𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 22
˗ˏˋ karaoke night ˎˊ˗
"Vanilla extract has always been his lifeline, and tonight is no different."
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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆
word count: 11k
content: friendly drunkness, karaoke, lowkey interest, girl talk, unwanted appearances, trauma responses, isolation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vulnerability, sneak peeks, soft, lowkey real conversations, subtle references to the past.
✧ author's note ✧
OKAY. Let me just start by screaming into the void real quick: SIX. HUNDRED. NOTES. And TWO HUNDRED VOTES. IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS?? What the actual hell is wrong with you people??? I'm genuinely flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Reeling. I thought I had time. I thought I could chill. But NO. Y’all are CRACKED and now I’m upping the goal like an absolute psychopath because clearly you’re fiends and I am merely your supplier. I’ll give you your fix, don’t worry. Just know I’m running out of backlogged chapters and my therapist is gonna hear about it.
Anyway.
This chapter. Hoo boy. This chapter feels like the emotional hangover after a wild night—the kind where everything feels a little too raw, a little too exposed, and you’re left trying to piece together what the fuck happened between the yelling and the tequila. There's a reason why I framed it this way, too—because this is the shift. The oh shit, real people have real pasts and they bleed sometimes moment. The façade cracks here, and it does so in ways that are deliberately uncomfortable.
Jungkook is so many things in this chapter, but most importantly, he’s small. And I don’t mean that physically. I mean small like a kid trying to crawl into his own skin. That rooftop scene? I wanted you to feel the stillness after the storm, the weird quiet that happens when someone you thought was bulletproof shows up vulnerable and unguarded for once. And it’s messy. He doesn’t have answers. He doesn’t give you the sob story, not yet. He gives you glimpses. Vanilla extract, deflections, silence. All of it is by design.
(Also yes, the vanilla extract thing is a metaphor. Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I won’t elaborate. Just know it’s real and kind of tragic and also weirdly endearing. Like him.)
And Y/N… god. She’s tiptoeing the line so hard here. Because she wants to help and she wants to understand and she also very much wants to not feel. But she does. And she hates it. And she jokes because otherwise she’ll unravel. And that’s what makes this chapter so bittersweet to me—because they’re both posturing like they’re fine, but their actions betray them. Their quiet kindness, the subtle care. The intimacy isn’t in the sex anymore. It’s in the stillness. In the scent memory. In the way he says “you smell like vanilla” like it’s the only anchor he has left.
And let’s not even talk about Mia because that woman is the human embodiment of a champagne cork to the eye. I will simply say this: trauma is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper that sticks to your ribs. Sometimes it’s someone’s name.
Anyway.
This chapter is long, chaotic, unfiltered, and possibly one of the most emotionally raw things I’ve written for this fic so far. So please take care of yourself while reading. You don’t have to romanticize brokenness. You don’t have to love these characters for their damage. But you can hold space for them. Just like they’re learning to do for each other.
Also Taehyung deserves a nap and a raise for his emotional labor.
As always, I’m deeply grateful you’re here, crying and laughing and spiraling with me. Keep being feral in the comments. Keep voting if it makes your little goblin brain happy. And maybe—just maybe—hug your own Jungkook if you’ve got one.
Or your therapist.
They deserve it.
⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆
ao3
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Tequila makes you do stupid shit, like hugging people you normally avoid touching with a ten-foot pole.
You practically launch yourself from your seat, the room tilting at an alarming angle as you throw your arms around Yeji's neck.
"Holy shit," she laughs, body stiffening with surprise before awkwardly patting your back. "Okay, this is literally the first hug you've ever given me and I don't know how to feel about it."
You ignore her, already detaching yourself and stumbling toward Irya, who catches you with more grace, giggling as you nearly topple both of you over.
"Hi to you too," she says, squeezing back gently.
Jimin is next, accepting your clumsy attempt at physical affection with the patient tolerance of someone used to dealing with drunk friends. He pats your back, concern etched in his features.
"How are you doing?" he asks, holding you at arm's length to study your face.
You flash him a thumbs up, swaying slightly on your feet. "Absofuckinglutely amazing."
"Okay, yeah. No." He shakes his head, exchanging a knowing look with Yeji.
"Why are you guys even here?!" The question bursts out louder than you intended, making several heads turn.
Yeji shrugs, all casual nonchalance. "This is a famous ramen place. Irya's been wanting to come for a long time."
"Guilty!" Irya raises her hand with a sheepish smile.
"And Jimin was like a lost puppy, so we just kind of adopted him," Yeji adds, nodding toward him.
Irya shoves Yeji's shoulder. "No, actually, I was studying with Jimin, and Yeji just came in and was like 'yo, let's have spicy ramen!' And we kinda rolled with it."
You snort, turning around to find the entire table watching this interaction with varying degrees of amusement.
Jungkook has his hand pressed against his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
You mouth 'die' at him, and he throws his palms up in mock surrender, the bastard.
"Well..." You gesture vaguely, suddenly realizing you need to perform introductions. "These are my friends."
The words feel strange on your tongue—not because they're untrue, but because saying them out loud makes them real in a way you weren't prepared for.
"Yeji, Irya, and Jimin," you continue, pointing at each one. "And this is... um..."
Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to remember the names of all the people around this table. There's Yoongi, obviously, and Taehyung, and Hobi, and... the others. The gaming nerds. And Tessa. And that other girl who judged your ramen choice.
You wave your hand in a circle, encompassing the whole table. "Jungkook's birthday squad."
Awkwardness settles over you as you realize the predicament. Your friends are here, but it's not like you can just abandon Jungkook's party to join them. That would be rude. And weird. And probably not what a good roommate would do.
Not that you care about being a good roommate. But still. Principle of the thing or whatever.
Before the silence can stretch too long, Yeji speaks up. "We were heading to the karaoke place that's like five minutes from here, if y'all want to come?"
All eyes shift to Jungkook, the birthday boy, the decision-maker.
But instead of looking at his friends, he looks at you first.
You look back at him, a silent question passing between you.
Then he smiles—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine—and turns to Yeji.
“Sure, absolutely. Count us in."
“Hell yes!” Hobi exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to show off my pipes!”
“God help us all,” Taehyung mutters, but he’s already standing, clearly on board with the plan.
“What about the bill?” Diana asks, glancing around at the mess of empty glasses and half-finished food.
“Already covered,” Yoongi says, holding up his phone to show a payment confirmation. “Birthday gift.”
“You paid for all of this?” You blink at him, genuinely surprised. “That’s… actually really nice, Yoongi.”
He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the acknowledgment. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”
“It kind of is,” you insist, the alcohol making you more earnest than usual. “You’re a good friend.”
He gives you a look that clearly says ‘please stop talking now,’ so you do, but not before patting his shoulder in what you hope is a comradely fashion.
The group begins gathering their things, a chaotic shuffle of jackets and phones and forgotten scarves. You stand in the middle of it all, suddenly aware of how drunk you actually are as the room tilts alarmingly when you try to take a step.
“Whoa there,” a voice says near your ear, and then there’s a hand at your elbow, steadying you.
Jungkook.
“You good?”
“Fine,” you say automatically, then reconsider. “Okay, maybe not fine. But I’m upright, so that’s something.”
“A low bar, but I respect it.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too—concern, maybe. It’s hard to tell through the tequila fog.
“I can walk,” you insist, taking a deliberate step forward to prove your point.
Your legs cooperate, mostly, though the floor seems to be at a slight angle that wasn’t there before.
“Never said you couldn’t.” He’s still close, though, ready to catch you if you stumble. “Just making sure you don’t face-plant in front of everyone. Would hate for you to embarrass yourself.”
“Too late for that,” you mutter, remembering your enthusiastic greeting to your friends.
A laugh escapes him, quiet enough that only you can hear it. “Nah, you’re fine. You’re just… friendlier when you’re drunk. It’s kind of cute.”
“I am not cute,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster while swaying slightly. “I am intimidating and cool.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees solemnly. “The most intimidating and cool person in the room. Everyone’s terrified.”
You glare at him, but it’s hard to maintain when he’s looking at you like that—amused but not mocking, a softness around his eyes that makes your stomach do a weird flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Shut up,” you say, lacking a more clever comeback. “It’s your fault anyway. Your stupid friends kept giving me shots.”
“My stupid friends, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what does that make me?”
“The king of the stupid friends,” you declare, poking him in the chest. “The stupidest of them all.”
He catches your finger before you can poke him again, his hand warm around yours.
“Your Majesty, then.”
“Oh my god, you’re so—” You break off, distracted by the way he’s still holding your hand, casual as anything.
You pull away, flustered for no good reason.
“Let’s go. Karaoke awaits.”
“After you, Phoenix.” He gestures toward the door where your friends are gathering with the others.
You make your way over, focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping. It’s harder than it should be, but you manage, only weaving slightly.
Yeji appears at your side, linking her arm through yours.
“How much have you had to drink?” she asks, voice low.
“A moderate amount,” you hedge. “An appropriate amount. A birthday celebration amount.”
“So, too much.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs, tightening her grip on your arm. “Babes, I’ve never seen you drunk. You sure you’re okay?
“Yuuusss,” you decide, nodding solemnly. “I stand by my choices.”
“Of course you do.” She glances over at Jungkook, who’s now engaged in an animated conversation with Taehyung and Hobi. “So, what’s going on there?”
“Where?” you ask, playing dumb even though you know exactly what she means.
“With your roommate. The one whose birthday party we just crashed.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you insist, too quickly. “We’re just… I don’t know. Trying to be friends. Or something. I guess.”
Friends. You and Jungkook.
Friends.
It’s starting to sound less terrifying.
“I see.” She grins, positioning her head on your shoulder. “Just don’t replace me, huh? I’m your new college bestie. I claim that title.”
Before you can respond, Irya bounces over, linking her arm through Yeji’s free one.
“Are we ready? The karaoke place gets busy on Saturdays.”
“We’re ready,” you confirm, smiling stupidly at the blonde. “Lead the way.”
As your strange, merged group spills out onto the sidewalk, you can’t help but wonder how the hell you ended up here—drunk, surrounded by people who barely know each other, heading to a karaoke bar on a Saturday night.
It’s bizarre. Surreal. Absolutely not how you expected your evening to go when you agreed to take Jungkook to the MoMA this morning.
But as you watch him laugh at something Irya says, his face open and relaxed in a way you rarely see at home, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it.
Even if your head is spinning and your stomach is dangerously close to rejecting every questionable decision you’ve made tonight.
You catch his eye across the group, and he grins at you—that stupid, lopsided grin that always makes you want to either slap him or—
Well. Other things.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, unable to help yourself. And when he falls into step beside you as the group starts moving, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush, you don’t move away.
It’s his birthday, after all. You can give him that much.
Somehow, the sidewalk is significantly more difficult to navigate than it was four hours ago.
"Careful," Jimin murmurs as you stumble over absolutely nothing for the third time in two blocks. He steadies you with a gentle grip, adjusting to link his arm more securely with yours.
"The ground is uneven," you insist, though it's clearly not. "Poorly maintained city infrastructure. Someone should write a strongly worded letter."
"Definitely the sidewalk's fault," he agrees, humor warming his soft voice.
You've ended up at the back of your odd parade, watching as your two separate friend groups merge into a loud, laughing mass of bodies moving through the Manhattan night. Yeji has somehow ended up walking beside Taehyung, both of them gesturing wildly as they argue about something. Irya is chatting with Tessa—a combination you wouldn't have predicted—while Hobi tells an animated story to Ryan and Seth that has them howling with laughter.
And then there's Jungkook, right in the middle of it all, moving between conversations simply like someone accustomed to being the center of attention. Even from behind, you can tell he's having a good time—shoulders relaxed, head thrown back in laughter at something Hobi says.
You can’t help but think it’s… a bit strange, seeing him like this. In the apartment, he's always a bit wound up—ready with a sarcastic comment or provocation. But here, surrounded by friends, celebrating, he seems... looser.
Happier.
It's a good look on him.
Not that you care.
"Here we are!" Hobi announces as your group reaches a neon-lit storefront, the sign advertising ‘SING YOUR HEART OUT’ in aggressively colorful lettering. "Best karaoke in the East Village."
The place is crowded—not surprising for a Saturday night—but Hobi apparently knows someone who works here because you're whisked past the line of waiting people and into the lobby with minimal fuss.
Inside, it reeks of cheap beer and cheaper air freshener, and the walls are plastered with faded posters of pop stars past and present; along with some occasional muffled screech of someone butchering a high note from one of the private rooms.
Everyone begins shedding layers at the coat check, a flurry of jackets and scarves being handed over to a bored-looking attendant who barely glances up from her phone.
You hang back with Jimin, suddenly aware of how sweaty your shirt is under your own jacket.
Great.
Nothing like marinating in your own alcohol-infused sweat to round out the evening.
"I kind of can't believe we're doing this," you mutter to Jimin, still leaning on him more heavily than you'd like to admit. "Karaoke? With these people? Is this real life?"
"It's definitely happening," he confirms, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though I'm not sure how much you'll remember tomorrow."
"I'm not that drunk," you protest automatically. "I'm just... celebrating."
"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced.
Across the lobby, Yeji and Jungkook are locked in what appears to be an intense negotiation over room selection, both of them pointing at different options on the laminated menu the hostess is holding. Taehyung stands nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine.
"I'm telling you, the premium room has better song selection," Yeji insists, her voice carrying across the space.
"But the deluxe has the light-up dance floor," Jungkook counters, gesturing emphatically. "It's my birthday, I want the dance floor!"
"The dance floor is tacky!"
"It's not tacky, it's fun!"
"It's the definition of tacky."
"Your face is the definition of tacky."
"Wow, super mature comeback there, birthday boy."
Your eyes drift from their bickering to the quieter presence leaning against the far wall. Yoongi stands slightly apart from the group, scrolling through his phone with the detached air of someone who's physically present but mentally elsewhere.
You notice Jimin's gaze has followed yours. He's studying Yoongi with an intensity that feels almost... private. Like you're witnessing something you shouldn't.
"That's your other roommate, right?" he asks, voice soft.
"Yeah," you nod, head still resting on his shoulder. "Yoongi."
Jimin just smiles, a small, soft thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something there—a question, maybe, or a thought he's not voicing—but before you can figure it out, Yeji's sharp voice cuts through the moment.
"Y/N! Get over here and settle this!"
You straighten, blinking rapidly as the room spins slightly with the sudden movement.
“What?"
"Premium or deluxe?" she demands, beckoning you impatiently. "Tell this idiot that premium is clearly superior."
Jungkook turns to you, actually pouting like a kid who's been told he can't have a second ice cream cone.
"The deluxe has a light-up floor," he says, as if this is the most compelling argument in the world. "And disco balls."
You look between them, trying to focus through the tequila fog. It shouldn't be this hard to form an opinion about karaoke rooms, and yet.
You can't help the laugh that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation—Yeji and Jungkook, two of the most stubborn people you know, locked in a standoff over something so utterly trivial.
"Come on, Yeji," you say, rolling your eyes even as you fight back another laugh. "He's the birthday boy. Let him make a choice that matters in his life for once."
Jungkook's indignant "yooo!" is drowned out by Yeji's dramatic sigh.
"Fine," she concedes, throwing up her hands. "But when we get stuck with a shitty song selection, don't come crying to me."
"I'll make it up to you," Jungkook promises, already bouncing with excitement. "You can choose the first song."
"Damn right I will." She huffs, no anger behind it.
Jungkook turns to you, triumph written all over his stupid handsome face. "See? I can be reasona—" He cuts himself off with a yelp as you swat at him playfully.
"Don't push it," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.
The hostess, who's been watching this entire exchange with the weary resignation of someone who's seen far too many drunk people argue over karaoke rooms, clears her throat pointedly.
“So... deluxe room? For how many hours?"
"Two," Hobi calls from where he's now organizing a drink order with the rest of the group. "At least!"
"Follow me," she says, gathering menus and leading the way down a dimly lit hallway plastered with even more music posters.
Your odd group trails after her like ducklings, Jungkook practically skipping in excitement. You hang back slightly, still unsteady on your feet, and find yourself walking beside Yoongi, who's finally pocketed his phone.
"You sure about this?" he asks quietly, eyeing you with what might be concern. "You look like you're about ten minutes from passing out."
"I'm fine," you insist, though the hallway is doing that weird tunnel-vision thing that definitely isn't normal. "Just pacing myself."
He snorts, clearly not buying it. "Sure."
"I am," you argue, even as you reach out to steady yourself against the wall. "Totally in control."
"Right." His tone is dry as dust. "That's why you're currently leaning on a poster of Justin Bieber."
You glance over and, sure enough, your hand is planted firmly on young Bieber's face.
You snatch it away with a grimace.
"Ew."
"Exactly." He doesn't say anything else, but he stays close as you make your way down the hall, oddly comforting in its steadiness.
Just like the day at the gynecologist.
The deluxe room, when you finally reach it, lives up to Jungkook's hype—it's large enough to fit your entire group comfortably, with plush seating along the walls, a central space that is indeed illuminated by color-changing floor panels, and not one but two disco balls hanging from the ceiling. The most impressive feature, though, is the giant screen taking up one entire wall, currently displaying the karaoke company's logo bouncing around like an old DVD screensaver.
"This is amazing," Jungkook declares, immediately bouncing onto the dance floor, which lights up green and blue under his feet. "Worth every penny."
"We haven't paid yet," Taehyung reminds him, but he's smiling as he says it.
"Details," Jungkook waves dismissively, spinning in a circle that makes the floor shift colors again. "Come on, everyone pick a song! I want to hear Hobi destroy 'Uptown Funk' again!"
"Bold of you to assume I'd repeat myself," Hobi says, already flipping through the song catalog. "I'm thinking Beyoncé tonight."
"God help us all," Taehyung mutters, but he's already grabbing a microphone.
You sink onto one of the couches, grateful for the chance to sit before your legs give out.
The room is spinning slightly, but in a pleasant way now—like you're on a very slow merry-go-round. From this vantage point, you can watch as everyone settles in, claiming seats and drinks and song choices with the chaotic energy of people determined to have a good time.
Jungkook is still in the center of it all, now trying to convince Yeji to duet with him on some song you can't quite make out over the general noise. She's protesting, but you can tell she'll give in eventually—there's a gleam in her eye that says she's enjoying this more than she's letting on.
The first note of "Don't Stop Believin'" hasn't even finished before Hobi's on his feet, microphone clutched in his hand like it's the Olympic torch and he's the last runner.
What follows can only be described as a religious experience.
The man doesn't just sing—he performs.
Every note, every gesture, every hip thrust (and there are many) executed with the determination of someone who's spent significant time studying the art of karaoke domination.
By the time he hits the chorus, the entire room is on their feet, singing along whether they want to or not.
You find yourself belting out words you didn't even know you remembered, arm slung around Yeji's shoulders as you sway dramatically.
And that's just the beginning.
Taehyung and Jungkook follow with some K-pop song you've never heard but somehow everyone else seems to know the choreography to. Irya delivers a surprisingly powerful Adele ballad that has Yeji staring at her with undisguised adoration. Seth and Ryan butcher ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with the confidence of men who have never been told they can't sing.
Somewhere between your third vodka cranberry and Yeji's unexpectedly heartfelt rendition of ‘Dancing Queen,’ you lose all remaining inhibitions.
Which is how you end up center stage, microphone in hand, challenging Taehyung to an Eminem rap battle that neither of you are remotely qualified for.
"I've got this," you hiss, yanking the mic toward you as the opening beats of ‘Lose Yourself’ start playing. "I've been preparing my whole life. Get ready to get your ass beaten, jerkinci.”
"You've been preparing to embarrass yourself," Taehyung retorts, tugging the microphone back. "I actually know all the words."
"Bullshit. Nobody knows all the words."
The first verse hits and you're both fumbling, words slurring together as you try to keep pace with the rapid-fire lyrics.
You've got maybe every third word right, but what you lack in accuracy you make up for in enthusiasm, half-shouting into the microphone while Taehyung tries to pry it from your grasp.
"His palms are sweaty—"
"—mom's spaghetti—"
"—nervous, but on the surface he looks—"
"—SPAGHETTI!"
You dissolve into laughter at the same time Taehyung does, both of you bent double as the backing track continues without you.
"Draw," Jungkook declares from somewhere to your left. "You both lose. Spectacularly."
"I clearly won," you argue, straightening up with as much dignity as you can muster, which isn't much. "I hit at least four words correctly."
"Wow, four whole words," Taehyung deadpans. "Eminem is shaking."
"He should be," you agree solemnly. "I'm coming for his whole career."
The music shifts to something slower, and you realize you're suddenly very, very thirsty. And maybe a little dizzy.
You hand the microphone to Jimin, who's been quietly watching the disaster unfold with a bemused smile.
"Your turn," you tell him, patting his arm. "Show them how it's done."
He starts to protest, but Irya's already pulling him toward the screen, insisting they do a duet.
You make your way back to the couches, flopping down with more force than intended. The room tilts briefly before righting itself.
"Need a break?" Jungkook asks, appearing beside you with a glass of water.
When did he get water? More importantly, when did he get so considerate?
"Maybe," you admit, accepting the glass. "Thanks."
He studies your face for a moment, and you resist the urge to check if you've got something on it.
"I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Don't pass out while I'm gone."
"No promises."
He laughs, the sound warm even over the pulsing music, and then he's gone, weaving through your friends toward the exit.
You take a long sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat, raw from shouting lyrics and laughing too hard.
Your eyes dance around, noticing Hobi teaching Ryan some dance move on the light-up floor, Yeji and Irya huddled together on one of the couches, heads bent close as they flip through the song catalog, Taehyung now trying to convince Yoongi to join him for something that has Yoongi shaking his head emphatically.
It's... nice. In a chaotic, messy, not-at-all-what-you-planned kind of way.
The couch dips as someone sits beside you. You turn, expecting Yeji or Jimin, and find yourself face to face with Tessa instead.
"Hi!" she says brightly, tucking a strand of perfect auburn hair behind her ear. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"
"Free country," you shrug, shifting slightly to make room even though there's plenty of space.
She smiles, and you can't help noticing how ridiculously pretty she is even in the garish lighting of the karaoke room. No smudged mascara, no frizzy hair, no signs of being several drinks in like the rest of you heathens.
It's annoying.
Pretty people should have the decency to look at least a little disheveled when everyone else does.
“That was quite a performance,” she says, smiling warmly. “I didn’t know you were into rap.”
“I’m not, really,” you admit, taking another sip of water. “I just couldn’t let Taehyung think he’s better than me at something.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuinely amused. “You guys have known each other long?”
“Not really. Just through Jungkook, honestly.”
“Oh!” Her face brightens at the mention of his name. “That’s actually… I was hoping to talk to you about him, if you don’t mind?”
The way her voice lifts hopefully at the end, combined with the slight flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol, tells you exactly where this conversation is headed.
Great.
Girl talk about your hookup buddy. Exactly what you signed up for tonight.
But there’s something so genuinely nice about her expression that you can’t bring yourself to brush her off.
It’s not her fault Jungkook’s… well, Jungkook.
“What about him?” you ask, though you already know.
“I just… I really like him? And I was wondering if you had any insights, you know, being his roommate and all.”
You should have seen this coming.
Of course the pretty film student would be into Jungkook. Of course she’d want insider information.
Wait.
How the actual fuck does Jungkook pull these types of women?
Like, seriously. This girl looks like she should be dating a 6’4” investment banker with good hair, not your annoying roommate who sometimes forgets to wash his coffee mug for so long it develops its own ecosystem.
The universe is truly unfair.
“I’ve only lived with him for about a month,” you say, because it’s true and also gives you time to process.
“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “But you must have some impression of him by now, right? Like, what’s he really like? Outside of class and everything?”
You take another long drink of water, considering.
The truth is, you do know things about Jungkook that probably no one in this room knows—like how he bakes sourdough when he can’t sleep, or how he gets oddly protective of Griffin’s food schedule, or the precise sound he makes when he comes.
Which is actually a thought that gives you pause.
If Tessa and Jungkook start dating, that means your arrangement would end.
No more convenient stress relief.
No more really good sex after bad days.
That would kind of suck, honestly. Because whatever else he is, Jungkook is fantastic in bed. The idea of giving that up isn’t particularly appealing.
But on the other hand… aren’t you kind of friends now? Or at least trying to be?
And friends help each other out.
Even if that means letting go of a mutually beneficial sex arrangement.
Besides, look at her. She’s gorgeous, clearly intelligent, and seems genuinely sweet. Jungkook would be a complete idiot to pass that up for occasional hookups with his sarcastic roommate.
She’s still looking at you expectantly, those wide hazel eyes so earnest it’s almost painful.
“He’s…” you start, then sigh. “Look, I don’t really know him that well outside of basic roommate stuff.”
“Oh.” Her face falls slightly.
Dammit.
Why does she have to look like a disappointed puppy?
“But,” you continue, “I can tell you he’s very passionate about film. Like, genuinely passionate, not just doing it because it seems cool.”
Her expression brightens immediately. “I know, right? The way he talks about cinematography is so… I don’t know, refreshing? Like he actually cares about the art of it.”
“And he’s good with his hands,” you add before you can stop yourself, then immediately want to die. “I mean, like, fixing things! He fixed our bathroom sink when it was leaking.”
Nice save, idiot.
“That’s so sweet,” she says, apparently not picking up on your momentary panic. “He seems really thoughtful, you know? Like, in class he’s always offering to help people with their equipment.”
You nod, because that actually tracks with what you’ve seen of him. For all his annoying qualities, Jungkook does seem to genuinely care about helping people sometimes. It’s one of his more redeeming features.
“You really like him, huh?” you ask, though it’s obvious.
She blushes, looking down at her hands. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “But it’s cute.”
And it is cute, actually.
She seems genuinely into him, not just physically attracted or playing some kind of game.
It’s surprising that a girl like her would be interested in your dumbass roommate, but weirder things have happened.
“Do you think I have a chance?” she asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if she’s sharing a secret. “I mean, I’ve been trying to drop hints, but I can’t tell if he’s picking up on them or just being nice.”
You glance toward the door where Jungkook disappeared, considering. Because in all honesty, you have no idea what his type is beyond ‘willing and available.’ Your arrangement has never included discussions about who else either of you might be seeing or interested in. For all you know, he could be totally into Tessa.
And really, why wouldn’t he be? She’s gorgeous, smart from what you can tell, and seems genuinely kind.
She’s basically way too good for him, but if she can’t see that, it’s not your job to point it out.
“I think…” you start slowly, turning back to her. “I think you should go for it.”
“Really?” Her whole face lights up, and you find yourself smiling back reflexively.
“Yeah, really.”
You straighten up, suddenly feeling like you’re on more solid ground. This is just basic girl code, after all. Helping a fellow woman navigate the treacherous waters of modern dating, even if the guy in question is your occasional fuck buddy.
Plus, you can be the bigger person here.
Yes, the sex with Jungkook is great, but there will be other guys. Other hot idiots to hook up with. It’s not like he’s the only option in New York City.
“Look, Jungkook’s… an okay guy, I guess? But if you like him, you should definitely let him know. Life’s too short for subtle hints.”
“That’s what Irya said too!” She laughs, reaching out to squeeze your arm gratefully. “Oh my god, thank you. I was so nervous to ask you, because I didn’t know if you two were… you know.”
“Me and Jungkook?” You almost choke on your water. “God, no. Absolutely not. We’re just roommates. Barely even friends, honestly.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Yes, you’ve been sleeping together, but it’s just physical. There are no feelings involved. It’s just convenient, uncomplicated sex—exactly how you like it.
“Oh, good,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “I wasn’t sure, and I’d never want to step on any toes.”
“No toes here,” you assure her, wiggling your feet for emphasis. “Completely toe-free zone.”
She giggles, and you find yourself smiling back. She really is nice, which makes it hard to keep disliking her just for being pretty and put-together.
“So,” you continue, feeling oddly invested now. “What’s your plan? How are you going to let him know you’re interested?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, biting her lip. “I was thinking maybe I could ask him to coffee? To discuss a project or something? But that might be too subtle.”
“Definitely too subtle. Guys are dense as bricks. Trust me.”
“What would you suggest then?”
You tap your chin, thinking. “You should just ask him out directly. No pretense, no ‘let’s discuss this project.’ Just ‘hey, I like you, let’s go on a date.’”
“Oh god,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.”
“Sure you are,” you encourage, surprising yourself with your sudden enthusiasm for this matchmaking endeavor. “Look at you! You’re gorgeous, smart, and frankly, way out of his league. If anything, he should be intimidated by you.”
She peeks through her fingers, looking both flattered and skeptical. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. In fact…” You pull out your phone, opening your contacts. “Give me your number. I’ll help you figure out the perfect approach.”
“Seriously?” She beams, reciting her number as you type it in. “That would be amazing. I’m so glad we got to talk tonight.”
“Me too,” you say, and find that you actually mean it. “And hey, even if things with Jungkook don’t work out, we should hang out sometime. You seem cool.”
“I’d love that!” She looks genuinely delighted, which makes you feel a small pang of guilt for your initial judgment of her based solely on her perfect hair and flawless makeup.
As you finish entering her contact info, you glance around and realize Jungkook still hasn’t returned from the bathroom.
It’s been what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Way too long, even accounting for lines or hand-washing (which, knowing him, is probably not a factor anyway).
“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell Tessa, pocketing your phone. “I just want to check that your future boyfriend hasn’t fallen in or something.”
She chuckles at the term but nods, still smiling. “Sure. I’ll save your seat.”
You navigate through the chaos of the room, dodging Hobi’s enthusiastic dance moves and stepping over Taehyung, who’s now sprawled dramatically across the floor reciting what sounds like Shakespeare to a bemused Yeji. The hallway outside is quieter, though the bass from neighboring rooms thrums through the walls.
Where the hell did Jungkook go? The bathrooms are just down the hall, and there’s no way he’d ditch his own birthday celebration.
Maybe he’s answering a call? Or got waylaid by some random person?
Or maybe the idiot got lost on the way back. You wouldn’t put it past him.
With a sigh, you head toward the bathrooms, determined to drag his ass back to the party.
After all, you’ve got a stunning redhead waiting to shoot her shot with him, and you’ll be damned if your sacrifice of great casual sex goes to waste because he can’t find his way back from taking a piss.
You turn the corner, ready to pound on the men's room door and yell at Jungkook for taking forever, when—oh.
He's not alone.
There's a girl. Of course there's a girl. Because when isn't there a girl around Jungkook?
This one's got shiny black hair down to her waist and is wearing what looks like an actual fucking Chanel dress to a karaoke bar.
Who does that?
The kind of person who also wears Louboutins to a place where the floor is permanently sticky with spilled beer, apparently.
But it's not her rich bitch outfit that makes you stop.
It's Jungkook.
He looks... wrong.
He's staring at the floor like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, shoulders hunched forward in a way that makes him seem smaller somehow. His usual swagger is completely gone. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air, not actually saying anything.
It's weird.
Really fucking weird.
Before you can think better of it, you're walking toward them.
Stupid protective instinct. Stupid tequila. Stupid feet moving without permission.
Jungkook notices you first, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. The girl turns around, giving you a slow once-over that makes you feel like you've been scanned and found wanting.
She's beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that probably makes other girls hate her on sight. Perfect skin, dark eyes, delicate features that look more doll-like than human. Her smile is almost too perfect, like it was professionally installed rather than something that grew naturally on her face.
"Oh my gosh, hi!" Her voice is high and sweet, like artificial honey. "I'm so sorry, am I keeping him too long? You must be looking for Kooky."
Kooky? Is she fucking serious right now?
"Can you believe we ran into each other? What are the chances?" She grabs your arm like you're old friends, squeezing with perfectly manicured nails that dig in slightly. "I was just telling him it must be fate. Some connections are just meant to be, right?"
She's acting like you're all at some cute reunion instead of standing in a gross hallway outside a karaoke bathroom. Her perfume is expensive and overwhelming—the kind that probably has a French name and costs more than your rent.
Jungkook clears his throat, still not looking at her. "It's just a coincidence, Mia."
Mia.
The name hits like a slap.
This is her? The ex that sent those texts that made him look like he'd seen a ghost?
Bitch looks like she belongs on a billboard, not stalking her ex in a karaoke bar.
"Oh, you're so skeptical," she laughs, the sound like tiny bells. "Always was. That's what I loved about you though, always keeping me grounded." She turns to you with a conspiratorial smile. "He's the practical one. I'm the dreamer. We balanced each other so well."
She's talking about him like he's not standing right there.
Like he's a character in a story she's telling.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name? I'm Mia."
"Y/N," you say flatly. "Jungkook's roommate."
"Roommate! Oh how wonderful," she claps her hands together like you've just announced you've won the lottery. "It's so nice to see Kooky making new friends. He was always so reserved with people he doesn't know well."
She leans in close enough that you can smell her breath—minty with an undercurrent of expensive champagne.
“Trust issues. We worked on it a lot during our time together."
She says it like they were in some kind of therapy program, not… dating.
What the actual fuck?
"I've found him pretty straightforward," you say, stepping closer to Jungkook because something is clearly wrong here.
He's still staring at the floor, still silent, still looking nothing like the annoying, confident asshole you live with.
"Oh, then he must really trust you," Mia says, eyes wide like you've shared some profound revelation. "That's so special. After everything he went through with his father, it's hard for him to let people in."
His father? Since when does Jungkook talk about his family? He's never mentioned a word about his father to you.
Jungkook's head snaps up at this, face gone pale. "Mia, don't—"
"Oh, I'm sorry!" She covers her mouth with one hand, looking embarrassed. "Was that not something...? I just assumed since you're roommates..." She turns to you and shrugs apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Please forget I said anything."
Right.
Like you're going to forget she just dropped that little bomb.
But now's not the time to dig into whatever daddy issues Jungkook's apparently hiding.
"It's fine," you say, because what else can you say?
"Anyway," she continues, her voice shifting back to that syrupy sweetness, "I was just telling Kooky we should get together sometime. Catch up properly."
She squeezes Jungkook's arm.
“I've missed our little movie nights. Nobody appreciates Park Chan-wook like you do."
Jungkook's still doing his best statue impression, eyes fixed somewhere near the exit sign like he's calculating how fast he can make a break for it.
"We were just getting ready to leave, actually," she says, gesturing down the hall. "I'm here with some friends from Parsons—we have a private room upstairs. You two should join us! We have so much champagne, it's ridiculous. My father just closed another deal in Singapore, so we're celebrating."
Of course her dad makes international business deals. Of course she has a private room upstairs. Of course she's casually drinking champagne while the rest of you slurp tequila from plastic cups.
"I don't think—" Jungkook starts, voice sounding rusty like he's forgotten how to use it.
"It would be so fun!" Mia insists, looking at you now with wide, earnest eyes. "Honestly, any friend of Kooky's is a friend of mine. I've been dying to get to know the people in his life now."
She's laying it on thick, like she's auditioning for the role of Supportive Ex-Girlfriend in some bad rom-com. It's almost impressive how sincere she sounds while being so obviously full of shit.
"We're actually here with a group," you say, firmer this time. "It's Jungkook's birthday."
"Your birthday!" she gasps, turning to Jungkook with exaggerated surprise. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot! I used to be so good with dates."
She steps closer to him, practically pressing against his chest.
"I should have gotten you something. Although I think my presence is gift enough, don't you? Just like old times." She laughs, light and tinkling. "Remember that birthday I planned for you last year? The surprise party at The Standard? Everyone said it was the best night of their lives."
You can practically see her subtext in neon letters above her head: ‘Whatever you losers planned tonight is nothing compared to what I did for him.’
"I don't think he wants to reminisce," you say, surprised by the edge in your own voice. "We should get back."
The bitch’s smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place.
“Oh, I totally get it. You guys have plans. I would never want to intrude on your... celebration."
The way she says ‘celebration’ makes it sound like she's referring to a kindergarten birthday party with paper hats and apple juice.
"We should get your number though, Kooky," she continues, already pulling out her phone. "I changed mine recently. We really should catch up soon. I have so much to tell you."
Jungkook looks like he'd rather eat glass than take her number. His hands are actually shaking slightly—what the hell happened between these two?
"I don't think that's necessary," you say, and without really thinking about it, you link your arm through his.
His skin is cold through his shirt sleeve.
This is the first time his skin’s ever been cold.
He’s usually always a walking furnace—a warm backdrop to your perpetually freezing body.
“Why not? Can’t hurt.” She tilts her head, eyes crinkling in a tight smile.
“Might hurt.”
Mia's eyes flash to where you're touching him, her smile tightening just a fraction.
"Oh, I see," she says, her voice still sweet but with something sharper underneath. "You two are..."
"Friends," you finish firmly. "Good friends."
"How sweet," she says.
She reaches out and straightens Jungkook's collar in a way that feels weirdly intimate.
“You always did need someone to look after you, didn't you, baby?"
She sighs, the sound somehow both theatrical and condescending. You feel Jungkook tense next to you.
What the hell is she talking about?
"Save my number," she says, pressing a small business card—who even carries those anymore?—into his hand. "For when you realize what you're missing. You know where to find me when you want a real connection again."
She leans in and kisses his cheek, holding it a beat too long.
“Happy birthday, Kooky. Try not to have too much fun without me."
She gives you a final look, equal parts pity and dismissal, before sauntering away down the hall, her heels clicking a perfect rhythm against the floor.
Jesus Christ. Is this real life? Did you just witness an actual soap opera villain in action?
The whole thing feels surreal, like you accidentally walked onto a TV set during filming.
"You okay?" you ask Jungkook when she's gone, because what else can you say?
He's still staring after her, jaw tight.
"Fine."
"Bullshit."
He glances at you, momentarily surprised by your bluntness. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"I... I think I need some air."
"Yeah, of course."
Not that you really have any other response ready. What are you supposed to say? ‘Sorry your ex is a walking red flag’? ‘Want to talk about whatever the fuck just happened?’ ‘By the way, what was that father line?’
"I'll be back in five," he says, already moving toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. "I just need a minute."
"Okay."
He pauses, glancing back.
“Thanks."
Then he's gone, pushing through the exit door, leaving you standing in the hallway with the lingering scent of expensive perfume and a head full of questions.
What the hell was all that about? And why does he look like he's seen a ghost? And what did she mean about his father?
You shake your head, trying to clear it.
Not your business. Not your problem. You have your own shit to deal with without adding Jungkook's ex drama to the list.
But as you turn to head back to the karaoke room, you can't help glancing toward the exit where he disappeared.
He really did look... small. Scared, almost.
Nothing like the cocky asshole who drives you crazy on a daily basis.
It's disconcerting, seeing him like that. Like peeking behind a curtain you didn't know existed.
You're going to need another drink for this.
It's pathetic, really.
Jungkook knows it. He acknowledges it fully, standing here on the rooftop of some overpriced karaoke joint in the heart of Manhattan, staring down at the tiny flask in his hand.
Not whiskey, not vodka—no, nothing even remotely respectable. Just pure vanilla extract.
Fucking vanilla extract.
He twists off the cap, lifts it to his lips, and takes a small sip. It burns just enough going down to remind him he's alive, but it tastes good.
Always good.
Sweet enough to mask the bitterness that's permanently lodged at the back of his throat these days.
It's not the watered-down shit they sell at grocery stores either—he learned that lesson quickly after one particularly desperate night ended with him gagging over his sink.
No, this is the real deal, the expensive kind he has to order online from some bougie shop in France that probably laughs every time they ship another bottle to New York City.
His therapist side-eyed him when he first confessed this little habit—because who wouldn't? Who the fuck drinks baking ingredients to cope?
But after a few awkward seconds of silence and scribbling notes on her pad (he hates when she does that), she'd shrugged and said it was better than alcohol or pills or whatever else he could be doing instead.
So Jungkook took what he could get.
If vanilla extract keeps him from self-destructing completely, then that's what he'll stick to.
He leans against the rooftop railing, cold metal pressing into his forearms through his thin shirt. Below him, lights blur together into a neon haze—yellow taxis weaving through traffic like fireflies darting between trees. The city beneath him looks both indifferent and alive, while Jungkook feels like he's barely holding it together.
Happy fucking birthday to him.
Birthdays are supposed to mean something. Another year older, wiser, closer to figuring shit out—but Jungkook just feels stuck.
Twenty-something years old and still sneaking away from his own birthday party because seeing Mia had knocked the air out of his lungs in a way that made him feel like a fucking teenager again.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Unable to even form a coherent sentence when she'd looked at him with those eyes—the ones that used to make him feel special until he realized they were just another weapon in her arsenal.
He takes another sip of vanilla extract, savoring the burn this time as it slides down his throat. It's stupidly comforting in a way he can't quite explain—not even to himself.
Maybe it's nostalgia or some childhood memory he's buried deep down beneath layers of emotional baggage and trauma from Mia and everything else he's fucked up along the way.
Or maybe it's just because it's something sweet and simple in a life that's become anything but.
He chuckles bitterly under his breath, shaking his head at himself.
"You're fucking ridiculous," he mutters into the night air.
But ridiculous or not—pathetic or not—it helps.
And right now, that's all that matters.
Twenty minutes. That's how long he's been up here, hiding like a child. Twenty minutes of staring at the skyline and trying to get his shit together. Twenty minutes of letting Mia's voice echo in his head like a bad song he can't turn off.
He closes his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as cool September air fills his lungs.
He can hear muffled laughter drifting up from downstairs—the karaoke room packed with film school friends who've probably noticed his absence by now—and for once tonight, Jungkook doesn't mind being forgotten for a little while longer.
He'll go back eventually; plaster on another easy smile like nothing happened because that's what he does best these days: pretend everything is fine until everyone else believes it.
And then—the icing on the cake.
He mentally claps for himself at that one. Solid joke. A little on the nose, sure, but he'll take it.
You're there.
He doesn't even need to look to know it's you. That faint trace of vanilla that isn't his flask. Not the sharp, concentrated kind that burns his throat and keeps him grounded.
No, you smell like vanilla, but softer. Warmer. Like someone took the edge off and folded it into something human.
There's something else underneath it too—milky, maybe? Creamy? He doesn't know how to describe it without sounding like a complete idiot, so he doesn't try.
It's funny, though.
Hilarious, actually.
Because in the four weeks he's known you, he knows you're anything but soft.
You're mouthy as hell.
Reckless in a way that makes him think you've got some kind of death wish or maybe just a really bad sense of self-preservation.
You talk back every time he opens his mouth, like it's your personal mission to make sure he never gets the last word.
He should find you annoying.
Irritating enough to make him want to jump off this rooftop just to get away from you.
And yeah, sometimes he does—like when you leave your tea bags in the sink instead of throwing them out like a normal person, or when you steal his hoodies and pretend they just ‘ended up’ in your laundry by accident (as if he doesn't know you're lying).
But mostly?
Mostly, you're just...there.
A sudden disruption in his life when he was finally starting to feel okay again. Starting to enjoy the quiet. Heal, or whatever the fuck people call it when they're trying to piece themselves back together after everything's gone to shit.
And then you came along.
All talk back and adrenaline and thrill and sex.
Really good sex.
He shouldn't be thinking about that right now—not here, not with you standing behind him like some kind of ghost haunting his already-fucked-up night—but it's hard not to when everything about you feels like a challenge he can't help but rise to.
The way you smell, the way you look at him like you're daring him to say something stupid just so you can tear him apart for it...it's infuriating.
Addictive too.
He takes another sip from his flask because what else is he supposed to do?
He can feel your eyes on him—sharp and curious, probably trying to figure out why he's up here alone with nothing but a tiny bottle of vanilla extract for company—and suddenly the burn in his throat isn't enough to distract him anymore.
"Didn't know karaoke had a rooftop package," you say eventually.
Jungkook snorts before he can stop himself, shaking his head as he screws the cap back onto his flask.
"Yeah, well," he says, turning around just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. "Figured I'd splurge for my birthday."
Your eyebrows lift at that—just a little—but you don't say anything right away.
"You know they've noticed you're not around, right?" you say after a moment, your tone careful. "People are asking."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
Of course they are. Because that's what happens when you disappear for twenty minutes in the middle of your own birthday party.
"You good?" you add, and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you directly. "Because we need you back there."
God, you're annoying. Always so direct, always cutting through his bullshit like it's tissue paper.
He should hate this—hate you—but somehow, Jungkook can't really bring himself to fully mean it.
"How'd you find me?" he asks instead of answering your question.
You shrug. "Just a hunch. Figured if I wanted to escape, I'd go up, not down."
He stares at the city below, the skyline stretching out like a postcard someone forgot to mail. The cars are specks from up here, tiny dots crawling along the veins of Manhattan. It's almost peaceful if he squints hard enough to ignore the noise humming faintly in the background—the kind that never really stops, even at this height.
For a moment, it's quiet. Just him, the skyline, and the faint burn of vanilla still lingering on his tongue.
Then he hears it: your footsteps. Soft, slow, like you're trying not to startle him but also don't care enough to stop yourself from intruding.
Of course you're here.
You stop just short of the railing at first, hovering like you're testing the waters.
Then, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, you step closer and lean against it. Right next to him. Close enough that he can catch another whiff of that vanilla-milky-whatever-the-fuck scent that's been messing with his head all night.
He doesn't look at you. Doesn't have to. He knows exactly what you're doing—trying to see whatever it is he's staring at like it's some big mystery that needs solving.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself because yeah, this is so you.
Meddling without actually meddling. Curious without outright saying it.
And he doesn't know how he knows that about you, but he does.
So when you finally break the silence with a casual, "What was that?"—your chin jutting toward his jacket pocket—he's not surprised.
"Huh?" He plays dumb, glancing down at his pocket like he has no idea what you're talking about. "Nothing."
Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can feel your gaze boring into him even though he still refuses to meet it.
“Nothing," you repeat flatly, like you don't believe him for a second. "Right."
"Yup." He pops the 'p' for emphasis and turns his attention back to the city below, hoping you'll drop it.
You don't.
"What kind of nothing are we talking about here?" Your tone is light, teasing—but there's an edge of curiosity there too. The kind that tells him you're not going to let this go anytime soon.
"It's just...nothing," he says again, more firmly this time but still avoiding your gaze.
"Uh-huh." You lean in slightly, tilting your head as if that'll give you a better angle on whatever he's hiding. "So nothing just happens to fit perfectly in your jacket pocket?"
He sighs, shaking his head slightly as a low chuckle escapes him despite himself.
“You're relentless, you know that?"
"Yep," you say easily, popping the 'p' right back at him. "So? What is it?"
He hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not to tell you the truth.
It's stupid—embarrassing even—but something about the way you're looking at him makes it hard to keep deflecting.
Finally, with a resigned sigh and a slight smirk tugging at his lips, he pulls the flask out of his pocket and holds it up for you to see.
"It's vanilla extract," he says simply.
You blink at him, clearly not expecting that answer.
“Vanilla extract," you repeat slowly, like you're waiting for him to say he's joking.
"Yup."
He unscrews the cap and takes another small sip just to prove his point before screwing it back on and slipping it into his pocket again.
For once, you're speechless—and Jungkook can't help but feel a small sense of victory as he leans back against the railing with a smug grin on his face.
"Happy now?"
The silence stretches a beat too long after his admission. He licks vanilla residue off his bottom lip, the sweetness turning cloying under your stare.
"It's pathetic, I know."
"I mean—it's weird," you say, shrugging. "But not pathetic-weird. Just… niche."
He huffs, drumming his fingers against the railing. "Yeah, who the fuck drinks vanilla extract, huh? Couldn't stick to whiskey like a normal fuckup. Had to be quirky.”
The word drips with self-mockery.
You lean back, arms crossed. "We all have our vices. At least you don't smell like an ashtray."
"You'd kick my ass if I smoked in the apartment."
"Damn right."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Below, a siren wails—distant, unimportant. He watches you watch the city, the neon glow catching on your eyes.
"It's… comforting. Don't know why. Ethanol or whatever—therapist says it's placebo with benefits."
"Placebo with benefits," you repeat, deadpan. "That your band name?"
He snorts. "Nah. Ethanol Enthusiasts."
"Catchy."
Another pause.
The wind tugs at his sleeves, carrying your scent again.
Fuck.
"What started it?" you ask, casual as someone asking about the weather.
His thumb rubs the flask's engraving—a nervous tic he didn't know he had.
“Didn't wanna become my old man. Found this… seemed safer." The admission tastes bitter. He backtracks with a shrug. "Therapist greenlit it. Win-win."
You hum, noncommittal.
“Explains why you're obsessed with vanilla lattes."
"Am not—"
"You are. You side-eye my tea like it's piss."
"Because it is piss. Chamomile's for grandmas."
"Says the guy sipping baking supplies."
He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. When he turns, you're smirking—that infuriating, I-win smirk that usually makes him want to rile you up.
Now it just feels… warm.
"You smell like vanilla," he says softly.
Your smirk falters. "You've mentioned. Usually when you're—"
"Not then." He cuts you off, voice lower. "All the time. Even when you're not… y'know."
"Y'know?" You raise a brow.
"Fuckin'—wearing shit. Perfume. Whatever." He gestures vaguely at you. "It's just… you."
The words hang, raw and clumsy.
You blink, that sharp mask slipping for a half-second. He watches your throat move as you swallow.
"Huh," you say finally.
"Huh," he mimics, too quick. Deflect. Always deflect. "Maybe you're part cookie. Secretly."
You freeze. Just for a heartbeat.
Then you smirk, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
“Maybe I'm marinating."
"Maybe," he murmurs.
Another siren. Another beep. Another car being way too loud in this fucking city.
"Or maybe you were made just for me."
It slips out. Too raw. Too honest.
Shit.
Jungkook's throat tightens—what the fuck was that?
He licks his lips, grip tightening on the railing as he scrambles to claw the moment back from the edge of whatever that just was.
"I mean—" He forces a scoff, rolling his eyes like he's mocking himself. "—or you're just some undercover therapist plant. Be honest."
He side-eyes you, smirk plastered on.
“You know Dr. Liao, don't you? This is an intervention. 'Let's gaslight Jungkook into emotional vulnerability via mediocre sex and vanilla-scented body wash—'"
You snort, cutting him off. "Mediocre?"
"Painfully average."
"Excuse you?" You open your mouth exaggeratedly, and he can't help but grin at the sheer offense in your expression. "Okay wow, we are never having sex again."
"Cap."
"Are you seriously using online slang in real life?"
"Yeah, because you're capping."
"I am not capping and stop doing that, it's so cringe."
"But you just said capping too?"
"I—that's because you said it first you moron!"
"And you said it second so who's the real moron here?"
"That's it, I'm never wearing vanilla perfume ever again."
He stops abruptly at that. Looks you in the eyes.
"Like you are right now?"
You open your mouth. Close it real fast. Press your lips together.
"Maybe."
"No maybes. I can literally smell it from here."
He tilts his head slowly, letting you move back if that's what you want.
But you don't.
And he takes that as an invitation, his nose hovering over the soft spot under your ear, where you always apply your cologne on.
"Right here." He mutters, voice velvety and rough. "Really makes me wanna fuck you."
You don't move your head, but your hands come to rest on his chest, and he likes that.
Likes that, despite whatever semblance of control you're trying to channel, you're slipping out of balance.
Like you need to hold on to something—on to him.
"I could fuck you here, you know." He continues, pressing his lips against your skin as he angles your bodies just right—your back against the railing, both his arms caging you in. "Right against the railing. Give the locals a nice view."
"You're insane." You say, but it lacks conviction. He knows it does. "Nobody down there could see us from below, this is a skyscraper and we're on the rooftop."
He clicks his tongue, but can't quite hide his amusement.
"Always ruining the fun. Is this your way of saying no?"
You lick your lips. Feel the goosebumps erupt as his lips trail down your neck.
"No."
"Hmm?" He plants another kiss. "So is it your way of saying yes?"
"No."
You repeat; and this time he actually leans back a bit, trying to figure out what you're aiming for.
"It's a ‘maybe when we get home’. We are not fucking in public, Ro, during your birthday, when all your friends are gonna be wondering where we both are."
His eyes don't stray away from yours. Then, he chuckles.
He doesn't know why he chuckles. Doesn't understand what about your commentary he found funny. Perhaps it's your way of being sensitive even when he's goofing around but totally ready to fuck you for real if you so much as ask.
But it feels familiar.
Safe.
No feelings, no depth—just the usual bullshit.
He likes it. Likes how your smirk looks softer now, under the moonlight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and fuck, he needs another sip of vanilla.
But the flask stays buried in his pocket.
And then you say, "c'mon, Rogue. Your fanclub's singing off-key Mariah Carey downstairs."
And he can't help but reply with a "fuck, really?"
"Taehyung's hitting whistle tones. It's apocalyptic."
He groans, pushing off the railing. "Fine. But you're explaining why I'm not drunk."
"Tell them you're a pastry chef now."
"Fuck you."
"When we get home—"
The rooftop door slams open with enough force to make both of you jump apart like startled cats.
Taehyung stands in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild as they scan the space before landing on Jungkook.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, voice tight with something that sounds suspiciously like genuine panic. "You're up here? On a rooftop?"
Jungkook stiffens beside you, his casual posture vanishing in an instant.
“Tae—"
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
Taehyung cuts him off, storming across the rooftop with the intensity of a small hurricane.
His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Jungkook, who suddenly looks like he wants to melt into the concrete.
"A rooftop? Really?"
You glance between them, completely lost.
There's clearly something happening here that you're not privy to—some subtext that makes this more than just Taehyung being dramatic about Jungkook ditching his own party.
"It's fine," Jungkook says, his voice careful in a way you've never heard before. "I just needed some air."
"Air," Taehyung repeats, like the word tastes bitter. "Sure. Great. Because there's definitely not air anywhere else in this building."
His hands are shaking, you notice. Actually trembling.
"What the fuck, Kook."
"Tae," Jungkook steps forward, reaching for his friend's shoulder, "it's not like that. I swear. I'm okay."
Taehyung's eyes close briefly, his jaw working like he's grinding his teeth. When he opens them again, there's a vulnerability there that makes you feel like you're intruding on something intensely private.
"You can't just—" he starts, then stops, inhaling sharply. "You can't disappear and then be on a fucking rooftop, man. Not after—"
He cuts himself off again, shooting another glance your way.
"I'm sorry," Jungkook says quietly, and there's so much weight in those two words that your own chest tightens in response. "I didn't think about it like that. I just needed to get away for a minute, and this was the first place I found."
"Because you needed to get away," Taehyung says flatly, and there's a question buried in there somewhere.
Jungkook hesitates, his eyes darting to you for just a fraction of a second.
"Mia's downstairs. Or was. We ran into her in the hallway."
The change in Taehyung is immediate and alarming. His face drains of color, then flushes with anger so quickly it's like watching a stoplight change.
"Mia's here?" His voice drops to something dangerous and low. "That fucking—where is she? Did she say something to you? What did she do?"
"Nothing. She's gone," Jungkook says quickly, reaching out to grip Taehyung's arm like he's physically restraining him. "She was with some friends in another room. Just bumped into her on the way to the bathroom."
"And said what, exactly?" Taehyung demands, not even trying to hide his hostility now.
"Nothing important," Jungkook insists, though his tight expression suggests otherwise. "Just Mia being Mia. It's fine."
"It's clearly not fine if you're hiding on a rooftop," Taehyung snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it. His shoulders slump slightly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I was just worried."
"I know," Jungkook says, and there's something so gentle in his tone that you feel like you're witnessing a side of him you've never seen before. "It's okay. I'm okay. Promise."
You shift awkwardly, suddenly very aware that you're intruding on something deeply personal.
“I should, uh, maybe head back downstairs," you offer, already taking a step toward the door.
Two pairs of eyes snap to you, like they'd forgotten you were there.
Jungkook looks caught between relief and something else—regret, maybe?—while Taehyung's expression is blank now.
"No, stay," Jungkook says quickly.
Too quickly.
Then, more casually: "I mean, we were about to head back anyway, right?"
"Right," you agree, though it feels like you're reading from a script you haven't seen before. "Mariah Carey and all that."
"God, they're still on that." Taehyung rolls his eyes, making a visible effort to shake off whatever just happened. "Hobi's been trying to hit the high note in 'Emotions' for like twenty minutes. It's a massacre."
"Can't be worse than your Eminem," you say, hoping to lighten the mood.
It works, sort of. Taehyung's mouth quirks up at one corner.
"Excuse you, I killed that performance."
"Yeah, killed it dead," you agree. "Like, murder. Homicide. Call the rap police."
Jungkook snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Rap police?"
"You know what I mean," you say, waving a hand dismissively. "Let's go save Mariah from Hobi before someone calls actual law enforcement."
As you all move toward the door, you notice Taehyung hanging back just enough to place a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing once—firm, grounding.
Jungkook nods, a tiny movement you almost miss, and something passes between them again—silent but significant.
But it's not your story to know. Not yet, anyway.
So you lead the way back inside, pretending you didn't notice the way Taehyung's hand shook as it fell back to his side, or the way Jungkook's smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he followed you through the door.
Some things are better left unasked. At least for now.
goal: 850 notes because 600 were reached in 2 days, what the heck is wrong with y'all *cries*
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