Summary: When you're dragged to an underground party by your best friend, the last thing you expect is to be thrown into a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven — especially not with Jeon Jungkook, the brooding, sharp-tongued heartbreaker with a reputation that precedes him. You barely know him. He barely looks at anyone. But behind that locked door, time slows down, sparks fly, and he's done for. You're sure he'll forget you. He does. But now he’s on a mission to figure out who “Closet Girl” is — and your friends are doing everything they can to mess with him while keeping your identity secret.
genre: University AU | strangers to lovers (sort of)
warnings: flirting, mild romantic tension, social anxiety, embarrassment, minor illness, playful pranks, friendly manipulation, study stress, mild language, sarcastic banter, JK being so whipped, slow-burn romance, light comedy/drama, no serious harm
WC: 18k words
a/n: tumblr wouldn’t let me post it unless I split it into two parts…t’was too long…enjoy
Campus is buzzing. Not the usual hum of sleep-deprived students dragging themselves to class, but the kind of chaotic energy that only comes around when the weekend stretches ahead, warm and wide open.
The quad is drenched in golden late-afternoon sunlight, and the air smells like grass, iced coffee, and the subtle hint of sweat from people pretending they aren’t trying to look hot in 85-degree heat.
You’re weaving between bodies, textbooks tucked under your arm, when it catches your eye: a bright neon flier taped to nearly every lamppost, tree, and bulletin board in sight.
SINS & SAINTS
BIGGEST PARTY OF THE SEMESTER — 10PM @ THE PIT
SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN GAME 🔥 DON’T BE LAME
Yanni snatches one off a pole as you pass. “This is the moment, ladies.”
You don’t even give the flyer a second glance. “What moment? The one where you both fail your ethics paper because you were too busy shotgunning White Claws in someone’s moldy basement?”
“Oh my god, relax,” Jenna says, laughing. “It’s not moldy. They fixed the leak in April.”
You roll your eyes but let yourself smile as the three of you walk along the sidewalk, the late sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Yanni and Jenna look like they just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters ad — crop tops, layered jewelry, and enough confidence to set fire to half the student population.
And then there’s you. Not quite invisible, but definitely more “background character” than “main event.”
“You know this party’s gonna be huge, right?” Yanni says, waving the flier like it’s a golden ticket. “Last year someone jumped off the roof into the kiddie pool.”
“And broke their collarbone,” you point out.
“Legendary,” Jenna says, smirking.
You snatch the flier from Yanni’s hand, skimming it again. “Why would anyone voluntarily go to something with a ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ game advertised like a feature? We’re adults.”
“Are we?” Yanni asks, eyes twinkling.
“Technically,” Jenna adds. “But also—imagine the chaos. What if someone pulls Jungkook’s name?”
Your heart does a completely unacceptable little stutter at that.
Jeon Jungkook.
Tattooed, mysterious, chronically late to lectures (if he shows up at all), and very much the guy every girl on campus either wants to date, make out with, or get over. He’s got a motorcycle. He barely talks. He shows up to parties, hooks up with girls, then disappears like smoke.
And he’s beautiful. Obviously.
You’re not immune. You’ve had a crush on him since last semester, when he walked into your shared Intro to Media class twenty minutes late, helmet under his arm, chewing gum like he wasn’t the reason every girl in the room forgot what the professor was saying.
But Jungkook is a walking red flag. A whole carnival of them. And you’re smarter than that.
At least, you pretend to be.
“Literally everyone wants him,” Jenna says, reading your mind. “Even the TA from psych. She was full-on blushing when he asked for an extension.”
“Not surprised,” Yanni mutters. “He has that look — like he’s good at everything and knows it.”
“He probably is,” you say before you can stop yourself, then immediately regret it.
Your friends both stare at you, smirking like sharks.
“Wait,” Jenna says slowly, “do you have a thing for Jungkook?”
“No.” You say it too quickly. “God, no. I mean—everyone does. But I’m not stupid.”
“Just stupid-adjacent,” Yanni teases.
“Shut up.”
Before they can press you further, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”
You look up to see Park Jimin approaching, all sunshine and mischief, with Kim Taehyung sauntering behind him like he owns the sidewalk.
Jimin’s wearing a denim jacket over a mesh tank, and Taehyung’s got sunglasses on even though the sun’s nearly down. Between the two of them, they look like trouble you want to get into.
“Hey, ladies,” Jimin says, flashing a grin as he throws an arm over Yanni’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”
“Obviously,” Yanni replies, leaning into the attention.
“Can’t miss the annual disaster,” Jenna adds, high-fiving Taehyung like they’re in on some secret joke.
You cross your arms. “You guys seriously hyping up a party where people get locked in closets like it’s summer camp?”
“It’s not just any party,” Jimin says. “It’s The Pit. Sins & Saints theme. Black lights. Fake angel wings. Maybe some fake confessions.”
“Cages,” Taehyung adds casually, like that’s normal.
You blink. “Cages? What kind of party is this?”
“The fun kind,” Jimin winks. “You coming, Y/N?”
“I have an essay due.”
“So bring it with you. I’ll give you moral support while you drink tequila.”
“Tempting,” you say, deadpan. “But I actually want to pass this semester.”
Taehyung leans in, smirking. “Well, in case you change your mind… Jungkook’s gonna be there.”
There it is again. The name. The spark that lights your nerves like a match to gasoline.
You try to play it cool. “Why would that matter to me?”
Yanni coughs loudly. Jenna bites her lip to keep from laughing.
Jimin just grins, already turning away. “No reason. See you at ten.”
And with that, the two boys melt back into the crowd, leaving you with your friends, your unfinished essay, and the creeping sense that this night might not go according to plan.
The quad’s stretched out like a painting, glowing and slow, the heat bleeding off the pavement in soft waves. Everything’s dipped in gold — the trees, the brick buildings, even the stupid neon flyers plastered to every pole.
The bench — their bench — is right where it always is, half in shade, half in sun, like it can’t decide whether it wants to be chill or dramatic. Typical.
Jungkook drops down into his usual spot on the backrest, boots braced on the seat like he owns it. He probably does, at this point — nobody ever sits there unless one of them’s already claimed it.
Taehyung arrives next, flopping into the grass with a sigh so theatrical it could win awards.
“Dying,” he declares. “Melting. This is my final form.”
Jimin shows up with a popsicle he definitely didn’t pay for. “It’s like 85. You’re from Daegu, you’ve survived worse.”
“I have delicate lungs now,” Taehyung replies. “I’m an artist.”
“Your lung capacity’s fine, bro,” Jungkook says. “You were yelling at Rocket League until three.”
Taehyung scowls but doesn’t argue.
A group of girls walks by — upperclassmen, probably — and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way they glance over, not subtle at all. One of them straightens her hair in her reflection on a car window.
He ignores it. Sips his drink. Lets the sun warm his tattoos.
“Party’s gonna be insane tonight,” Jimin says through a mouthful of cherry ice. “Everyone’s going.”
“You say that like you’re not part of the chaos,” Jungkook mutters.
“I am the chaos.”
Jungkook smirks. “You’re five feet of glitter and bad decisions.”
“I’m five-nine,” Jimin says automatically.
“You’re lying.”
“Anyway,” Taehyung cuts in, flopping back so his head hits the grass with a dull thump, “I heard there’s gonna be like… cages. Real ones. Hanging from the ceiling.”
“Where the hell are they getting cages?” Jungkook asks.
“Probably the theater department,” Jimin says. “They owe me after I fixed their soundboard last semester.”
Jungkook makes a face. “You fixed it by slapping it until it stopped buzzing.”
“And it worked.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit — the kind only friends with a lot of shared damage can fall into. People keep walking past, all heading somewhere, all talking too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for the same indie film.
A guy on a skateboard nearly eats it trying to check his reflection in the library windows. A girl in a baby tee trips on absolutely nothing when she sees Jungkook watching her. Classic.
He doesn’t react. Barely blinks.
“You know,” Taehyung says, eyes still closed, “I was thinking about that Seven Minutes thing.”
“Oh god,” Jungkook mutters.
“No, listen. Imagine someone wild pulls your name. Like that girl who wears fangs and drinks blood out of a Hydro Flask.”
“She’s a performance artist,” Jimin corrects. “You’re so uncultured.”
“Imagine,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “you walk into the closet and it’s just like—BAM. Straight-up vampire romance. Feral energy. No escape.”
“I’d rather die,” Jungkook says.
“Sounds like fear,” Jimin singsongs.
“It’s common sense,” Jungkook replies. “That game is high school energy. It's gonna be twenty minutes of giggling and some drunk dude falling through the door trying to kiss someone who already regrets being born.”
Jimin snorts. “Wow. Poetic.”
“Look, I’m going,” Jungkook says, “but I’m not doing closet games. Not my scene.”
“You say that,” Taehyung mutters, cracking one eye open, “but if someone hot pulls your name…”
Jungkook shrugs. “Then she’s unlucky.”
And he means it — mostly. It’s just that… parties like this always end the same. Music too loud, drinks too warm, somebody crying in the bathroom, somebody making bad decisions on a lawn chair.
He doesn’t know why he keeps showing up. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe it’s the thrill of it — the crash of noise, the lights, the way nothing matters for a few hours.
Or maybe it's that feeling.
The possibility.
The moment right before something happens — when everything is charged and uncertain, and the right glance could flip the night on its head.
He exhales, eyes flicking toward a passing group of students. One girl — vaguely familiar — walks by clutching a tote bag and a half-melted iced matcha. Her face jogs something in his brain. A lecture hall, maybe? Media Studies?
He thinks he remembers her — quiet. Always early. Never looked at him, not even when he showed up late and took the seat next to the plug.
But it’s gone in a blink. Just another girl. Just another day.
Taehyung claps his hands suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Alright, sluts. Waffle truck or convenience store noodles?”
“Why are those the only options?” Jimin asks.
“Because I’m a man of taste.”
They get up, stretching, moving like they’re already vibrating with pre-party adrenaline. Jungkook trails behind, helmet in one hand, unread messages buzzing in his pocket.
He doesn’t look back.
He doesn’t notice the girl from the quad still sitting under the tree, book open, eyes half-lifted just as he passes.
He doesn't know her name.
Not yet.
The Pit is already pulsing when you arrive.
Bass thumps under your feet before you even step inside — not just music, but vibration, like the building itself is alive and slightly pissed off. The air smells like tequila, cheap perfume, and those weird vanilla vapes everyone insists are “barely noticeable.” Spoiler: they are very noticeable.
You stop just inside the doorway, blinking.
The party is absolutely unhinged.
There are blacklights everywhere — mounted on the rafters, strung across the ceilings, probably duct-taped to questionable surfaces. Someone’s set up an old confessional booth near the far wall, graffitied and backlit in red. A girl in a rhinestone halo is taking selfies in front of it while a guy dressed as a fallen angel — shirt unbuttoned to nowhere — does a keg stand behind her.
Above it all, a massive banner reads:
SINS & SAINTS: ENTER IF YOU DARE.
...which feels both deeply dramatic and deeply accurate.
There are actual cages suspended from the ceiling — only waist-high, like glorified birdcages, but still. One of them has a guy in white mesh pants swinging in it like it’s Cirque du Soleil. He howls something about forgiveness. No one knows what’s going on.
You take all of this in with wide eyes.
“Okay,” you say slowly, “what the hell.”
“I TOLD YOU,” Yanni shouts over the music, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. “They WENT OFF this year!”
“They should be arrested,” you mutter.
Jenna laughs beside you, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I feel like I just walked into the end of the world but make it horny.”
Yanni is wearing a sheer black top over a bralette made entirely of tiny silver crosses, her eyeliner winged out to her temples. Her skirt is so short it might be a threat to public safety.
Jenna went full Saint — white silk slip dress, little feathery halo bobbing over her curls, but with Doc Martens that say she’d still throw hands in the bathroom line.
And then there’s you.
You’d protested the theme all afternoon, but eventually gave in. You’re wearing ripped black jeans, a mesh top over a tank, and a red ribbon choker Yanni tied on you with too much enthusiasm. You didn’t go all-out like them, but you’re here. You showed up. That’s saying something.
Yanni loops her arm through yours and yells, “I swear to God, if I don’t end up in a cage by midnight, I’m suing.”
“They have cages, Yanni,” you say, scandalized. “That’s not normal.”
“I’m not normal,” she grins.
“That’s not comforting!”
You’re halfway toward the drink table when a blur of movement passes you — a guy in a leather jacket, dark hair, jaw like a hate crime. You don’t get a good look, just the impression of tattoos, combat boots, and a casual arrogance like he’s got the party rigged in his favor.
You turn back to the drinks.
Jenna, meanwhile, is adjusting her halo in her phone’s camera. “Okay, I’m thinking I make out with someone with wings. That’s my only rule.”
“Are they required to earn them first?” you ask.
“No, they just have to not be annoying.”
“So… no one here, basically,” you deadpan.
Yanni dumps some suspicious jungle juice into a cup and hands it to you. “Drink. Or at least pretend to. You’re giving off ‘I’m only here for field research’ energy.”
You take a sip and grimace. “This tastes like Hawaiian Punch and college debt.”
“Exactly,” Jenna says. “We’re setting the tone.”
You pass by a hallway draped in red curtains — probably where the Seven Minutes game is happening. Someone stumbles out with smeared lipstick and a dazed smile.
“Oh my god,” you say. “This is summer camp. This is hot, humid, horny summer camp.”
Yanni beams. “A dream come true.”
You’re halfway across the room when you bump into someone — solid chest, sharp elbows. You step back, muttering, “Sorry,” but the guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times.
Again, you don’t get a good look.
Again, you feel that flicker — like something important just brushed past you.
“Who was that?” you ask, mostly to yourself.
Jenna squints after him. “I don’t know. Pretty sure he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad though.”
You shake it off.
This night is too much already — too loud, too crowded, too… Jungkook-shaped. And you’re not here for that. You’re here to survive, observe, and possibly rescue your friends from questionable decisions.
So far, you’re one-for-three.
Yanni grabs your arm. “Okay. I’ve spotted three girls from my art class, two guys I ghosted, and a literal priest costume. Where are the drinks that don’t taste like regret?”
“There are none,” you say. “We are the drinks that taste like regret.”
Jenna raises her cup like a toast. “To sinning responsibly.”
“To surviving this chaos,” you mutter, sipping again.
And across the room, under strobing lights and smoke machine haze, Jungkook leans against the wall near the DJ booth, scanning the crowd.
His eyes flick right past you.
Just a blur of black mesh, red ribbon, and glittering annoyance.
He doesn’t even register it.
But something in him shifts — like he knows he’s missing something. Or someone.
He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, lifts his drink, and watches the crowd move like waves around him.
You’re both here.
You’re both waiting.
You just don’t know it yet.
Jungkook leans against the wall like he’s not trying.
He isn’t.
He’s dressed in all black — ripped jeans, oversized button-down left open over a tank, silver chains catching just enough light to look intentional. His boots are scuffed from the bike ride over, and he hasn't even bothered to fix the strands of hair falling into his eyes.
Still, people look.
People always look.
The Pit is packed. The lights strobe like they’re malfunctioning, bodies moving in all directions, glitter and sweat and wings everywhere. The blacklight catches on teeth, neon paint, the rims of Solo cups. Music throbs like a second heartbeat, drowning out anything that sounds like common sense.
Jungkook watches it all unfold with the calm detachment of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
Which, to be fair, he has.
“Cages,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Really.”
Taehyung reappears at his side, holding two drinks and no sense of subtlety. “You say that like you’re not impressed.”
“I’m not not impressed,” Jungkook says, eyeing a girl in LED horns who’s currently being hoisted into one of the hanging cages by two frat boys in priest collars. “I’m just wondering if this place passed fire code.”
Jimin sidles up on the other side, chewing gum like a menace. “God, I love when everyone’s desperate and underdressed. The vibe tonight is filthy.”
“It’s not a vibe,” Jungkook says, deadpan. “It’s a liability.”
“You’re just mad because you haven’t been recognized by someone hot yet.”
“I literally got here three minutes ago.”
“That’s three whole minutes too long, lover boy.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling faintly.
He scans the room again, letting the visuals wash over him: angel wings, devil horns, fake blood, fake rosaries, someone with a real sword (???), a couple making out aggressively near the “Confess Here” booth. Typical Pit energy, just turned up to eleven.
His gaze passes over a trio near the drink table — glitter, halos, fishnets — then slides away again, uninterested.
Then—
No.
He pauses.
Barely.
There’s a girl in black mesh, red ribbon tight around her throat.
Not the type trying to be seen. Not the type posing or pouting or clinging to someone’s arm. Just… there. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.
She’s not looking at him.
He doesn’t know why he notices.
Something about the way she holds herself — casual, a little stiff. Like she showed up for the party but didn’t want to. Like she’s in it, but not of it. It’s a detail, but he’s always been good at catching those.
He’s pretty sure he’s seen her before.
Class maybe? One of the early ones, back when he still showed up?
He narrows his eyes. Something tickles the back of his mind — a row of seats, a laptop screen, a girl who never once looked his way even when he was late and loud and trying not to be noticed by a professor.
He’d filed it away as nothing.
And maybe it still is.
He watches her for one more second — how she crinkles her nose at the drink in her hand, how her friend with the silver cross top yells something and throws her head back laughing.
Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and the moment breaks.
“Hyung,” a guy shouts over the music — some junior he’s barely talked to — “the Seven Minutes room is right there. You better hope someone sins you into the closet.”
“I’m good,” Jungkook says without missing a beat.
“You sure?” the guy winks. “Heard even the quiet girls are wild tonight.”
Taehyung lets out an ungodly laugh.
Jimin fans himself. “God, I love this place.”
Jungkook exhales slowly and glances back toward the girl in the mesh top, the one he maybe-kinda remembers from Media Studies.
She’s walking away now, swallowed by bodies and wings and fog machine haze.
And just like that, she’s gone again
SINS & SAINTS
10:47 PM — The Pit
You’re halfway through your second regrettable drink — something red and radioactive that tastes like melted cherry Jolly Ranchers and lies — when you realize:
Jenna is gone.
Not lost in the crowd gone. Not hooked up with some guy in a halo gone.
Like, vanished.
You scan the sea of limbs and glitter, the swirling blacklights and wall-to-wall bass drops.
No halo. No white silk dress. No Doc Martens stomping some poor frat guy’s foot for getting handsy.
“Wait,” you say, turning to Yanni. “Where’s Jenna?”
Yanni’s still dancing, holding her drink above her head and vibing to something bass-heavy. She doesn’t hear you.
You poke her side. “Yanni. Where. Is. Jenna.”
She freezes, eyes scanning the room with the same dawning horror you’re feeling.
“Oh my god,” she says, gripping your arm. “She was just here.”
“She was literally next to us two minutes ago.”
“She does this sometimes,” Yanni says, frowning. “Remember Halloween? She disappeared for an hour and came back with a matching tattoo with a guy named Car Battery.”
“That was ONE time,” you groan. “And she still won’t tell us where the tattoo is.”
Yanni downs the rest of her drink like it’s going to give her psychic powers. “Okay, we split up. You check the front half, near the drinks. I’ll do a lap by the DJ booth. Scream if she’s in a cage.”
“Or if you end up in one,” you mutter.
She kisses your cheek and takes off, glitter trailing in her wake.
You push through the crowd, slipping past a group of devils grinding to a slowed-down Britney remix, dodging a couple who are definitely fighting and definitely still holding hands.
You pause near the drink station again, heart thumping a little harder than it should.
Still no Jenna.
Just more suspicious liquids in plastic cups and a guy pouring straight vodka into a Capri Sun.
Then—
“Y/N!”
You whip around just as Yanni reappears, hair a little more disheveled, glitter smudged under one eye like war paint.
“I found her,” she pants, grabbing your hand. “You’re not gonna believe where she is.”
“Dead in a bathtub?”
“No.”
“In a cage?”
“Worse.”
“Yanni—”
“She’s at the Seven Minutes in Heaven room.”
You blink. “You’re lying.”
“I swear on my third ex’s face tattoo.”
You let her drag you toward the back hallway — the one that’s been curtained off with red velvet and glowing like Satan’s waiting room. A line snakes down the corridor, people laughing and hollering and shoving toward a closet door guarded by two dudes in fake pope robes.
You round the corner and — yup.
There’s Jenna.
Sitting on a stool like royalty, halo tilted sideways, red Solo cup in hand, absolutely thriving.
She’s laughing, clapping, cheering as two strangers stumble out of the closet, sweaty and flushed and looking either victorious or traumatized. Probably both.
You stop in your tracks. “She’s a ringmaster.”
“She’s drunk on power,” Yanni adds, mouth open.
Jenna spots you both and waves like you’re long-lost war heroes.
“MY GIRLS!!” she yells. “You made it!!”
“You left us,” you shoot back.
She shrugs like that’s a problem for another timeline. “I was recruited.”
“What does that even mean?”
“They needed a hostess! I’m very charming!”
Yanni sighs. “This is how cults start.”
Before you can pry her off the stool, someone shouts, “NEXT UP!” and the line shoves forward. A girl pulls her own roommate in by the arm, both of them shrieking as the door slams shut behind them.
You look at Jenna. “This is out of control. We’re leaving.”
“Not until you try it!”
“Absolutely not.”
Yanni laughs. “Let’s just grab her and go—”
But the line moves again, someone shoves forward, and suddenly—
Everything goes wrong at once.
Hands. Shouting. Laughter. Some guy yells, “MAKE ROOM!”
You’re trying to yank Jenna off her unofficial throne, still yelling about how this is not how a party should go, when chaos breaks loose.
Someone shoves the line.
A drink spills.
People are yelling.
The couple in front of the closet stumbles out like they’ve just done three laps around a football field.
You try to back away — but too late.
Hands shove you forward. “Next up!”
Yanni screams, “Wait, she’s not playing!”
“I’m not playing!” you yell, too.
Doesn’t matter. The crowd’s already decided.
The closet door swings open.
You get pushed inside — completely alone.
Click.
The door slams shut behind you. Darkness swallows everything.
You stumble, trip over a shoe or someone’s forgotten dignity, and land against the back wall, trying to breathe.
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die in here. This is it. I’m gonna be found in a party closet.”
You fumble toward the doorknob, already plotting your escape—
And then the door opens again.
A warm body stumbles in, tall and solid and smelling unfairly good — like cedarwood, clean laundry, and a bad idea.
The door slams shut again.
Across the party, Jungkook is just trying to find a bathroom that doesn’t reek of four Loko and sin.
He’s halfway through a hallway that looks suspiciously off-limits when someone calls his name.
“Jeon Jungkook!”
He turns.
It’s some girl he barely knows. She’s got lipstick on her teeth and one shoe in her hand.
“Come ON,” she says, “we need more hot people for the closet game. You’ll save this party. I swear.”
He blinks. “I’m not doing that.”
“Too late!” she says, grabbing his arm with terrifying strength. “Come on, it’ll be funny! You’re hot and mysterious and your face should be illegal.”
“I’m going to sue this entire building,” Jungkook mutters, but the girl is already dragging him.
He doesn’t know why he lets her.
Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he doesn’t care.
Maybe it’s because this party has reached new heights of ridiculous and he needs a story to make it worth the hangover.
They reach the red curtain. The line parts.
You don’t know who you hate more — Jenna for signing a blood pact with the party demons, or the crowd for shoving you into this glorified coat coffin like it’s part of the plan.
You've been in here for maybe a minute. Two tops. But time moves differently when you’re trapped in darkness, breathing the humid remains of other people’s bad decisions.
It’s cramped. It smells like body spray and spilled White Claw. The door has no handle from the inside. And you're about to start monologuing to the ceiling when—
The door opens again.
You freeze. “Wait—”
A guy stumbles in. Tall, broad-shouldered, all dressed in black with just enough chain action to suggest this person owns at least one motorcycle and zero alarm clocks.
You recognize him in an instant — because your subconscious hates you and made sure to memorize that face like it was an exam topic.
Jeon Jungkook.
He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy brushing off whoever just shoved him in.
“Okay, okay—Jesus. Don’t break my arm,” he mutters. Then, to the closet, “Sorry, whoever you are. I’m not here voluntarily.”
You don't say anything.
He finally glances your way.
A pause.
“…Huh.”
You cross your arms. “Not who you were expecting?”
“Not even close,” he says, like it’s a compliment and a complaint in one.
The door slams behind him. The lock clicks.
Now it’s just you. Him. Darkness. And a six-inch gap of air between you that’s slowly shrinking the longer you try not to acknowledge how small this closet actually is.
Jungkook shifts, probably trying to give you space, which is hilarious because there is none.
“Look,” you say, “I’m only in here because someone shoved me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Cool. So neither of us is having fun.”
“Yet,” he says, too easily.
You narrow your eyes, not that he can see it. “You really think that line works on girls in closets?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”
You make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Okay, no. You’re not allowed to be hot and full of shit.”
“Not full of shit,” he says. “Mildly irritating at most.”
“Mildly?”
He leans back against the wall. “Okay, moderately. Maybe.”
“Glad we agree.”
You try to shift your weight without brushing against him, which fails, because there’s nowhere to move. Your elbow bumps his arm. Your knee grazes his boot.
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m putting you on a movement ban.”
“Excuse me?”
“You keep flailing around like that, I’m gonna get accused of starting something in here.”
“You are starting something. With your whole… vibe.”
He grins. “My vibe?”
“Yeah, the ‘mysterious party menace’ thing.”
“Didn’t realize that was my brand.”
“Oh, come on. You walk into every lecture like you’re arriving late to your own funeral.”
“You know me from lecture?”
Shit.
You freeze.
“I—” You recover, sort of. “I mean, yeah. You’re not exactly hard to notice. Motorcycle helmet? Black hoodie in May? The whole tortured poet aura?”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“No, I—shut up.”
He steps closer, just barely. His voice drops into that annoying, amused register that you suspect makes girls fall in love against their will.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m trapped. There’s a difference.”
“Still,” he says, tone low, teasing, “you’re very talkative for someone who didn’t want to be in here.”
You suck in a breath. “I’m trying to defuse the awkward tension.”
“Well,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you’re not doing a great job.”
You go still. “…Why?”
“Because if you don’t stop fidgeting and talking at a hundred miles an hour,” he says, voice light but just a little dangerous, “I’m gonna kiss you just to shut you up.”
Your brain whites out.
You forget how to stand.
You definitely forget how to breathe.
You make a noise that could be a laugh, or possibly a system reboot.
“…That’s rude,” you manage.
Jungkook grins. “Is it working?”
You blink at him. Slowly.
“…That’s your solution? Kissing as a silencing tactic?”
Jungkook smirks. “Efficient.”
You squint at him in the dark. “That’s assault with extra steps.”
“Only if it’s not well received.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, shoving lightly at his arm. “You’re actually worse in real life.”
He laughs, like that didn’t wound you at all. “In real life? What, you’ve imagined a better version of me somewhere else?”
You hesitate for half a second too long.
He catches it. Of course he does.
His smile shifts — not smug now, but curious. “Wait. Do I know you?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? You’re acting like you’ve had a whole character arc about me.”
“I just have good observational skills.”
“And a little crush?”
You snort. “Please. I only crush on emotionally available people.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he says, mock offended. “I just don’t like… people.”
“That’s literally the definition.”
Jungkook moves a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Like someone stepping past your comfort zone just to prove they can. His voice is quiet, playful.
“Okay, but be honest — if I had kissed you, what would you have done?”
You meet his gaze in the dim light. Your heart does an actual backflip, but your mouth?
Deadpan.
“Bitten you.”
He grins, all teeth. “Kinky.”
You roll your eyes so hard you almost see god. “You are unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
Another beat passes.
The party noise pulses outside. The door shakes once, like someone bumped into it. Neither of you move.
He tilts his head, watching you more carefully now. “So who are you, anyway?”
You blink. “What?”
“You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am, apparently. But I don’t know you.”
You shrug, trying to sound unfazed. “Just a girl in your class.”
“Which class?”
“I’m not telling you.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen how your brain works. The second you find out, you’ll start showing up late on purpose to make an entrance.”
He grins, wide and dangerous. “So you have been watching me.”
Damn it.
“That’s not—”
“Obsessed,” he says.
“Oh my god, I’m going to strangle you with one of those dumb chains on your pants.”
“They’re not dumb. They’re functional.”
“For what, exactly? Attaching yourself to reality?”
“Wow,” he says, smiling now like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve got jokes.”
You glance at the door. “Seven minutes better be almost up.”
“Why?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. “You scared you’re starting to like me?”
You look back at him. “I’m scared you’re starting to like me.”
That shuts him up for half a second.
Then—
“…Touché.”
There’s a pause. You can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.
He steps just a little closer. “Okay. Serious question.”
“Unlikely, but sure.”
“Are you always like this?”
You blink. “Like what?”
“This,” he says. “You know—snarky. Quick. Unimpressed. Kind of mean in a fun way.”
You stare at him. “Are you into being bullied?”
“I’m starting to wonder.”
The door bangs open just then, and the light hits both of your faces. You flinch at the sudden glare. Outside, someone yells, “ALRIGHT, CLOSET DWELLERS, TIMES UP!”
Jungkook doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
Finally, he leans a little closer and says under his breath, only loud enough for you to hear:
“You still didn’t tell me your name.”
You raise a brow.
“You didn’t earn it.”
He laughs, and it’s way too genuine. Like he didn’t expect this night to go like this at all — and somehow, that makes two of you.
As you duck out of the closet, brushing past him in the doorway, you hear him murmur:
“I’m gonna find out, you know.”
You throw a look over your shoulder, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“Good luck.”
The door flings open.
Air, light, freedom.
You stumble out like someone just dragged you back from the underworld. The world is louder now, messier. Colors sharper. Sounds distorted, like everything’s underwater and also on fire.
Your heart is still pounding.
Your brain? Gone. Missing. Presumed dead.
Your dignity? Filing a police report.
You turn in a daze, blinking through the chaos—and find Yanni, breathless, holding a very giggly and wine-drunk Jenna by the elbow.
“THERE you are!” Yanni yells over the music. “We thought you got kidnapped by the Pit goblins!”
Jenna cackles. “I told her you were probably in the closet making out with a stranger. I WAS RIGHT.”
You blink at them.
Open your mouth.
Immediately close it again.
Yanni frowns. “Wait. Are you okay? You look like you just got hit by a really hot bus.”
You stare at her.
Then—
“I need air. I need, like, seventeen breaths of non-sweaty air. I—do you have water? I think I forgot how to swallow. I forgot—I forgot my name.”
Yanni’s eyes go wide. “Did you actually make out with someone?! Oh my god, who was it? Was he hot? Did he have a tongue ring? Was it that guy with the fake angel wings? Please tell me he had wings.”
“I—no. No wings.”
“Okay, so not a red flag. Good start.”
You grab both of them by the arms and start dragging them away from the closet, feet moving on autopilot. “We need to go. Just—somewhere. Away. Outside. Antarctica. I don’t care.”
Jenna, still loopy from the cocktail she stole from a girl dressed as the Pope, squints at you. “You’re acting weird.”
“Something happened,” you say, voice a little unhinged. “Something catastrophic.”
Yanni gasps. “Did you black out?!”
“No, worse.”
“Did you throw up on someone?!”
“WORSE.”
Yanni pulls you down onto a sagging patio couch under a string of flickering lights. The Pit’s back deck is quieter — only a handful of people out here, laughing or making out or both.
You sit between them, trying to remember how to form human sentences.
Jenna leans her head dramatically on your shoulder. “You definitely kissed someone.”
“I didn’t.”
Yanni narrows her eyes. “You wanted to.”
“I didn’t!”
They both stare at you.
You sigh. Long. Shaky.
Then you say, very quietly, like it might summon him if you say it too loud:
“I was in the closet with Jeon Jungkook.”
.
.
.
Jenna sits up so fast she elbows you in the boob.
Yanni chokes on her drink and coughs, “I’m sorry—WHAT?”
You hold up your hands, like it’ll protect you from the emotional storm about to erupt. “It was an accident! I got pushed in first, and then some drunk idiots shoved him in after me, and then the door locked and we were just there. Together. In the dark. Breathing the same air.”
Jenna is vibrating. “YOU WERE BREATHING JEON JUNGKOOK’S AIR. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GIRLS WOULD PAY FOR THAT EXPERIENCE.”
“I didn’t ask for the experience!”
Yanni grabs your arm, shaking it. “Okay but what happened?! Tell us everything. Did you talk? Did he recognize you? Did you touch his hair? Did he touch you? Did your souls kiss?!”
You stare at her. “What the hell is a soul kiss?”
“Shut up and answer me!!”
You drag your hands down your face. “We talked. He was annoying. And hot. And annoying about being hot. He said if I didn’t stop panicking he was gonna kiss me and I think my nervous system flatlined for like ten seconds.”
Jenna screams. A real one.
Yanni grabs her cup and throws it into a bush just so she can clap. “That’s it. That’s the plot of a Netflix movie. I’m calling a casting director right now.”
“Guys, stop—”
“Did he know who you were?” Jenna asks, eyes wide.
You deflate. “No.”
Yanni freezes.
Jenna gasps like she’s watching a baby deer get hit by a truck.
“He didn’t recognize you?”
You shake your head, slumping into the couch like your spine is giving up. “Not even a little. I told him I was in his class, and he just blinked at me like I was an off-brand yogurt at the back of the fridge.”
“But—but you sit in the second row!”
“Yeah, apparently that’s not enough to pierce through the wall of apathy and leather jackets.”
Jenna is personally offended. “You’ve been thirsting over him for MONTHS.”
“Not out loud!”
“Your search history says otherwise.”
“That was ONE TIME—”
“‘Does Jeon Jungkook have a girlfriend’ is not a casual search, Y/N.”
Yanni throws an arm around your shoulder. “Okay. So. We have a situation.”
You groan. “No, we don’t. The situation is over. I will simply crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.”
“OR,” Yanni says, grinning, “we make him fall in love with you.”
You snort. “Hard pass.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I! The guy barely knows what day of the week it is. He didn’t even know my name, and I was two inches from his face.”
Jenna fans herself. “God, I wish I was two inches from his face.”
Yanni is already spiraling into scheming mode. “Okay but hear me out: what if this is your origin story?”
“I don’t need an origin story. I need ice and maybe a lobotomy.”
“You’re gonna end up married to him.”
“I’m gonna end up IN A STRAITJACKET.”
They both lean in at the same time, grinning like devils.
And somewhere inside you — beneath the panic and the humiliation and the complete collapse of your self-esteem — something sparks.
A very tiny, very traitorous thought:
He doesn’t know who I am yet.
But what if he wanted to?
.
.
.
No.
Absolutely not.
You refuse to be delusional.
But still…
You clutch your drink with both hands and whisper to yourself like a prayer:
“…I cannot go back in that closet.”
Jungkook steps out into the warm night air, the noise of the party still thrumming behind him like a heartbeat that’s had too much sugar and zero regard for consequences.
He barely gets two steps out the door before he sees movement near the gate — a blur of color, of bare shoulders and tangled hair and wild, frantic energy.
Her.
The girl from the closet.
She’s running.
Well, not running — but walking very quickly in a way that screams “I just made a horrible decision and I’m trying to disappear into the night like it never happened.”
He watches as she yanks her friends down the sidewalk, arms waving, words too far away to make out. One of them glances back at the house, laughing. The other throws her arm around the girl’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her from disintegrating.
Jungkook can’t hear them. Can’t read their lips.
But he doesn’t need to.
He’s seen that look before.
People don’t leave parties like that unless something got to them.
And apparently… that something was him.
He watches them disappear around the corner. The wind shifts, warm and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and spilled vodka.
Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, the edges of his mouth tugging up, involuntarily.
He doesn’t smile a lot.
But right now?
He’s grinning.
11:18 PM — Inside, Kitchen
He finds Jimin first, leaning against the fridge, sipping from a red cup with glitter smeared across one cheek like someone tried to make out with a rave.
Jungkook walks up, casual as hell. “Hey.”
Jimin lifts a brow. “You’re still vertical. Closet girl didn’t kill you?”
Jungkook leans on the counter beside him, eyes scanning the room lazily. “Nope. She was fun.”
Jimin grins. “Define fun.”
“Annoyed. Loud. Mean. Called me out within the first two minutes.”
“So, your type.”
Jungkook gives him a lazy look. “Do you know who she was?”
Jimin blinks. “You mean you didn’t?”
“No. She said we’re in the same class, but…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly focused on academics in there.”
Jimin sips his drink, way too amused. “You’re telling me you spent seven minutes pressed up against someone and didn’t bother to ask her name?”
“I didn’t get her name. She wouldn’t give it to me.”
Jimin whistles. “Damn. Girl’s got boundaries.”
Jungkook turns his full attention to him now. “So… do you know her?”
Jimin smiles. Slow. Evil.
“Maybe.”
Jungkook straightens. “What.”
“I mean, I’ve seen her around. Could be anyone.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an answer adjacent.”
“Jimin.”
Jimin just grins wider, like this is his favorite hobby. “Why? You wanna see her again?”
“No.” Jungkook’s voice is too quick, too defensive. Then: “I just—she seemed familiar.”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Before Jungkook can retaliate, Taehyung appears, wearing someone else’s sunglasses and holding a plate of mini cupcakes he absolutely did not make.
Jungkook turns to him like salvation. “Tae. Please tell me you know who the girl in the closet was.”
Taehyung pauses, cupcake halfway to his mouth.
Then, slowly, he lowers it and says:
“Ohhhh. You mean the girl with the smart mouth and trust issues?”
“Yes!”
“Yup. Definitely know her.”
“Who is she?!”
Taehyung smiles with all his teeth. “Can’t say.”
Jungkook stares at him.
“What do you mean you can’t say?”
“Non-disclosure agreement.”
“That’s not a real thing!”
“It is now.”
Jungkook throws his hands in the air. “Are you both insane?”
“Yes,” Jimin says, grinning.
“We’re protecting the plot,” Taehyung adds solemnly.
Jungkook blinks. “What plot?”
“The enemies-to-lovers one,” Jimin says, sipping his drink. “You’re in the first act. Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not—!” Jungkook cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “You guys are the worst.”
“You’re welcome,” Taehyung says cheerfully.
Jungkook turns, heading for the living room, but Jimin calls after him:
“You really gonna let a girl roast you in a closet and disappear without finding out her name?”
Jungkook doesn’t stop walking.
But he does smirk.
“Of course not.”
11:42 PM — Later, Upstairs Hallway
Jungkook leans against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. But his head isn’t in it.
He’s thinking about the sound of her voice.
The way she said, “You didn’t earn it.” The way she pushed past him and didn’t look back.
He still doesn’t know her name.
But he’s starting to think he needs to.
Desperately.
You’re early.
Not obnoxiously so, but early enough to get your usual seat — second row, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus, far enough to keep your laptop screen hidden when you’re secretly Googling niche references during class.
You’re wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Hair pulled back. Glasses on.
A normal girl living a normal life, unbothered and deeply uninterested in emotionally reckless men with perfect jawlines and leather jackets. You are zen.
You are healed.
...You are lying to yourself.
Your leg has been bouncing under the desk for a solid five minutes. You haven’t even opened your laptop. You’re just staring at the professor’s slides like they personally betrayed you.
And then—
The door opens.
You hear it before you see it. That faint creak of poorly oiled hinges and the collective inhale of every girl in the room.
You don’t turn around.
You don’t have to.
You know it’s him.
Because everyone in a ten-foot radius straightens like they’re about to be graded on posture. There’s a flutter of lip gloss applications. Someone actually whispers his name.
You pretend to be deeply focused on the “Media Ethics and Digital Responsibility” slide.
Jeon Jungkook walks in. On time.
The professor blinks like he’s hallucinating. “Huh. Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Look at you.”
Jungkook just nods, loose and casual, but you can feel it.
He’s different today.
He doesn’t do his usual routine — no airpods, no gum chewing, no half-lidded stroll like he’s walking into a photoshoot instead of a lecture.
No, this time… he’s scanning.
Not in a weird way. Just—calculated.
Eyes moving across each row like he’s checking a list in his head.
Looking for something.
Someone.
Your stomach tightens.
And then—
His gaze glides right past you.
Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flicker.
Nothing.
He slides into a seat a few rows back, drops his bag, and leans back like he didn’t just steamroll your entire emotional ecosystem last night.
You blink at your screen.
Wow.
Okay.
Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.
So he just… forgot you existed? Already?
You tell yourself it’s a good thing. That you’re off the hook.
But still—
Your phone vibrates in your lap.
Then again.
And again.
You glance down.
YANNI [9:57AM] FIND US AFTER CLASS
JENNA [9:57AM] LIKE IMMEDIATELY
YANNI [9:58AM] BIG. SHIT. IS. HAPPENING.
YANNI [9:58AM] HUGE.
JENNA [9:58AM] YOU MIGHT BE FAMOUS
You: 🙃
11:07AM — Campus Library, Third Floor (aka Gossip HQ)
You find them between the graphic novel section and the fake potted plant that hides the worst Wi-Fi signal on campus.
Yanni is pacing. Jenna is sitting on the floor with a laptop open, half a croissant in her mouth and murder in her eyes.
“FINALLY,” Yanni breathes, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down beside her.
“What is happening?” you whisper. “Did someone die?”
“YOU might,” Jenna says around a bite. “From cardiac arrest.”
You blink. “Why?”
Yanni flips her phone around.
It’s an Instagram story. Jungkook’s account. You recognize the handle from your extremely short-lived stalking phase.
The video is short. A dim hallway, flashing lights, the thump of party music in the background.
Text overlaid:
"7 minutes wasn’t long enough. If you know who she is… tell her." 👀🖤
Your heart stops.
You stare at the screen like it might explode.
“Wha—”
“He’s looking for you,” Yanni whispers, eyes wild.
“He’s trying to CROWD-SOURCE you,” Jenna adds. “LIKE A MISSING PERSON.”
You genuinely don’t know what to do with your hands. “I—I don’t even have Instagram. I didn’t see this.”
“Well, now the entire internet has,” Yanni says, scrolling through dozens of replies and reshared stories. “People are putting up theories. One girl swears it was her and her friends are backing her up.”
You feel a little sick.
“I—he doesn’t even remember me.”
“He does now.”
Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Aha. Found you.”
You whip around.
Taehyung and Jimin are approaching, looking like they just stepped out of a K-drama fight scene. Jimin is in an oversized hoodie and glasses, sipping from a matcha latte. Taehyung is holding a leather-bound journal like it’s a prop.
“Oh my god,” Yanni whispers, straightening like she’s about to present a thesis.
Jimin nods at you. “Closet girl.”
Taehyung gasps. “I knew it!”
You slap both hands over your face. “I am going to dissolve into the carpet.”
Jimin flops down next to you. “You’re literally a phenomenon.”
“I don’t want to be a phenomenon! I want to be anonymous.”
“Too late,” Taehyung sing-songs. “He’s obsessed.”
“He’s not—”
Jimin cuts you off. “He made us look through the security footage of the Pit to try and find you.”
You blink. “There’s security footage?!”
“That’s not the point.”
Yanni claps like she’s been waiting for this all her life. “Okay, okay, okay. NEW PLAN.”
Jenna nods. “Mission: Keep Her Hidden.”
You snap your head to look at him. “Wait, what—?”
“We cannot let him find you too easily. The mystery is part of the power.” Yanni explained, a smile that was a little too enthusiastic spreading across her face.
“She’s right.” Jimin chimed in.
You blink between them all, a growing sense of terror blooming in your chest.
“I feel like I’m in a YA novel.”
Taehyung beams. “You are. And it’s about to get so much worse.”
If Jungkook knew his Instagram story would cause an actual phenomenon, he would’ve thrown his phone in the nearest sewer.
He’s seated on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out, black boots dusted with dry grass. Sunglasses perched on his head, arms crossed, regret pouring off of him in waves.
There is a line.
A real, breathing, giggling line of girls waiting to speak to him.
“I swear,” the third one in a row says, flipping her hair, “it was me. I had this red tank top on—”
“You weren’t wearing red,” Jungkook says flatly, not even looking up.
She blinks. “You remember that?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately.”
She pouts, tosses her hair again, and walks off.
The next girl steps forward with more confidence than he’s emotionally prepared to deal with.
“Hey,” she says, batting her lashes. “So, I was totally gonna come up to you last night, but I got pulled into beer pong, and—”
“Not you either,” he says, already tired.
Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the grass like a cat in the sun, sipping iced coffee and watching the chaos like it’s live theater.
“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Closet Girl’s starting to sound like a fever dream.”
“She was real,” Jungkook mutters.
Taehyung, perched dramatically on the fountain’s edge, hums. “This feels like a modern fairy tale. Only instead of a glass slipper, she left behind unresolved sexual tension and a mild existential crisis.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face.
“You know,” Jimin adds, “you could just let her go. Move on. Forget it happened.”
Jungkook stares at him like he’s just suggested licking a subway pole.
“I mean it,” Jimin continues. “Is this really worth it?”
Jungkook leans back, letting the sun hit his face.
And after a pause, he says:
“…She was funny.”
Taehyung blinks. “Funny?”
“She was… sharp. Gave me shit. Told me I didn’t earn the right to flirt with her.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just… real.”
Jimin and Taehyung exchange a look.
But before either can respond—
“Hey, Jeon.”
They all glance up.
A girl in a glittery top and too-high heels struts up like she’s approaching a casting call.
“I was wearing angel wings last night,” she purrs.
“Congratulations,” Jungkook says dryly.
“I think I’m the girl you’re looking for.”
“You’re not.”
“How would you know?”
Jungkook blinks slowly. “Because I just would.”
She scoffs and storms off, muttering something about him not being that hot anyway.
Jimin snorts. “The delusion is wild today.”
Taehyung raises his brows. “You know, you did make her a mystery. People love a good mystery.”
“I hate this mystery,” Jungkook mutters.
And then—
Taehyung straightens suddenly.
“Oh,” he says, too casually. “There she goes.”
Jungkook’s eyes snap up.
“What?!”
“She’s walking past,” Jimin adds, barely containing his grin.
Jungkook jumps to his feet, scanning the path just ahead of them.
He sees a group of students. A couple laughing. A guy with a skateboard. A girl in a floral skirt. Another in an oversized sweater.
But no one familiar.
No her.
“Where?” he demands, turning back to them.
Taehyung just shrugs, biting back a smile. “Hm. Maybe she slipped away again.”
Jimin’s grinning like the devil. “So mysterious.”
Jungkook stares at them.
And then slowly, slowly, sits back down, glaring at nothing.
“I hate you both.”
“You’re welcome,” Jimin says cheerfully.
Meanwhile — You, Just 20 Feet Away
You’re clutching a smoothie and telling Jenna that you swear to God if Yanni says the words “power move” one more time, you’re going to commit a crime.
You do not see Jungkook.
You do not see the crowd of girls.
You do not see your entire romantic fate spiraling out in a perfect storm of timing, ego, and extremely bad luck.
But you do hear Yanni’s voice crackling through your group chat ten seconds later:
YANNI [12:43PM] HE’S OUTSIDE RN. WALKING DISTANCE. I REPEAT: JEON JUNGKOOK IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.
You pause. Look up.
“…The universe is playing games with me,” you mutter.
Jenna just takes your smoothie and sips like it’s none of her business. “Welcome to Act Two.”
Three Days Later – 12:19PM Campus Lawn, under the shade of an old oak tree
Yanni is dramatically slicing into her overpriced salad like it’s personally offended her.
“I swear to God,” she says, spearing a piece of lettuce, “if she doesn’t just tell him soon, I’m going to combust.”
“She doesn’t even want him to know!” Jenna laughs, peeling the wrapper off her sandwich. “She’s surviving off vibes and secondhand embarrassment.”
Across from them, lounging on the grass, Jimin snorts into his iced chai. “Honestly, mood.”
Taehyung is lying flat on his back, sunglasses on, using Jimin’s thigh as a pillow and holding his phone above his face like it’s too exhausting to lift it further.
“It’s better this way,” he hums. “Mystery. Intrigue. Emotional damage.”
Yanni points at him with her fork. “See? That’s the energy we’re all riding on.”
“I don’t know how she hasn’t just imploded,” Jenna says, sipping her drink. “She had a panic attack in the psych building bathroom yesterday because someone said Jungkook's name too loud.”
Taehyung laughs. “That could’ve been anyone.”
“No,” Yanni corrects. “She knew exactly how he said it. Deep voice. Tiny rasp. A little pouty. ‘Jungkook.’” She mimics it, exaggerated and ridiculous.
Jimin wheezes.
Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, turning to the girls with mock-serious eyes. “You guys are evil.”
“Thank you,” Yanni says, deadpan.
And then—
“You’re evil,” comes a familiar, slightly exasperated voice behind them.
All four turn.
Jeon Jungkook walks up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, black jeans, silver chain catching the sunlight.
He looks… tired.
Not in a tragic way. More like haunted by the choices that led him to this exact moment.
Taehyung lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Ah. The lover boy returns.”
Jimin just grins like Christmas came early. “How’s your army of imposters?”
Jungkook drops onto the grass with a groan. “Still growing. I got ambushed by three more girls outside the business building this morning.”
“Business building girls,” Jimin mutters. “That’s a bold demographic.”
“She said she left her earring in the closet with me,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his hair. “She was wearing cat ears.”
“Oh no,” Jenna whispers behind a laugh.
Yanni coughs into her drink.
Jungkook narrows his eyes at them. “Do I know you two?”
“Nope,” Yanni says, biting into a cherry tomato. “Just enjoying the show.”
Jenna shrugs, fighting a grin. “Free entertainment.”
Taehyung watches them both like he’s just realized something.
Jungkook leans back on his palms, legs stretched out, expression a mix of exhaustion and suspicion. “You guys ever regret making me post that?”
Jimin doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”
“I knew this would happen,” Jungkook mutters.
“You didn’t know people would create full conspiracy boards,” Taehyung points out. “Someone literally mapped out Closet Girl’s shoe print from the party photo.”
“Don’t forget the girl who recreated the closet,” Jimin adds. “Like. Bought a closet. Filmed a fake interaction.”
“God,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing his face. “I’m an idiot.”
He exhales through his nose, still half-distracted, when—
“Well, it’s even funnier,” Jenna says, not quite under her breath, “because she doesn’t even have socials.”
Yanni chokes on her soda.
Jimin and Taehyung both freeze mid-laugh.
And Jungkook—
Whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.
“Wait.”
Yanni slaps Jenna’s arm.
Jungkook’s eyes are wide. “You—” He points between them. “You know her?!”
Jenna blinks. “Who?”
“Closet Girl,” Jungkook says, sharp now, sitting up straighter. “You just said she doesn’t have socials—how would you know that?”
Yanni lifts her cup to her mouth, speaking through her straw. “Could’ve been anyone.”
“But it’s not,” Jungkook says, eyes narrowing. “You know who it is.”
He looks at Taehyung and Jimin like they’ve personally betrayed him. “You said you didn’t know!”
Taehyung holds up his hands, unbothered. “We didn’t say that.”
“Yeah,” Jimin says, already laughing. “We just didn’t say anything helpful.”
Jungkook glares. “You assholes.”
Yanni leans in, chin resting on her hand, absolutely loving this. “Why do you want to find her so bad?”
Jungkook hesitates. Just for a beat.
And then, quieter than expected, he says:
“…Because I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Taehyung blinks.
Jimin’s mouth parts a little.
Yanni and Jenna exchange a look.
“That was almost sweet,” Jenna says.
“Almost,” Yanni echoes.
Jungkook looks at them like he’s debating a crime. “Please. Just give me one clue.”
Jimin just smiles, stretching out on the grass again. “Mmm. No.”
“Not even her name?” Jungkook tries.
Taehyung grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Jungkook scrubs his hands over his face. “You people are evil.”
Yanni smiles sweetly. “We’ve been over this.”
After another beat of sulking, he finally stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.
“You’re all the worst.”
“We know,” Jimin says, cheerful as ever.
Jungkook sighs, starts walking away—
And turns back around.
“If she ever asks about me—”
“She won’t,” Yanni says.
“Okay, if she does,” he presses, “can you just tell her I’m not as annoying as I seem?”
“No promises,” Jenna says.
He groans again and walks off, muttering something under his breath.
The moment he’s out of earshot, the group erupts.
“THAT,” Jimin says, sitting upright, “WAS TOO CLOSE.”
Yanni fans herself. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t mean to say it—he just appeared.”
“You almost ruined the whole thing!” Taehyung says gleefully. “But also… he’s losing his mind.”
“And she has no idea,” Jenna adds, grinning.
Jimin leans back with a content sigh. “This is better than television.”
Same Day — 4:42 PM Campus Library — Second Floor
The study area is quieter than usual, with just the occasional cough, a rogue phone vibration, or someone smacking their space bar like it owes them money.
You, Yanni, and Jenna are huddled around your usual table — highlighters scattered, tabs open, coffees half-melted. It’s productive chaos. Or it was, until Jenna froze mid-sentence.
“...Don’t look now,” she says, voice already breathless with suppressed panic, “but Jungkook and his friends just walked in.”
Your soul immediately ejects from your body.
“WHERE—”
“Don’t look,” Yanni hisses, stabbing her pen in warning. “You’ll give us away.”
You stare down at your laptop like you’re trying to astral project into it.
Footsteps shuffle closer, closer—
And then.
They sit at the table directly behind you.
Your chair is now back-to-back with Jungkook’s.
There is a shared inch of air between you.
You can feel the heat off his stupid, beautiful, back-in-black hoodie.
Jenna mouths OH MY GOD. Yanni is gripping her iced latte like she’s about to squeeze it into mist.
Across from Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung sit — and the moment they spot Yanni and Jenna?
They grin.
Smug. Pleased. Silent little devils.
Not a word — not a wave — just the occasional flicker of laughter and shared glances while you sit there about to spontaneously combust.
“I swear to god,” Jungkook says behind you, low and miserable, “if one more girl corners me between classes and asks if I like strawberry lip gloss, I’m dropping out.”
“She had a presentation,” Jimin offers. “She brought visual aids.”
“She brought a poster board,” Jungkook groans. “With a QR code to her TikTok.”
“Impressive,” Taehyung hums.
Jungkook thumps his head gently on the table. “I just wanted to meet her. One girl. Now I can’t go to class without hearing someone yell ‘closet king’ at me.”
Yanni chokes into her drink.
You’re doing breathing exercises you learned in a freshman wellness seminar.
They are not working.
“I hate all of you,” Jungkook mutters. “You said you’d help.”
“I did help,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious.
“You gave me nothing.”
“False,” Taehyung says, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like a menace. “We gave you... ✨context✨.”
Jungkook scoffs. “No. You gave me trauma.”
There’s a pause. Then, Jimin goes, “Fine. Want another clue?”
You tense so hard your back pops.
Jenna grabs your thigh under the table.
Yanni is vibrating.
Everyone is vibrating.
“Yes. Something real this time.”
“...She has elbows.”
There’s a pause.
A very long one.
“She has what?” Jungkook asks, flat.
“Elbows,” Taehyung says innocently.
You almost die.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says slowly, like he's speaking to a small child, “everyone has elbows.”
“Exactly,” Taehyung nods. “She fits right in.”
Jimin is snorting into his hoodie sleeve.
You, meanwhile, are clamping your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.
“Is this a joke to you?” Jungkook asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to suffer?”
“I’m not lying,” Taehyung says, clearly delighted. “She definitely had elbows. Two, even.”
“Wow,” Jungkook deadpans. “A girl with two elbows. I’ll just walk around campus asking people to show me their joints.”
Jimin shrugs. “Could work.”
Your hand is cramping from clutching your pencil so tightly.
Yanni is in physical pain from holding in her laughter.
Jenna scribbles onto her piece of paper, turning it to you.
THEY SAID ELBOWS. I’M LOSING IT.
Jungkook groans behind you, slumping so hard in his chair you feel it through the back of yours. “I’m going insane. I’m actually insane. This is what insanity feels like.”
“And yet,” Taehyung says, completely deadpan, “she walks among us.”
Jimin sips his drink with a smirk. “Right under your nose.”
Behind your screen, you scream silently.
Jenna writes out another message:
RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.
You’re certain of two things:
You will never emotionally recover from this.
Jungkook is going to need a therapist when he finally figures it out.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even turn around.
Not once.
He gets up after ten minutes, mumbles something about “going to get gum,” and walks off—shoulders tense, head down, frustration rolling off him in waves.
The second he’s gone, your table explodes.
“I CAN’T,” Jenna whispers, doubled over.
“ELBOWS?!” Yanni wheezes. “HE’S GOING TO BE HAUNTED BY ELBOWS NOW.”
You drop your face into your arms. “If he finds out it was me, I’m changing schools.”
Jenna wipes a tear from her eye. “You’ll be a myth. A cryptid. A legend with joints.”
Taehyung and Jimin?
Still sitting there.
Still smirking.
Still saying nothing.
Later That Night, Jungkook’s Dorm
“I’m not giving up,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling through his DMs.
“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks from the other bed.
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