me you want this.”

Your lips trembled, but the answer came steady, fierce. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

That undid him.

His mouth crashed back to yours, urgent, hungry. Clothes disappeared clumsily, tossed to the floor without care. The mattress dipped under his weight as he pressed you down, every inch of him hot and solid against you.

When he slid into you, the world dropped out.

You gasped, clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he buried his face in your neck. A groan ripped from his chest, low and wrecked, the sound of years of want and restraint breaking all at once.

He moved with a rough rhythm at first, almost too much, but then his pace softened—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour you or worship you. His lips found your collarbone, your jaw, your mouth again, each kiss desperate and unsteady.

“God, you feel—” His voice cracked, his forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “You feel like home.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, your chest aching with the weight of it all. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Don’t ever stop.”

The words sent him spiraling. His thrusts deepened, his hand gripping yours, fingers locking tight as if he could anchor you both against everything that had torn you apart before.

Every sound, every gasp, every touch was messy, unfiltered, too much and not enough.

And when you both came undone, it wasn’t clean. It was raw. Shaking. A sob tangled with a groan, your body trembling in his arms as he clutched you tight, like he was afraid you’d slip away all over again.

The room was heavy with it—sweat, silence, the undeniable truth of what you’d just done.

And for once, neither of you ran.

The silence after was heavy, broken only by the uneven rhythm of your breaths. Jungkook collapsed beside you, one arm still clinging tight around your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder like he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Your chest rose and fell against his, your skin slick with sweat, your pulse still racing. You wanted to say something, anything, but every word you thought of sounded too small for what just happened.

Jungkook’s thumb traced absent patterns over your hip, slow and absentminded. The touch was gentler than it had any right to be after the way he’d just unraveled inside you.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, rough and quiet. “I don’t… I don’t know what happens after this.”

Your throat tightened. You turned slightly, meeting his eyes in the dim light. They were tired, but raw, stripped of the sharp edges he usually wore.

“Neither do I,” you admitted, your voice just as soft.

The truth sat between you, unfixable, undeniable.

And still, when his hand slid up to your face, cupping your cheek like you were something precious, you leaned into it. You kissed him once more, slow this time, not frantic but deep, steady, as if both of you needed the reassurance that it wasn’t just lust pulling you together.

When you finally drifted off, it was with his arms still around you, your face tucked against his chest.

The morning came slow, sunlight spilling across tangled sheets. You stirred awake to the warmth of him pressed against you, his lips brushing lazily along your shoulder before you’d even opened your eyes.

“Morning,” Jungkook murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.

You hummed, rolling onto your back, and that was all it took. His mouth found yours again, no hesitation this time—hungry and tender all at once.

You hadn’t meant to make a sound, but the moan slipped out anyway, soft and broken against the quiet morning air.

“Shit, Jungkook—”

That was all it took. His mouth was on your neck instantly, lips hot and desperate, teeth scraping at sensitive skin until it stung. Almost too sharp. Almost painful. But God, it felt good. It felt like fire licking down your spine.

Your body arched, clutching at his shoulders as he pressed you down into the mattress. His breath was ragged in your ear, every kiss rougher than the last, as if he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t taste enough.

You were alive—too alive. Every nerve lit up, every inch of your skin buzzing under the weight of him. And all you could think, all you could feel, was that you had this beautiful man in his bed, kissing you like he was starving, touching you like he couldn’t remember where to start.

Because his hands couldn’t choose. They roamed everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your ribs—restless, greedy, leaving heat in their wake. Your skin burned wherever he touched, your chest heaving as the need rose sharp and dizzy inside you.

“God, you’re—” Jungkook’s voice broke against your throat, his breath hot, his mouth trailing lower, each kiss rougher than the last. His words came out in a groan, raw and helpless. “You’re so fucking hot.”

The sound of it tore through you, leaving your body trembling. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer, needing more, needing everything.

His lips wandered further down, mapping a trail across your skin, slow but purposeful. Every graze of his mouth sent sparks up your spine, every scrape of teeth left you raw and aching. He was looking for something—listening to your gasps, the arch of your body, like he wanted to learn you all over again.

Then he hit the spot that made your breath stutter, your hips twitching helplessly against him.

Jungkook pulled back just enough to glance up at you, lips swollen, hair falling into his eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “This good?” he asked, his voice dark and teasing, but his gaze burned, sharp and hungry.

“Yes,” you gasped, too quick, too raw, your back arching against the sheets.

That smirk curved sharper, and then he gave in, kissing, sucking, devouring until you were squirming under him, sounds spilling from your lips no matter how hard you tried to hold them back.

“Jungkook—” His name cracked in your throat, a plea and a curse.

“Can you feel how you get me, baby?” Jungkook’s voice rasped against your ear, low and wrecked, every word dripping with want. His hips pressed harder into yours, and you could — the hard length of him grinding against your core with every shift.

His fingers roamed slow, teasing along the inside of your thighs, rough fingertips brushing higher and higher but never giving you what you craved. Your whole body burned, your heart hammering so violently you thought it might burst out of your chest.

“Yes,” you gasped, breath catching, “God, yes.”

And maybe it was the way he exuded confidence, the way his body hovered over yours like he owned every inch of you. Maybe it was the tattoos curling down his arms, black ink stark against golden skin, his muscles flexing as he held you steady. Whatever it was, you’d never felt like this before—never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet so incredibly sexy.

His lips curved into the faintest smirk as his fingers skimmed dangerously close, pulling back at the last second. “Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze dragging over your body. “So desperate for me.”

“Please,” you whispered, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. Your voice cracked, shaky, almost a beg. “Please touch me, Jungkook.”

The smirk vanished, replaced with something darker, hungrier. His fingers slid higher, finally pressing where you needed him most. You gasped, hips jerking up into his hand, your body betraying how badly you needed him.

“There it is,” he muttered, his breath hot against your jaw. “Fuck, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”

Your moan broke free, helpless, as his mouth crashed back to yours, his tongue sliding past your lips while his fingers worked you open. Every stroke made you burn hotter, tighter, until your whole body was trembling beneath him, completely undone under his touch.

“Please,” you whimpered, hips rocking up into his hand.

“Mm,” he hummed, deliberately pulling back just enough to make you whine. “Not yet.”

You gasped, frustrated, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Jungkook—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing the sound, then pulled back, lips glistening. His eyes burned down at you, dark and sharp. “I want to hear it. All of it. Tell me how bad you want it.”

His fingers grazed you again, featherlight, teasing along your folds but never slipping inside. It was maddening, unbearable. You arched against him, your voice breaking. “I need you, please, I can’t—”

“Not good enough,” he interrupted, his tone low, almost taunting, his hand still moving slow and cruel. “Say it right.”

Your chest heaved, humiliation and desire tangled so tight you couldn’t tell them apart anymore. “I want you,” you cried, desperate, your hips jerking into his palm. “I want your fingers, I want your cock, I want you, Jungkook—please, I need it so fucking bad.”

That finally broke him. His smirk faltered, his eyes going darker, hungrier, like your words had ripped the last thread of his control.

“Fuck,” he groaned, crushing his mouth back to yours. His fingers slid inside you at last, deep and rough, making you gasp into the kiss. “That’s it, baby. That’s what I wanted.”

Your moans spilled against his lips, every thrust of his hand dragging you higher, his thumb circling until you were trembling apart in his arms, begging louder, messier, until his name was the only thing you could say.

Your body was trembling, your thighs clenching around his hand as his fingers worked you open, thumb circling just right. Heat coiled sharp and fast in your stomach, the pressure building until it was unbearable.

“Jungkook—” Your voice cracked, a sob disguised as a moan. “I’m—fuck, I’m so close—”

“Yeah?” His lips brushed your ear, his voice low and smug. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, please, let me—”

But just as the edge crested, just as your body trembled on the verge of breaking, his hand slipped away.

You choked on the sound that left you, somewhere between a sob and a curse. “Jungkook—!”

He pulled his fingers from you slow, deliberate, holding your gaze as he dragged them across your swollen lips before sliding them into his own mouth. His tongue curled around them, his eyes dark, devouring.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sucking them clean. “You taste so good.”

You shook your head, half-crazed, your hips grinding helplessly against nothing. “You—why would you—”

“Because I want you desperate,” he cut in, his smirk sharp, wicked. His hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I want you shaking, messy, so hungry for me you can’t think about anything else.”

You whimpered, humiliated by how badly you needed it, your thighs pressing together for friction.

He leaned down, kissing you rough, his tongue pushing past your lips, making you taste yourself on him. When he pulled back, his voice was a growl.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes,” you blurted, no hesitation, no shame. “God, yes, please, Jungkook—”

“Then beg harder, baby. Show me just how much you need it.”

Your chest heaved, shame and need tangling until you couldn’t hold anything back anymore. “I need you, Jungkook—fuck, I need your cock so bad, I can’t—please, please, I’ll do anything—”

That did it.

His eyes went dark, the smirk slipping into something hungrier, rougher. He grabbed your thighs, spreading you open wide, and lined himself up without another word.

And then he drove into you in one hard thrust.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed, the sudden stretch stealing your breath. He groaned deep in his chest, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he bottomed out, holding there, savoring the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, his voice raw. “You feel unreal. So fucking tight around me.”

You whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he pulled back and slammed into you again, harder this time. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, loud, obscene, as he set a brutal rhythm that had you gasping, crying out with every thrust.

“Jungkook—” Your voice broke, high and needy. “God, don’t stop, don’t—”

“I couldn’t stop if I tried,” he growled, his pace relentless now. His hand slid up your body, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you gasp, his thumb stroking your jaw as his hips drove harder. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

The words sent a shockwave through you, your body clenching tighter, the pleasure coiling fast, too fast. You sobbed his name, your thighs shaking as he pounded into you, his free hand reaching down to circle your clit with rough, desperate precision.

“Come for me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with the force of it. “I wanna feel you lose it around me.”

You shattered, pleasure crashing through you in violent waves, your cry muffled by his kiss as your body convulsed beneath him. You clung to him, shaking, your cunt pulsing around his cock until he groaned loud and guttural, his rhythm faltering.

He spilled inside you with a curse, hips jerking, his forehead pressed to yours as he rode it out, panting, sweat dripping from his temple onto your skin.

When it finally ebbed, he collapsed against you, both of you trembling, slick with sweat, tangled together in the sheets. His breath was hot against your neck, his arms still wrapped around you like he couldn’t let go.

And in the silence after, one truth settled between you:

It wasn’t just carnal.

It was years of hunger, hurt, and love colliding.

The room was still spinning when the last tremor left your body. Jungkook’s weight pressed into you, grounding you, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His cock still pulsed inside you, buried deep, keeping you full as his arms held you close like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Neither of you moved.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, wild, too loud in the silence. You expected him to roll away, to pull back and put distance between you, but he didn’t. Instead, Jungkook’s hand slid up, slow, almost hesitant, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. His thumb lingered against your cheekbone, gentle in a way that made your throat ache.

“Baby,” he whispered, the word raw, broken. Like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t trust yourself to respond, not when your chest was already too tight, not when his voice carried that much weight.

He kissed you then, softer than he had all night. No hunger. No urgency. Just a slow press of lips, tender and steady, like a confession without words.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in. One of his hands stayed tangled with yours, thumb tracing over your knuckles absentmindedly. The kind of touch that said he didn’t want to let go, even if he knew he eventually had to.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like neither of you were running. Just lying there, tangled in the mess you’d made, clinging to the fragile quiet while it lasted.

The weight of sleep crept over you both slowly, pulling you under in the warmth of tangled sheets and each other’s arms.

When you stirred again, sunlight had shifted across the room, brighter now, streaking through the blinds in golden slants. You blinked, stretching against the heat of Jungkook’s body, still heavy and warm at your back. His arm was draped around your waist, his breath slow against your shoulder, steady in the kind of sleep you remembered from years ago—deep, safe, unguarded.

You let yourself watch him for a moment when he finally stirred. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, his mouth soft and relaxed in a way you didn’t get to see often. He groaned low, his arm tightening around you before he cracked one eye open.

“What time is it?” he rasped, voice rough with sleep.

“Past noon,” you murmured, smiling faintly.

His brow furrowed, and then his stomach growled—loud enough to make you both laugh. The sound broke the silence, easing the weight in the air.

“Guess we skipped breakfast,” you teased, rolling onto your back.

Jungkook pushed his hair back, smirking, though his cheeks flushed faintly pink. “Yeah, well… we were busy.”

The memory of his mouth on your skin, the heat of his body against yours, flashed hot in your mind, making your face warm all over again. You buried it under a laugh, but it came out softer, breathier than you meant.

His gaze lingered on you a second too long, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Then he stretched, sitting up, muscles flexing as the tattoos along his arm caught the sunlight.

“Come on,” he said, voice lighter than before. “Let’s get something to eat before we starve.”

And just like that—after all the years, the heartbreak, the messy night before—you found yourself climbing out of his bed, padding into his kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The kitchen smelled of broth and spice, steam curling lazily from the bowls between you. You sat on the counter, legs dangling, while Jungkook leaned against the opposite edge, chopsticks in hand, hair falling into his eyes.

For a while, it almost felt normal. Domestic. Easy.

But then you set your chopsticks down, pushing out a breath. “The soundtrack’s basically done. Hana will get the final cut next week. After that… the film’s over. All of it.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on you, too sharp for the casualness of the moment. Then, finally:

“So this,” he said slowly, his voice low, careful. “All of this—it’s just business, right?”

The words landed heavy, heavier than you were ready for.

You froze, pulse hammering in your throat. It would’ve been easier to nod, to say yes and put the wall back up. But when you met his eyes—dark, searching, a flicker of something vulnerable underneath—you couldn’t.

Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “No.”

The word hung there, trembling, too raw to take back.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightening as he set his chopsticks down with deliberate care. “Then what the fuck are we doing?” His voice wasn’t angry, not really—just strained, like he was holding back something bigger.

Your chest tightened, shame and longing colliding until you could barely breathe. “I don’t know,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “I just know it’s not… just business.”

The silence that followed was thick, stretching too long, your heart in your throat. His stare pinned you in place, unreadable, like he was fighting every thought at once.

Your throat went dry as the silence stretched, every second heavier than the last. Jungkook’s gaze was fixed on you—hard, burning—but beneath it was something else. Something raw.

And then he moved.

He crossed the small space in two strides, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, like he’d been holding it back for too long.

You gasped into the kiss, clutching at his shirt as he pressed himself between your knees, pulling you closer until you couldn’t breathe. It felt like breaking and coming home all at once.

When he finally tore back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you panting. His voice was hoarse, jagged. “You drive me fucking insane. Do you know that? I tried so hard to stay away, to treat this like nothing, but I can’t. I can’t when you’re right here.”

Your chest caved. The words clawed out of you before you could stop them. “I never wanted to leave you.”

He froze, his breath hitching.

“I only did it because—” Your voice cracked, the confession tumbling messy, raw. “Because I knew how much you loved me, Jungkook. And I was terrified. Terrified you’d throw everything away for me. Your music, your future. So I left before you could. I thought I was protecting you.”

His eyes searched yours, wild and pained. “Protecting me?” His hand tightened at your waist. “Baby, I didn’t want any of it without you.”

Tears burned your eyes, your throat closing. “And I didn’t want to be the reason you lost it. I loved you too much for that.”

The words hung between you, naked and trembling. Years of silence shattered in seconds, replaced with truths you’d both buried too deep.

Jungkook cupped your face, his voice breaking. “You think walking away hurt less?” He kissed you again, softer this time, tasting the salt of your tears. “I would’ve chosen you. Every time. Always you.”

And suddenly, the kitchen, the ramen, the years between you—it all blurred. There was just him. You. And the words you’d both been too scared to say until now.

The red carpet lights reflected in Jungkook’s tattoos as the two of you slipped out of the cab. It was months later, the film finished, the soundtrack wrapped, your names tied together in credits that would play for the world.

And yet, he stayed close, hand brushing yours as though he wasn’t sure if he should hold it. You didn’t move away.

The theater buzzed with industry chatter, festival lanyards swinging, champagne glasses clinking. Your heart pounded, nerves climbing higher with every step closer to the screening room.

“You nervous?” Jungkook asked, leaning close so you could hear him over the crowd.

You laughed breathlessly. “Terrified.”

His lips curved faintly. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Easy for you to say,” you teased, though your voice shook. “I wrote this script. Every word is mine. If people hate it, they’ll hate me.”

That pulled his eyes to you, sharp and steady. “I don’t think they will.”

The conviction in his tone caught you off guard.

He paused, considering, then added softly, “I could read you in it. Every line. Every scene. You put yourself on those pages, and that’s why it works.”

Your breath caught, warmth swelling in your chest, too big for words. “And I could hear you in the music,” you whispered back. “Every note. Every chord. You’re all over it, Jungkook.”

For a moment, the noise of the festival faded. Just him. Just you.

His hand brushed yours again—gentle, hesitant. This time, you laced your fingers with his, steadying yourself with the contact.

Neither of you called it what you were. Not yet. But the truth hung between you, clear as the script and the songs you’d made together: you weren’t just friends anymore. Definitely not.

[joonie]

Sweet Dreams at Lollapalooza Berlin Hobipalooza

[hobi-side]

i'm truly trying to understand what actually happened here.... jokes aside tho i'm so proud of my hobi, he did so well

[hobi-side]

UPDATE !!!!!!! (AGAIN)

hello everyone 🫶

i’m really sorry for going completely silent this past month. i actually did plan to post (i even sat down to write several times) but i ended up scrapping everything because nothing felt right. definitely regretting that, but also... i might’ve been heavily inspired (and distracted) by the JITB party (i rewatched the bangtan bomb), the release of killing it girl, and especially what hoseok did on hots (yes, it got embarrassing. yes, i wrote something. yes, it’s horny).

i promise more one shots and story series with actual substance are on the way. i just need to untangle a few real life things so i can focus properly on writing again.

thank you for your patience. i’ll be posting soon 💜

[hobipowers]

ABSOLUTELY SICKENING

[hobi-side]

yeah i am not normal about this.... the second i watched this on my laptop all i could do was scream like he's sooooo fucking sexy

[hobi-side]

LITTLE UPDATE !!!!

hey folks, how’s everyone holding up after the end of the hots tour? good? bad? emotionally wrecked? still recovering from the fact that a certain someone went completely naked on stage??????? i’m gonna try (emphasis on try, because i’m still not totally happy with it) to post something today. y’all, i’m so hyped!!!!! bts is finally back (well, almost—yoongi boongi joins us next week 🥹). anyway, just wanted to let you know i’m working on a little series—nothing too major, just a fun project i’ve been playing with now that all the members are coming back from the military . 💜

[joonie]

‘Killin' It Girl (feat. GloRilla)’ - j-hope

[hobi-side]

GIRL HES SO FUCKING HOT IM GONNA CRY

[yoongikook]

12 YEARS WITH BTS 💜

for festa this year, please enjoy this small selection of bangtan moments that fundamentally altered my brain chemistry. when i started making this set, i really struggled to narrow down the options, because there are truly so many moments with bts that have changed my life and shaped who i am today. they have brought me incredible joy, and i am honored to call myself an army. here’s to many more years to come — apobangpo!

[hobi-side]

and btw happy 12th anniversary my seven ☹️☹️☹️

[94erz]

[hobi-side]

the gaze on its own its making me feral like....... this i'm sorry a one shot is coming out of this i can't pretend i'm not gonna write anything

[lovetales]

JIMIN & JUNGKOOK Military Discharge | 250611

[hobi-side]

my giggly babies ☹️☹️☹️

[jeonjungkoos]

welcome back namjoon and taehyung

[hobi-side]

we are so back

[bts-trans]

250605 Big Hit's Tweet

[#2025BTSFESTA] 🕛605 호석진 Photo (Classic ver.)📸 (https://weverse.io/bts/media/4-200534335) #BTS12thAnniversary #너무_눈부시니까_선글라스_주세요😎 밤낮가릴_틈_없이_잘생김🌙☀️ 우리가_함께_걸어온_시간💜

[#2025BTSFESTA]

🕛605 HoSeokjin Photo (Classic ver.)📸 (https://weverse.io/bts/media/4-200534335)

#BTS12thAnniversary #PleasePassThe_Sunglasses_AsTheyreTooBright😎 #Handsome_RegardlessOf_DayOrNight🌙☀️ #TimeOfUs_WalkingTogether💜

Trans cr; Annie @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[hobi-side]

my precious sun and moon duo. i'm so happy we'll have all of them back soon

[jung-koook]

250530 - bts on twitrer: j-hope ‘Killin' It Girl’ Concept Photo - 10 out of 1

[hobi-side]

I'm still not over whatever this is like he genuinely wants me to write him NASTY