Nita

🇬🇪🍷

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 16

“choosing yourself”

"You deserve better than a quickie in a musty bathroom stall, and Jungkook should know that, even when he sounds earnest and literally kisses your shoulder. But whatever, because it doesn't last long—he's back to being an asshole after Jason takes you both home. And then it's time you make a choice for yourself, because you can't allow to second-guess yourself like you've done multiple times in the past."

next | index | wc: 9k

↪︎author's note : HO-HU-HEY. WELL. Here it is. Chapter 16. Let’s talk about the chapter. I loved writing this. Like genuinely. As much as I enjoy the pining and the tension and Jungkook being the absolute worst, this one hit different. There are so few stories that actually show characters doing normal life things—especially uterus-having characters dealing with the reality of taking control over their bodies. I wanted to write that. I needed to write that. But more than the appointment itself, this was about Y/N. About her doing something for herself, on her terms. About taking back agency, making an uncomfortable but important decision because she knows if she walks away from it, she’ll never come back. She’ll spiral, overthink, talk herself out of it. So she does it now. Impulsively, but intentionally. And like... that’s growth, baby. That’s real. Also?? Yoongi. My beautiful, quiet king. I didn’t know how to write him into this initially but I knew—I knew—he had to be the one who went with her. Because he’s not loud, he’s not overbearing, he doesn’t project his shit onto anyone else. He’s just present. He’s calm. He listens. He helps because he wants to, not because he needs to be thanked or seen for it. I loved deepening their bond this way, giving her a moment of safety that doesn’t come from the people we expect, but from the people who show up. He’s so important in that apartment and I feel like this chapter gave him the spotlight he deserves. Anyway. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it makes you feel seen. I hope it makes you feel like your choices matter, and your body is yours, and it’s okay to be scared and still do the thing anyway. Now go comment. I'm watching you. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

The thing about standing on business is that it’s a lot harder when Jungkook texts you like that.

Not that it matters. Because you are standing on business. You’re in the bathroom, alone, which is exactly where you should be after dealing with a full thirty-five minutes of Jason’s smooth eye contact, Jimin’s shit-eating grin, and Jungkook’s insufferable, cocky-ass messages.

And before anybody even thinks it—no, you’re not here because of Jungkook.

You’re here because you’re tired. That’s it. Because this damn building is too hot, and your eyes were practically sliding closed during that last poetry discussion. Because you just needed some cold water on your face, a minute to wake yourself up, to breathe.

Not because of his texts.

Not because the way he talks to you does anything.

And definitely not because your thighs were pressed so tight together under that table that even Jason’s deep, articulate voice wasn’t enough to drown out the low thrum that Jungkook might have been right about something.

You glare at your own reflection. Point a silent, accusing finger at yourself.

“Be so fucking for real right now.”

Your reflection does not respond.

You splash more water on your face. Cold, crisp, refreshing. But also kind of not refreshing, because all it does is make you hyper-aware of how warm your skin feels. How annoyingly wired your body is.

You don’t like his dirty talk. You don’t. It’s embarrassing. It’s cringe. It’s the kind of thing that should have you rolling your eyes and shutting your phone off instead of, you know, letting him keep going. Letting him pull you into it.

It’s not arousal, okay?

It’s secondhand embarrassment.

It’s your brain cringing so hard that it doesn’t know what to do with itself, so it misfires and sends weird signals to the rest of your body.

That’s all.

Because you’re not one of those people who fuck in gross library bathrooms. You’re not desperate. You have standards. You deserve better than some icky stall, no matter how kissable someone’s lips are. 

No matter how good their dick game is. 

Or their tongue.

Or mouth. 

Or hands.

You groan. Plant your hands on the edge of the sink and lean in. Stare at yourself, deadpan, through wet lashes.

“You deserve better,” you say flatly, like the universe needs the reminder as much as you do.

The thing is, you’ve always prided yourself on your self-control. On knowing exactly what you want and how to get it without messy entanglements. Feelings complicate things. Feelings lead to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to that pathetic, hollow ache you've made an art of sidestepping.

And yet.

And yet, there was something about the way Jungkook looked at you in that goddamn laundry room. Something almost… soft. Curious, even. Like he wasn’t seeing you as a sparring partner or a mild inconvenience but as—what? Someone worth watching? You’d laughed at something dumb, something fleeting, and for once, his response hadn’t been smug amusement or provocation. 

It had been real. Bubbly. Almost fond.

Which is, obviously, a problem.

Or at the very least, it’s becoming one.

Because these observations are unwelcome intrusions into what should be a straightforward arrangement. You don’t want to see Jungkook as a person with layers and complexities and actual human qualities. It was much easier when he was just ‘the sexy Pulse stranger with the great arms’ who happened to be excellent in bed. An object of convenient lust and equally convenient disdain.

And now he’s Jungkook. Jungkook, your insufferable roommate. Also Rogue. Also Griffin’s human, also the guy whose vinyl collection is a shrine to John Mayer, for reasons you refuse to unpack.

With each passing day, he trespasses further into familiarity.

And the knowing drapes itself across your sternum like Griffin at dusk—silent, insistent, impossible to ignore.

You exhale. Straighten. Shake it off.

Push the door open.

That’s it.

You’re done. Over it. Whatever.

The door swings open, and you step out, chin high, pulse steady. Or—well. Steady enough.

And then there he is.

Leaning against the wall next to the men’s bathroom like he has all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of those stupidly well-fitted jeans. The overhead light casts shadows along his jaw, sharpening the already unfair angles of his face, but the smirk softens them—lazy, knowing.

Roguish.

You almost roll your eyes so hard they might never recover.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Finally gave in?”

You blink at him. Then, with all the dignity you can muster, you gesture back toward the bathroom door you just exited. 

“Yeah, totally. Gave in so hard I went to the women’s restroom instead of the men’s. I really let you have your way, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, deep and quiet, like he’s indulging a particularly entertaining child. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muses, dark eyes sweeping over you. “Took a while in there. Thought maybe you needed a little extra… motivation.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Heat flares up your spine because you know exactly what he’s talking about—his texts, the ones you definitely didn’t let affect you, no sir.

And Jungkook knows you know. He always does. Which is exactly why his smirk widens when you scoff, brushing past him like he’s the least interesting thing in this godforsaken building.

He follows, of course. Falls into step beside you, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bet you thought about it, though.”

Your breath stutters. Just barely. And his grin? That infuriating, cocky thing? It widens.

“You’re annoying,” you inform him, as if he doesn’t already know. 

As if he isn’t enjoying the way your steps falter for half a second, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they’re itching to grab something—his wrist, his shirt, the stupid gold chain he’s wearing right now—

“Mm.” He makes a sound of mock consideration, eyes flicking down and up, lingering at the hem of your skirt before dragging back to your face. “And yet, here we are. You in my text messages. Me in your head.”

He doesn’t need to specify what part of your head. He’s an asshole, but not an idiot.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “God, you think you’re so slick.”

“I am so slick.”

“You’re the least slick person I know.”

“So how do you explain,” he hums, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze your cheek, “the fact that you keep coming back?”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Because—because technically, yes, but also, no, because this thing you have? It’s not about coming back. It’s about convenience. About stress relief. About what you both need, when you need it, nothing more.

So you school your face into something unimpressed, flick him a look, and say, “Your dick isn’t that good, Jungkook.”

And fuck.

He laughs.

He full-on, throaty chuckles, low and pleased and—fuck, the way it rolls through his chest, how it practically purrs out of him, like you just told him the funniest joke in the world.

His hand flexes in his pocket, like he’s restraining himself. His teeth catch his bottom lip for a second, his tongue flicking against it as his gaze devours you, and he exhales a slow, amused…

“God, the things you do to me, woman.”

And you shouldn’t feel that in your knees. You shouldn’t feel it in your stomach, in your throat, pooling low and warm and dangerous.

But you do.

And he knows it.

Which is why he takes another step closer, all effortless heat and bad decisions, and murmurs, “Say the word, Phoenix. I’ll take you right back in there. Won’t even lock the door.”

And goddamn it.

You hate him.

So you move. 

Not away from him, exactly, but toward the nearest bookshelf like you suddenly need a distraction. 

A book, a title, any excuse to look busy. 

To look unbothered.

Jungkook follows. Of course he does. He’s right there at your back, trailing you with a slow, measured step like a fucking german shepherd that already knows the outcome. He doesn’t cage you in with his arms, doesn’t press you into the shelves or block your escape.

Doesn’t need to.

Because he’s close. Just enough that when you reach for a random book, you sense him. The heat of him licks at your skin, his presence a weighted thing against your spine. 

You try to ignore it. 

The way he leans, just slightly, the way he tilts his head to let his voice skate over the shell of your ear.

“You’re so mean to me, Phoenix,” he murmurs, and it’s not fair how smooth his voice is. How it drops into something lazy and indulgent, like he’s stretching out the syllables just to see how they sound against your skin. “Act all tough, but I know you. Know what you like.”

Your fingers tighten around the spine of the book. 

Stupid. 

Reckless. 

Should’ve grabbed one with a title that could at least pretend to justify this whole act. Not Introduction to Microeconomics. 

Jungkook exhales a soft laugh, like he can see your poor choice, like he knows. 

“You’re funny,” he muses, and then—because he’s the worst—he dips his head, close enough that his nose nearly brushes the slope of your throat. “But I’m serious. Want you on my lips so bad right now.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs.

“Don’t even need to fuck you,” he goes on, like his own words are making him drunk, like he’s just thinking out loud. “Just wanna drop to my knees, put my mouth on you, make you all messy.”

You swallow. Hard.

“And you’d let me.” He whispers. “Wouldn’t you?”

Your jaw locks. Because fuck him. Because he’s right. 

Because you can already feel it, that slow, humiliating heat coiling low in your stomach, the weight of his words settling between your legs.

And Jungkook knows it. Knows your silence isn’t no. Knows the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten around the stupid fucking book, the way you’re not moving away.

He shifts. Subtle, barely there, just enough for his chest to brush your shoulder. Enough to make your breath catch when his lips ghost over your pulse.

“Wouldn’t even rush it,” he continues, and he sounds wrecked by the idea, voice rough with it. “Would take my time. Make you fall apart real slow.”

You should tell him to shut up. You should shove him off, roll your eyes, something.

But you don’t. Because you hate him. And worse—you want him.

You want him.

It’s a humiliating truth, one that settles in the pit of your stomach like something molten, something that licks up your spine with every exhale he spills against your skin.

His breath hovers, a phantom thing, barely-there warmth that seeps through the fabric of your long sleeve. A cruel contrast—how your body ignites under something so light, how your nerves spark like kindling when he isn’t even touching you properly.

Not yet.

Then—his fingers. 

Slow, deliberate, reaching. Not for your wrist or your waist, not for your throat or your hip—no, that would be too easy. Too expected.

Instead, they find the fabric at your bicep. A simple touch. A barely-there tug.

And then another.

Torturous. Measured.

The sleeve slides down, inch by aching inch, and you know—you know—this is your moment. This is where you shove him off, where you huff and scoff and tell him to fuck off with his slow-burn seduction act.

Except you don’t.

You just stand there, staring at the shelf in front of you, trying not to melt out of the way the air feels against your bare skin. How exposed it is now, how Jungkook’s gaze lands heavy where the fabric used to be.

“Wanna taste you so bad right now, Nix.”

Your other hand finds the bookshelf. Not to grab a book. Not to turn the page on this whole situation.

For balance.

Because your body betrays you, trembles—just slightly, just enough that you can feel it.

And he sees it.

Feels it.

His breath dips lower. Warmer. Until his lips graze the bare curve of your shoulder.

And then he presses in.

A kiss. Featherlight. Barely there.

But devastating, because it cracks through you, sends goosebumps skittering down your arms, shivering at the nape of your neck..

“Ro—”

“I’d seriously drop to my knees right here,” he interrupts, voice quiet but wrecked. “Wouldn’t even think twice.”

Your fingers tighten against the bookshelf.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Jimin’s voice.

You move first. Swift. Normal. Like nothing just happened, like your knees weren’t about to fucking give out. Jungkook straightens, smooth, unhurried, expression lazy and unreadable.

When you turn, Jimin is there, brows furrowed, completely oblivious.

“Hey.” You clear your throat, tilt your head, something, anything to make yourself feel normal again. “What’s up?”

Jungkook stays quiet. But you can feel him. His warmth still lingers. His gaze still burns.

And it’s only when Jimin starts talking—some filler, something meaningless—that you realize your sleeve is still slipped down, fabric bunched at your elbow.

And Jungkook is still looking.

Jason appears before you fully process it, stepping into your periphery with that calm, inquisitive expression of his, eyes skimming over your face like he’s assessing something.

“You good?” His voice is gentle, curiosity laced in his tone.

You nod. “Yeah. Done for the day.”

His eyebrows quirk. Just a fraction. “Oh.”

Jimin, standing a little to the side, shifts his weight. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Oh, no,” you answer smoothly, already toeing the conversation in a different direction. “I took the bus today.”

Jason hums. “I can take you home if you want.”

And then—movement.

Jungkook. 

Shifting. Sliding in, looping an arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His body radiates heat, casual in its weight, but you feel the deliberate nature of it. The timing. The message.

“Sure,” he drawls, voice all syrupy amusement. “Taking us home, Teach?”

You barely resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs, but you do shove his arm off with a sharp shrug, angling an elbow against his side—not forceful enough to hurt, but definitely not subtle.

Jason blinks. “You two live together?”

You don’t hesitate. “Roommates.”

Jason smiles, nodding, like the answer pleases him. “Well, in that case, I’d be glad to.”

You hear Jungkook chuckle behind you.

You flip him off.

But you both start walking.

Jason's car smells like expensive cologne and ambition.

You're sitting shotgun whilst Jungkook's sprawled across the back seat of Jason's immaculate SUV, taking up more space than seems physically possible, one arm slung across the headrest as he stares out the window with half-lidded interest.

The leather beneath you is that specific type of luxury that feels both comfortable and like you shouldn't be allowed to touch it at the same time—and Jason's got one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, and he's telling you about his dissertation—something about modernist literature and the fragmentation of self-identity in post-war narratives.

It sounds impressive. It probably is impressive. 

You're nodding along, asking questions in the right places, and generally pretending that you're not stupidly aware of Jungkook's reflection in the side mirror, watching.

"What about you, Jungkook?" Jason asks suddenly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Y/N mentioned you're studying film?"

Jungkook's reflection shifts, his posture straightening just slightly. 

“Yeah," he says, voice easy, unbothered. "Film and Media Studies."

"What year?"

"Dunno," he answers, and you can practically hear the shrug in his voice. "Taking classes from different years. Whatever looks interesting." 

Of course he is. God forbid he follow any sort of structured plan like a normal student.

"Planning to go into academia too, or straight to industry?" Jason continues, clearly trying to make polite conversation despite Jungkook's lackluster responses.

His response is a mere sound in the back of his throat, something between a chuckle and a scoff. Then:  "Industry. Theory's nice and all, but I'd rather be behind a camera than writing about one."

Jason nods thoughtfully. "Smart move. The academic route isn't for everyone. It takes a certain patience. Methodical thinking."

You immediately note how Jungkook's expression shifts—just for a second—into something sharper, more focused.

Then it's gone, replaced by that same lazy half-smile he always wears.

"Yeah," Jungkook drawls, leaning back. "Guess I'm just more of a hands-on learner."

The way he says "hands-on" shouldn't feel loaded. 

It doesn't, really.

Except that your mind immediately flashes to those same hands on your skin, and you have to resist the urge to shift in your seat.

Jason seems oblivious, continuing. "What kind of films are you into?"

"The good ones," Jungkook replies, and you can hear the smirk without even looking.

"That's... vague."

"I'm a visual guy. I like things I can see."

Jason laughs, a polite sound. "Fair enough. Any directors you admire?"

"Too many to list," Jungkook answers, and there's something in his voice now—a subtle tightness, like he's getting bored with the interrogation. "But hey, I'll give you one. Wong Kar-wai. His use of color and the way he frames longing? Unmatched."

You blink, a little surprised. Not by the answer itself—you know Jungkook's capable of actual intellectual thought, even if he pretends otherwise half the time—but by the genuine passion that briefly flares in his voice.

Jason nods, seeming genuinely impressed. "Interesting choice. 'In the Mood for Love' is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, it is." There's a beat, and then Jungkook adds, "What about you? You a film guy?"

"I appreciate it as an art form, but literature's my passion." Jason's hand moves from the gearshift to the steering wheel as he navigates a turn. "Though I teach a module on film adaptations of classic literature occasionally."

"Cool," Jungkook says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. Then, abruptly changing the subject: "How'd you end up TA-ing for Y/N's class?"

You shoot Jungkook a look through the mirror. 

What is he doing?

"I'm not actually Y/N's TA," Jason clarifies smoothly. "I just run study groups for students across different modules. Help where I can."

"Just out of the goodness of your heart, huh?" 

“Something like that. Plus, it looks good on the CV."

You jump in, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Jason's been really helpful. I was drowning in all that Sylvia Plath symbolism before today."

"I'm sure he has," Jungkook murmurs, and when you catch his reflection again, his eyes are narrowed slightly, focused on the back of Jason's head.

Then the rest of the ride passes in a…strange, stilted rhythm—Jason asking questions, Jungkook giving just enough of an answer to seem polite before flipping the question back around. 

You filling the gaps with comments and questions of your own, trying to figure out why the air suddenly feels too… saturated?

By the time Jason pulls up to your apartment building, you're exhausted from the mental gymnastics of trying to parse what the fuck is happening.

"Here we are," Jason announces unnecessarily, putting the car in park. "Nice place."

Jungkook's door opens before the words are fully out of Jason's mouth. 

“Thanks for the ride, man," he says, climbing out with easy grace. But instead of heading straight for the building entrance, he pauses, one arm resting on the car roof, waiting.

For you.

Jason turns to you, one hand still on the wheel, the other now resting on the center console. "Listen, Y/N, I was wondering if you'd like to grab coffee sometime?”

He smiles, and you like the way the corner of his lip tugs upward genuinely, a dimple forming on it.

It’s cute.

It’s attractive.

Then he smiles. Gaze briefly flicks to Jungkook, then back to you, whispery. Adds: “Just the two of us, I mean."

Your stomach does a pleasant little flip because—wow. An attractive, intelligent guy who can discuss poetry without making dick jokes? Asking you for coffee? Like a date?

Is this real life?

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

"How's Saturday? There's a café near campus that does incredible pour-overs."

Shit. Saturday. Jungkook's stupid surprise birthday dinner.

"I actually can't Saturday," you say, genuinely disappointed. "I have this... thing I can't get out of." No way are you telling him it's for Jungkook's birthday. "But maybe Sunday?"

"Sunday works." His hand moves then, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist. "It's a date, then."

His touch is warm, brief, and makes your chest flutter. 

You nod, gathering your bag. "Thanks again for the ride. And the study help."

"Anytime."

Stepping out of the car, you see Jungkook still standing there, watching. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable as he pushes off from where he's been leaning against the car.

You walk over, and together, you head toward the building entrance. Jason's car idles behind you for a moment before pulling away, and only when the sound of his engine fades does Jungkook speak.

"I don't like him."

It's so abrupt, so matter-of-fact, that you almost laugh. 

"Okay? Did I ask?"

Jungkook doesn't respond right away. His lips press together, jaw tightening for a split second as you reach the elevator. He hits the up button with more force than necessary.

"He gives off vibes," he finally says, as the elevator doors slide open.

You step inside, hitting the button for your floor. 

“Vibes," you repeat flatly. "What are you, suddenly psychic or some shit?"

"Don't need to be psychic to see he's fucking weird."

The elevator begins its ascent, and you lean against the wall, eyeing him. 

“English major and almost a professor. Makes sense why you don't fuck with him, don't you think?"

Jungkook's head snaps toward you. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," you shrug, "you're clearly threatened by anyone with a vocabulary that extends beyond 'fuck' and 'vibes.'"

"Oh fuck off," he scoffs. "He's not that impressive."

"More impressive than you pretending to hate classic films to sound edgy."

His eyes narrow. "I never said I hated—"

"Whatever, Rogue. Keep your weird opinions to yourself. I'm going on a coffee date with him Sunday."

"Great," he says flatly. "Have fun with Professor Stick-Up-His-Ass."

The elevator dings. You push past him, digging in your bag for your keys.

"What is your problem?" you demand as you walk down the hallway. "He was perfectly nice. He gave us a ride home. He actually listens when people talk."

"I'm just saying I don't fuck with him."

"And what's that to me? Why do you think I care who you fuck with?"

"Nothing," Jungkook says, fumbling for his keys—so you stop rummaging through your bag. "I'm just stating my opinion. I'm allowed to not like people."

"Yeah, but you're telling me like I should care?" You follow him through the door. "Like your opinion matters to me somehow?"

"No?" He turns to face you. "I'm just fucking saying. That's it."

"Well, don't."

"Don't what? Talk?"

"Don't act like your shitty opinions on my social life matter."

The apartment feels too small suddenly. Like the walls are closing in. 

Why is it so hot in here? Did Yoongi crank the heat again? God, you're going to have another fight about the thermostat after this.

"Look," He sighs exasperatedly, and the sound makes you want to kick him on the shin. "I get it. He's all polished and proper and talks about dead poets with you. Fucking fantastic. I'm just telling you he seems like a fake-ass bitch."

"A fake-ass—what are you even talking about?" Your voice rises because what the actual fuck? "You're literally making shit up. He seems perfectly normal."

"Normal? Did you miss the way he kept cutting me off? Or that weird laugh thing he does?"

"Oh my god." You throw your bag onto the counter. "You're so full of shit. He was trying to keep the conversation going while you gave one-word answers like a sullen teenager."

"Yeah, because he kept asking me the same basic-ass questions like I'm in a job interview or some shit."

"It's called making conversation, dickhead. Something you clearly know nothing about."

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the counter with a clatter. "There's making conversation, and then there's whatever the fuck he was doing. Dude's weird. Period."

"He's weird? That's your whole argument? That's the hill you're choosing to die on?"

"You didn't catch it?" Jungkook looks at you like you're the dense one. "That whole thing about teaching 'occasionally?' The way he kept touching the gearshift? And the fucking wrist grab at the end? So fucking unnecessary.”

"Oh my god." You're actually laughing now, incredulous. "You sound completely unhinged. He barely touched me!"

"It's not about—" Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "It's the pattern, Nix. The whole vibe is off."

"The pattern? The vibe?" You mimic his voice. "Are you listening to yourself? You sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"Fine," he throws his hands up. "You're so fucking right, as always. Go hang out with Captain Control Freak. See if I give a shit."

"Captain Control—what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Go on your little coffee date with Professor Perfect."

"Why are you being such a dick about this?" Your voice rises, frustration boiling over. "It's just coffee!"

"And I'm just saying he seems like an asshole!" Jungkook's voice matches yours now. "But sure, ignore me. What the fuck do I know, right?"

"Right! What the fuck DO you know? You met him for twenty minutes and suddenly you're an expert?"

"I know enough to spot a fucking red flag when I see one."

"A red flag? Are you kidding me?" You make an incredulous sound. "Because he has a nice car and uses big words? Those aren't red flags, those are called being an adult!"

"No, because he's putting on a whole act!" Jungkook's gesturing wildly now. "The scholarly bullshit, the fake interest, the—"

"Maybe he's actually interested in literature? Have you considered that possibility, genius?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's very interested in 'literature,'" Jungkook makes air quotes. "Along with controlling every fucking conversation and situation."

"You're being ridiculous." You give him a blank stare, accompanied by a chuckle. "Completely ridiculous."

"And you're being naive!" 

"No, I'm being NORMAL!" The word echoes off the kitchen walls. "You're the one having some weird meltdown over nothing!"

"It's not nothing! The dude's giving off major control freak energy and you're too busy swooning over his vocabulary to notice!"

"I am not swooning over anything!" 

"Whatever. You clearly can't see what's right in front of you."

"And you clearly can't handle not being the center of attention for five fucking minutes!"

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up. "The center of—what? That's what you think this is about?"

"I don't know what it's about! That's my whole point!" You're making no sense!"

"I'm making perfect sense! You're just not listening!"

"Because you're not saying anything worth listening to!"

“Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever the fuck you want. It's your life."

"Yeah, it is my life. And you know what? I WILL do whatever the fuck I want."

"Great! Awesome! Have fun!"

"I will!"

"Good!"

"GOOD!"

You glare at each other, both breathing hard—and Griffin chooses that moment to saunter in, meowing loudly as if to say ‘what the fuck is all this noise about?’

"Your cat wants food," you snap, needing the last word.

"He's not just my cat, he lives here too," Jungkook fires back, because apparently he also needs the last word.

"Then maybe you should focus on feeding him instead of my social life."

"Maybe you should focus on not getting involved with pretentious assholes!"

"I live with one, so I think I can handle it!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you too."

You turn away, stomping toward your room. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're a stubborn bitch."

You flip him off without looking back, slamming your door with enough force to rattle the walls. You hear him mutter something through the thin wood—probably another insult—before the sound of cabinets opening and closing tells you he's probably feeding Griffin.

Dropping onto your bed, you stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

What the hell was that about? Since when does Jungkook care who you hang out with? And what the fuck was all that ‘vibes’ and ‘energy’ bullshit?

It shouldn't matter. 

It doesn't matter.

Except now there's this annoying doubt in the back of your head. 

Not because Jungkook's right—he's definitely not—but because he seemed so sure. So genuinely worked up about it. 

Not jealous, just... concerned? 

Angry? 

Something.

God, you need to get a grip. This is exactly what happens when you live with people too long. Their crazy starts to sound almost reasonable.

Jason is fine. He's normal. 

Jungkook is the one being insufferable and childish because he can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes.

So honestly? 

Fuck him.

You deserve to go on a date with someone who actually listens to what you have to say.

So you will.

And if he wants to whine about it, well. That’s his problem. Not yours. 

Staring at the confirmation email on your phone should not be making your stomach turn like this.

It's just an appointment. A totally normal, adult thing to do that people handle every day without breaking a sweat. Just another checkbox on the grand list of things labeled ‘Taking Care of Your Body’ that you've been putting off for... well, forever.

But there it is: Appointment with Dr. Camila Rivera, Wednesday, 4:45 PM.

You'd done it yesterday night, after the fight with Jungkook, after slamming your bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls. 

You'd sat on your bed, fuming, and somehow that anger had propelled you toward something productive for once. A quick Google search for ‘gynecologist near me,’ a few clicks, and suddenly you had an appointment.

Easy-peasy. Totally casual.

Except it wasn't. Not really.

Because the truth is, you've never been to a gynecologist before. Not once in your life.

And it's not like you're some kind of prude. You're not. Just ask Jungkook. Or, you know, don't—his ego is inflated enough as it is. But the point stands: you're sexually active. You know your way around a condom. You're not completely clueless.

You're just... inexperienced in certain areas. 

Official areas. 

Medical areas.

Because going to a gynecologist meant telling your parents you needed to go to a gynecologist. Which meant admitting you were having sex. Which meant watching your mother's face crumple into that specific blend of disappointment and judgment she'd perfected over the years. The one that said, ‘I raised you better than this’ without her having to speak a word.

It was easier to just... not go. Stick with condoms. Cross your fingers. Hope for the best.

But things are different now. You're living on your own. Making your own decisions. Sleeping with your insufferable roommate whenever the mood strikes. Planning coffee dates with hot TAs who might—if things go well—become another notch on your metaphorical bedpost.

The thought sends a little thrill through you. 

Jason. With his deep voice and thoughtful gaze and ability to analyze poetry without sounding like a pretentious asshole. Would he be different in bed than Jungkook? Less demanding, maybe. More measured. Or maybe he'd surprise you.

God, when did your brain become so fixated on sex? 

That's what freedom feels like, you tell yourself, stretching your legs out across your bed. It's natural. Healthy, even. You've spent years living under your parents' suffocating expectations—their carefully crafted vision of who you should be, the life you should lead, the choices you should make. Always excelling, always proper, always in control.

Well, fuck that. You're done being controlled.

Hence, the appointment. 

Because if you're going to be sexually liberated (the phrase makes you cringe a little, even though it's just in your head), you should probably be responsible about it. Birth control pills, or maybe an IUD—something more reliable than condoms alone. 

Something that puts you in control of your body, for once.

That's what this is really about, isn't it? Control. Wresting it back from the people who've held it for too long. 

Your parents. Their expectations. Their constant, stifling presence even when they're miles away.

You glance at the time on your phone: 3:32 PM. About an hour before you need to leave.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because while making the appointment had been an act of defiance, of independence—actually going feels different. More real. More intimidating.

You've done your research. Read all the ‘What to expect at your first gynecology appointment’ articles online. You know it will involve questions about your sexual history (complicated), your family medical history (boring), and a physical exam (terrifying).

The problem is, you'd planned to ask Yeji to go with you. She'd been to gynecologists before. She'd know what to expect, how to act, what was normal. But she texted this morning to say she'd caught some stomach bug and could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone across town to a doctor's office.

Which leaves you... alone. 

And you shouldn't need someone to hold your hand through this. You're an adult, for fuck's sake. People do this all the time.

But the anxiety bubbling in your stomach doesn't care about logic. It's there, persistent and nagging, making you wonder if you should just cancel and reschedule for when Yeji's feeling better.

No. That's the old you talking. The you that let other people's expectations dictate your life. You need to do this, and you need to do it today.

But maybe you don't have to do it alone.

Jimin is in class right now. Emma's too far away. 

And you and Jungkook are still not talking.

You glance at your bedroom wall, the one that separates your room from Yoongi's. He's home today—you heard him shuffling around earlier, the familiar sound of his bedroom door closing, his music faintly filtering through the walls.

Yoongi's different from Jungkook. Quieter. More observant. He doesn't waste words or gestures. He doesn't fill silences just to hear himself talk.

Would it be weird to ask him? Probably. But also... maybe not. 

Yoongi has this way of making the strangest things seem normal, simply by refusing to treat them as strange.

Before you can overthink it any further, you're on your feet, moving toward your bedroom door, then to Yoongi's. Your knuckles rap against the wood before your brain can catch up with your body and tell you what a ridiculous idea this is.

There's a pause. Then shuffling. Then Yoongi's voice, slightly muffled: "Yeah?"

You open the door tentatively. Yoongi's seated at his desk, headphones on, one ear now pulled back as he swivels in his chair to face you. His expression is neutral—not annoyed, exactly, but definitely interrupted. Behind him, his computer screen glows with what looks like a complex audio editing program, tracks upon tracks stacked neatly in multicolored rows.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," you start, hovering in the doorway. "I, uh, I was wondering..."

Yoongi blinks at you, his gaze tracking over your face for barely two seconds before his eyes narrow slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and just like that, you hesitate.

Is it that obvious? Do you have ‘first-time gynecologist panic’ stamped on your forehead in neon letters? God, this is embarrassing.

"Nothing's wrong," you say, too quickly. "I just—" You take a breath. "I have a doctor's appointment, and I was supposed to go with Yeji, but she's sick, and—"

"What kind of doctor?" Yoongi's already slipping his headphones off, setting them on his desk.

"Gynecologist," you admit, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. 

You brace for awkwardness, for judgment, for that subtle shift in his expression that says this conversation just got weird.

It doesn't come.

"When's the appointment?" he asks instead, like you just told him you're seeing a dentist.

"Four forty-five."

Yoongi glances at his computer screen, then back at you. A slight furrow appears between his brows—not judgmental, more like he's calculating something.

"Is it your first time?"

Your mouth opens, then closes. 

Is there a neon sign above your head that says ‘VIRGIN TO WOMEN'S HEALTHCARE’ blinking in hot pink? How does everyone just know these things about you?

"Yeah," you admit, heat creeping up your neck. "First time."

Yoongi nods like this confirms a theory. "I can take you."

You blink at him, confused by the easy offer. "You don't have to—"

"I've done it before," he says with a small shrug. "My sisters. Lost count of how many times I've sat in waiting rooms while they got checked out."

"Your sisters?" This is new information. Yoongi has barely mentioned his family in the few weeks you've lived together.

"Two of them," he says, shrugging. “Older and younger. They'd kill me if they knew I was calling them a pain in my ass, but..." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pain in my ass."

"I didn't know you had sisters," you say, still hovering in the doorway, surprised by this glimpse into his life.

"East Village, you said?" He inquires, stretching his arms over his head. "On 14th?"

"Yeah, but—seriously, you don't have to. I can go alone. It's fine."

Yoongi looks at you, really looks at you, his gaze direct but not unkind. "But you don't want to. That's why you're here. Give me ten minutes to finish this section, and we'll go."

The simplicity of it knocks the air from your lungs. 

No questions about why you need to go, why you can't go alone. 

Just acceptance. 

Just help.

"Thanks," you manage, your voice smaller than intended.

Yoongi makes a sound—something between a grunt and a hum—that you interpret as 'you're welcome' before focusing back on his work. You linger for a moment, uncertain, before backing out of the room and gently closing the door.

Fifteen minutes later, you're sitting next to Yoongi in an Uber, your knee bouncing nervously as you watch the city blur past the window. 

You've barely spoken since leaving the apartment, the silence between you not uncomfortable but definitely... present.

"Have you been to this doctor before?" Yoongi asks suddenly, his voice quiet in the confines of the car.

You shake your head. "First time."

"First time ever?"

There's no judgment in his tone, just curiosity, but you still feel a flush creep up your neck. "Yeah. My parents were... strict."

Yoongi nods like this makes perfect sense. "Mine too. Different things, though."

"Like what?"

He shrugs, his shoulder lifting in a smooth, controlled motion. "Music. They wanted the classical route—Juilliard, orchestra, all that. Not producing. Definitely not hip hop."

"But you did it anyway."

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Eventually. Took a while."

There's more to it, you can tell. You recognize it because it mirrors your own experiences—the rebellion, the constant calculation of how much you can take without being taken from.

"Are your sisters musicians too?" you ask, curious about these siblings he's mentioned.

His eyebrows lift slightly, like he's surprised you're interested enough to ask. "Mina and Soonhee? Nah, they got different rules. Mina's older—she got to do dance, no questions asked. Soonhee's the baby—she's in med school now, but she did competitive cheerleading through high school. I was the only one who got the 'practical career' lectures."

"That's fucked up."

He huffs a laugh, soft and low. "Yeah. Parents, man."

"So how'd you end up being the gynecologist escort service?"

This time, the laugh is fuller, unexpected enough that the driver glances in the rearview mirror. "Soonhee. She was seventeen, terrified of going alone, and didn't want our mom knowing yet. So I took her." He shrugs again. "After that, it was just... normal. Picked her up from appointments sometimes when our parents were working. Drove Mina a few times too."

Something about this image—Yoongi, quiet and steady, sitting in a waiting room while his sisters get their reproductive health sorted—makes your chest warm.

"That's... really nice of you."

"It's not a big deal." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's what family does."

The car slows as you approach your destination, and suddenly the nerves are back, coiling tight in your stomach. 

This is happening. You're really doing this.

Yoongi must sense the shift because he looks at you, his gaze direct but gentle. "They'll ask a lot of questions. Some feel invasive, but they're just doing their job. If you don't know an answer, that's okay. If something feels wrong or hurts too much, speak up. Don't just endure it."

"Okay," you whisper, and for a moment, the two of you just look at each other—you, the girl who's spent her life trying to be perfect, and him, the boy who's learned to create his own definition of it.

The car stops. The driver announces your arrival. Yoongi nods once, decisive.

"Let's go."

The waiting room is exactly what you expected: too-bright lighting, uncomfortable chairs, ancient magazines, and the faint smell of disinfectant.

What you didn't expect is how much calmer you feel with Yoongi beside you, his presence steady as you fill out paperwork on a clipboard.

"Family medical history," you mutter, scanning the form. "Like I'm supposed to know if my great-aunt had ovarian cancer."

"Just write what you know," Yoongi says, not looking up from his phone where he's responding to what looks like a work email. "They mostly want the big stuff."

You nod, focusing back on the form.

Name, date of birth, insurance information (thank god your parents still have you on their plan, even if they'd probably have a collective aneurysm if they knew what you were using it for), medications (none), allergies (none), sexual history...

Your pen hovers over the ‘number of sexual partners’ field.

Two, technically. 

One in high school—David, your boyfriend for all of three months, who'd been sweet but forgettable—and now Jungkook, who is... neither of those things.

Not that anyone needs to know about that particular arrangement. 

Especially not Yoongi, who lives with both of you and would make things weird if he knew. 

It's bad enough that he might hear things through the walls sometimes—though you've been careful, for the most part. Extra careful.

Because what you and Rogue have isn't something that needs to be analyzed or discussed or turned into some big thing. It's just sex. Convenient, mind-blowing, occasionally wall-banging sex. No strings, no expectations, no complications.

And honestly, there's something almost thrilling about the secrecy of it all. The way you can brush past Jungkook in the kitchen while Yoongi's there, both of you acting like you didn't have your legs wrapped around his waist twelve hours earlier. 

The control of it. 

The power in knowing something no one else does.

Soon to be three partners, maybe, if things go well with Jason. 

The thought sends an unexpected twinge through you. Not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it.

"You know," Yoongi says suddenly, his voice low, "I never asked why you wanted to come here today."

You glance up, surprised. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Sure. But there are lots of reasons people go to gynecologists." His eyes remain on his phone, giving you the space to answer without the weight of his gaze. "Regular check-ups. STI testing. Birth control. Problems."

"All of the above?" you say, aiming for a joke but landing somewhere closer to honesty. "Mostly birth control, though. I've been... thinking about it for a while."

And it’s true, because condoms, while effective, aren't foolproof. 

Not that you're telling Yoongi that you're sleeping with anyone, let alone Jungkook, let alone possibly Jason soon.

Some things are better kept private. Safer that way. No one's business but your own.

Yoongi nods. "Smart."

That's it. No lecture about being careful, no brotherly concern about who you might be sleeping with, no judgment about your choices. Just: smart.

"Thanks," you say, and you mean it for more than just the compliment.

"Soonhee has an IUD," he offers casually. "Says it's been good for her. Less to remember."

You blink, caught off guard by how easily he's discussing this. "I was thinking about that. Or maybe the pill."

"Makes sense." He mumbles, typing into his phone now. "Mina did the implant thing—the arm one? She had mood swings at first, but they evened out."

You're about to ask another question when a nurse calls your name. 

Suddenly, your heart is in your throat again, the clipboard clutched in your sweaty hand.

"You'll be fine," Yoongi says, taking the clipboard from you with gentle fingers. "I'll be right here."

You stand, smoothing down your shirt with shaky hands. "This is weird, right? You barely know me."

Yoongi looks up at you, calm but thoughtful. "Not that weird. We live together. That counts for something."

Something about his words steadies you. 

You've lived with your parents for most of your life—but this is the first time it's felt like more than just sharing space. 

Like there's something about proximity that builds its own kind of trust, its own kind of care.

"Thanks, Yoongi," you say again, meaning it more with each repetition.

He nods once, then returns to his phone, the conversation complete.

As you follow the nurse down the hallway, you realize something surprising: you're glad it's Yoongi out there waiting. Not Yeji, not Jimin, not anyone else.

Just Yoongi—quiet, steady, unfazed by the messiness of being human.

And for the first time since moving in, you think maybe, just maybe, this apartment isn't just a place you live.

Maybe, in some small way, it's becoming home.

Your entire life, you’ve been told what to do with your body.

Stand up straight. Smile more. Don’t eat that. Wear this. Be modest. Be pretty. Be better. Smaller. Quieter. More.

It’s a strange feeling, sitting on the edge of an exam table in a paper gown that crinkles with every breath, realizing that for perhaps the first time, you’re making a decision entirely for yourself. 

About yourself. 

By yourself.

Dr. Rivera is nothing like you imagined. You’d pictured someone older, stern, clinical. Someone who would make you feel childish and naive. 

Instead, she’s maybe mid-thirties, with a warm smile and dark curls pulled back in a bun. She sits on a rolling stool, reviewing your forms, asking questions in a voice that somehow manages to feel both professional and conspiratorial—like you’re both in on something important together.

“So this is your first time seeing a gynecologist?” she asks, looking up from her tablet.

You nod, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to make yourself smaller under her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Any particular reason you decided to come in now?”

Do you tell her that you’ve been having casual sex with your roommate? That you’re hoping to add a handsome TA to the rotation? That after years of letting other people—parents, professors, partners—dictate what you should do, you’re finally deciding for yourself?

“I want to start birth control,” you say instead, aiming for casual confidence but hearing the slight waver in your voice. “Something reliable.”

She nods, no judgment in her expression. “Have you been thinking about any particular method?”

“I’ve been researching a few. The pill, IUDs…”

“IUDs are excellent long-term options,” she says, setting her tablet aside. “Both hormonal and non-hormonal varieties have their advantages. The hormonal ones can help with period symptoms—lighter bleeding, less cramping. The copper one doesn’t have hormones, so there are no hormonal side effects, but periods can be heavier, especially at first.”

You’ve read all of this online, but somehow hearing it from an actual doctor makes it feel more real. 

More possible.

“How long have you been sexually active?” 

“A few years,” you say, the vagueness intentional. “Not consistently.”

“Using condoms?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember that birth control protects against pregnancy, but condoms protect against STIs. It’s always good to use both unless you’re in a mutually monogamous relationship and have both been tested.”

You nod, like a good student receiving familiar information. But inside, something tightens. Because you haven’t been tested. Not really. Just the standard blood work at check-ups. 

Another thing to add to the list of adult responsibilities you’re finally catching up on.

“I’d like to do a pelvic exam and Pap smear today, if that’s okay with you,” Dr. Rivera continues. “It’s recommended for women your age, and it will help us make sure everything looks healthy before we proceed with birth control.”

The exam succeeds.

And in itself it is… well, not pleasant, exactly, but not as terrible as you’d feared. 

Dr. Rivera talks you through each step—the speculum (cold, but not painful), the swabs (quick, a little uncomfortable), the manual exam (weird pressure, but over quickly). 

It’s not dignified, but it’s not humiliating either. Just necessary. Clinical. Part of being a woman with a body that needs maintenance and care.

Afterward, as you sit back up, adjusting the paper gown around your knees, she asks, “So, were you thinking you’d like to start birth control today, or did you want some time to think about options?”

“Today,” you say, the word coming out more confident than you feel. Then, because honesty seems important here: “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll talk myself out of it.”

Dr. Rivera’s smile is understanding. “That happens more often than you’d think. If you’re interested in an IUD, I could insert one today. We have both hormonal and copper options in stock.”

Your heart jumps a little. You hadn’t expected to actually do this today. You’d thought there would be more steps, more time, more chances to second-guess yourself.

“The copper one,” you say, a decision forming as the words leave your mouth. “I’ve been reading about it. I like that there are no hormones, and that it works right away.”

“The ParaGard,” she nods. “It’s effective for up to twelve years, though you can have it removed anytime. The insertion can be uncomfortable—some women experience cramping during and after the procedure. Are you on your period now?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine. Some doctors prefer to insert during menstruation because the cervix is naturally a bit more open, but it’s not necessary. We can do it today if you’re sure.”

Are you?

Are you sure you want to make this decision, right now, without more time to think? 

Are you sure you’re ready for this level of control, this level of commitment to your own autonomy?

The voice in your head that prompts those questions sounds suspiciously like your mother’s—whispers that maybe you should wait. Think more. Ask someone else’s opinion. Perhaps this is too rushed, too impulsive.

But then another voice rises—your own voice, tired of being drowned out—saying that you’ve thought enough. 

That waiting is just another form of letting fear make your decisions for you.

That you know what you want. 

“I’m sure,” you say, and the words feel like a declaration of independence.

Dr. Rivera walks you through the procedure, what to expect, potential side effects, when to call if something feels wrong. She’s thorough without being patronizing, clear without being alarming. By the time she leaves to gather the necessary materials, your nervousness has dissipated, and all you’re left feeling is an odd sort of calm.

This is happening. You’re choosing this. For yourself. By yourself.

And then, the actual insertion.

Which, just like the exam, isn’t pleasant. 

There’s pain—sharp, sudden, deep—as the IUD passes through your cervix. A cramping that radiates outward, making you gasp and grip the edges of the exam table. But it’s over faster than you expected, though the cramping lingers.

“You did great,” Dr. Rivera says, stripping off her gloves. “The cramping should ease up in a day or two. Ibuprofen will help. And remember what we discussed about checking the strings, about when to call if something doesn’t feel right.”

You nod, absorbing the information through the haze of discomfort and, oddly enough, a strange sense of triumph. 

Because you did it. You came here, you made a choice, and you followed through. No one told you to. No one had to approve. Just you, deciding what happens to your body.

It’s a small thing, maybe. Basic healthcare that thousands of women access every day. But to you, in this moment, it feels monumental.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it deeply.

Dr. Rivera smiles, like she understands exactly what you’re thanking her for. 

“Take your time getting dressed. The nurse will bring you some information to take home, and I’ll see you for a follow-up in a few weeks to make sure everything’s settling in well.”

When she leaves, you sit there for a moment longer, one hand resting lightly on your lower abdomen. 

There’s something in there now, something you chose, something working for you without you having to think about it. 

Protection. Freedom. Agency.

It hurts, yes. 

But it’s a hurt with purpose. 

A discomfort you’re enduring for yourself, not for anyone else.

As you dress slowly, careful of the cramping that makes you wince, you think about all the times you’ve twisted yourself into shapes that pleased others. All the choices you’ve surrendered in the name of being good, being agreeable, being what everyone else wanted.

Not this time.

This time, you chose you.

Yoongi doesn’t ask questions when you emerge, moving slightly slower than before, your face a little paler. He just stands, tucks his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you as you make your way out of the clinic.

“Need anything?” he asks simply as you wait for the Uber outside.

You consider for a moment. “Ice cream, maybe.”

He nods, like this is the most reasonable request in the world. “There’s a good place three blocks from here. If you’re up for the walk.”

The cramping is uncomfortable but manageable—and your need for something sweet and creamy is too compelling to deny it.

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your course to fall in beside him. “I’m up for it.”

You can’t help but think how strange really life is.

How you’re walking through the East Village with Yoongi, a copper IUD safely nestled in your uterus, making decisions that have nothing to do with what anyone else thinks you should do.

It feels like freedom. 

It feels like growing up. 

It feels, for the first time in a long while, like your life is actually yours.

Maybe that’s worth a little discomfort.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 15

“ambushed”

"You have no idea how you ended up being the middlewoman for Jungkook’s surprise birthday party. You also had no clue who Yeji’s brother was—except, apparently, you did. And now, on top of everything, there’s a hot teaching assistant who seems to be interested in you."

next | index | wc: 7,8k

↪︎author's note : OKAY SO. Here’s Chapter 15. Also, I’m out of town this weekend, which means I probably won’t be writing at all. Consider it my three-day break. SO TAKE IT SLOW. BREATHE. Anyway, this chapter was ridiculously fun to write because I finally got to have Y/N exchange numbers with Hobi and Tae. Also, Jungkook’s birthday is September 1st, and I’m keeping that canon, so… her getting roped into this party planning mess is hilarious to me (except, actually, not really—because free drinks. And let’s be real, I’d also agree if someone covered my tab for the night). ALSOOOOO. New character unlocked! What are our thoughts on the TA? You’ll see Jungkook’s perspective next chapter. :) (Reminder: we’re dealing with limited POVs here, so read between the lines. It’s your job to play detective. These two are unreliable narrators, as we all know.) Mwah mwah, Kiki off.

College syllabi should come with a warning label: May cause extreme boredom and online shopping addiction.

Your cursor hovers between two different scented candles on your screen—both equally wrong for Emma's birthday. 

Fresh ocean waves. 

How is that not a standard candle scent? 

You've scrolled through seventeen different websites and the closest you've found is "Sea Breeze" (too generic) and "Ocean Mist" (which, according to reviews, smells like "bathroom cleaner with a hint of desperation").

Professor Herrington drones on about post-modern literary theory, his monotone voice basically putting everyone to sleep.

Except Jimin, because next to you, his pen scratches across his notebook, meticulous notes forming in his neat handwriting. 

Thank god for Jimin. 

Your own notebook sits open with exactly three words written at the top: "Post-modern lit is..." The sentence remains unfinished because, well, you stopped paying attention approximately forty-two minutes ago.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

What fresh hell is this? you wonder, sliding it out just enough to peek at the notifications.

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  created a new conversation

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  named the conversation "kafka my beloved"

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  added You to "kafka my beloved"

You blink at the notification. What the actual fuck?

You open the chat under your desk, finding only Yoongi's contact among two other +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 s.

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 :)

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚢/𝚗! 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒 :) 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢.

You stare at your phone, momentarily confused. Jungkook's birthday? Since when are you involved in anything Jungkook-related that doesn't involve slamming doors, fighting over Griffin, or... well, the other thing that nobody knows about?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚖𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚖 𝚒 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍

A pause, and then:

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚒’𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚎𝚑𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠… 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠

Ah, of course. Mr. Artistic-and-Condescending himself. You quickly save his contact as "𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨" and the other as "𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃".

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎??

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍?? 

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝚜𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚒’𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢???

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢! 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢!

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎! 🥳

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍… 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝? 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝟷.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎... 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜?? 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘??

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢! 🎂

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠?

There's a noticeable pause in the conversation, and you glance up to make sure Professor Harrington hasn't caught you texting. He's still gesturing wildly about stream of consciousness, completely oblivious.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚝 𝙱𝙽

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗? 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚙𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝟻

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒’𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚛 🙃

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 🎉

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 ^

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 (𝚢𝚘𝚞) 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝟾 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢? 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?

Another pause, longer this time. You can practically feel the tension through the screen.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕! 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 😊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 "𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝" 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚒𝚊?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚊?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚙?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎’𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚢/𝚗! 💫

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖…

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 💕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚌 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 ☺️

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜! 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊?

Your cheeks heat up as you remember exactly how you know Jungkook likes vanilla—specifically, the vanilla-scented body wash you were wearing the night you ended up in bed with him. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝟽𝚝𝚑! 🍪

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘! 🥳

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚒𝚝’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝟷𝟻 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝? 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛?

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 😕

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎,𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚔 🙄

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚟

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚢/𝚗! 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 🙏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚙

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜! 📚

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖

You bite your lip, thinking about exactly how "personal" things have gotten between you and Jungkook in the three weeks since you moved in. 

If they only knew.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝! 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢! 🎉

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙼𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛?

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘! 🚀

You lock your phone just as Professor Harrington calls on someone in the front row to analyze a passage. Jimin gives you a side-eye that clearly says "I saw you texting the whole time," but he slides his notes closer to you anyway.

Now you have two birthday gifts to figure out, and somehow you need to convince Jungkook—the guy you've been having no-strings-attached sex with for the past few weeks—to go to a restaurant without making it weird or suspicious.

And apparently there's some mysterious birthday trauma you're not allowed to know about.

Great. Just great.

You click back to the birthday options for Emma. At least one decision should be simple.

When the lecture finally ends, you let out a yawn so massive it feels like your jaw might unhinge. The kind of yawn that makes your eyes water and your whole body stretch like a cat waking up from a seventeen-hour nap.

"Could you at least pretend to pay attention?" Jimin taps you on the head with his pen. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. Like a woodpecker with perfect hair and a conscience.

You rub your eyes, smudging whatever mascara you bothered to put on this morning. "What for? I'll just jam it all in my head two weeks before the exam and I'll pass it. Always works."

"Until it doesn't," he says with that little smile that makes you want to both hug him and flick his forehead. The smile that says he's judging you but in the nicest possible way.

"Has worked for the past two years," you counter, shoving your mostly empty notebook into your bag. "I'm basically a professional at academic procrastination at this point."

Jimin slides his laptop into its case with the precision of someone who actually paid for their electronics themselves instead of guilting their parents into it like you did. He zips it closed and slings the strap across his body, adjusting it so it sits perfectly against his hip.

And then he just... stands there. In front of your table. Waiting.

It's such a small thing. Stupid, really. 

But as you fumble with your pens and shove crumpled papers into your bag, you can't help but notice how he's just there. Not rushing ahead with a quick "see you later" thrown over his shoulder. Not walking out with other classmates while you're left scrambling to catch up.

He just waits. Patiently. Drumming his fingers against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that probably matches whatever song is stuck in his head today. His eyes wander around the lecture hall, watching other students file out in chattering groups.

You've only known Jimin for what—three and a half weeks?—since the semester started, but somehow he's already figured out this thing that matters to you without you having to say it. 

The waiting. The not leaving first.

A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You try to hide it by ducking your head, but when you glance up, Jimin's looking down at you with one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Let's go to Jin's," you say, zipping your bag closed with more force than necessary. "Coffee. My treat."

"Alright," he agrees easily, but his eyes are knowing. "But just because it's your treat."

You roll your eyes. "I’m not made of money."

"Says the girl who spent the entire lecture online shopping."

"That's different. That's for Emma's birthday." You sling your bag over your shoulder and start walking toward the exit. "And apparently I need to get something for Jungkook too now."

"Jungkook?" Jimin falls into step beside you. "Your roommate? The one you said, and I quote, 'has the personality of a wet sock with tattoos'?"

"Did I say that?" You wince. "That's a little harsh. He's more like... a slightly damp sock. With tattoos. And a cat."

"Uh-huh." Jimin holds the door open for you because of course he does. "And you're buying him a gift because...?"

"His friends are planning this whole surprise birthday thing and somehow I got roped into it." You step outside into the September sunshine, immediately regretting your choice of a black t-shirt. "I have to get him to some ramen place on Saturday without making it obvious."

"Sounds like a job for someone who actually likes him," Jimin says, adjusting his bag strap again.

"That's what I said!" You throw your hands up. "But apparently I'm the only option because Yoongi's too obvious or whatever."

You navigate through the crowded walkway, automatically stepping closer to Jimin when a group of skateboarders whizzes by. 

"So what are you getting him?" Jimin asks.

"No idea. His friend suggested whiskey or photography books." You mumble. "But it feels weird to get him something when we barely know each other."

Jimin gives you a look that's a little too perceptive for comfort. "You live together. How do you barely know each other after almost a month?"

"We're not exactly having heart-to-hearts over breakfast, Jimin." You avoid his eyes. "It's more like ships passing in the night. Ships that occasionally fight over whose turn it is to clean the bathroom."

"Hmm." It's a noncommittal sound, but somehow Jimin packs a lot of doubt into that one syllable.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just seems like there might be more to the story."

You nearly trip over your own feet. Does he know? How could he know? You've been so careful not to mention anything about your... arrangement with Jungkook. But Jimin has this annoying sixth sense about people.

"There's nothing to tell," you say, too quickly. "He's just my roommate. Who happens to need a birthday gift now."

"If you say so." Jimin mercifully drops the subject. "So what did you end up getting for Emma?" 

"Nothing yet. I was looking at candles, but none of them are right. She likes ocean scents, but all the ones I found online smell like bathroom cleaner according to the reviews."

"What about that little shop on 12th? The one with all the handmade stuff?"

You blink at him. "What shop on 12th?"

"The one we walked past last week when you were complaining about your landlord's no-pets policy while simultaneously showing me fifty pictures of Griffin."

"Oh." You vaguely remember a storefront with crystals in the window. "I didn't notice it."

"Of course you didn't." Jimin's smile is fond. "You were too busy telling me how Griffin only knocks over Jungkook's things but never yours."

"Because it's true! That cat has taste. But yeah, maybe we could check out that shop after coffee? If you're not busy?"

“Maybe after coffee.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he laughs—that bright, genuine laugh that makes it impossible not to smile back. It's weird having a friend like Jimin. Someone who waits for you after class and remembers the shops you walk past and doesn't make you feel like you're too much or not enough.

It's nice. 

Really nice.

The bell chiming in Jin's shop shouldn't come as a surprise. 

So it doesn't. 

What does, however, is Professor Kim standing next to your university best friend Yeji as she animatedly complains about coffee to Jin, who looks like he's rolling his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head and roll across the counter.

You stop dead in your tracks, nearly causing Jimin to crash into your back. Your brain immediately halts its processes like you've just witnessed your high school principal at a strip club. 

Because what the actual fuck is Professor Namjoon Kim—the English department's golden boy who publishes in journals you can't even pronounce—doing hanging out with Yeji? 

It's like seeing your therapist at the grocery store. Or your gynecologist at a bar. 

Some people just shouldn't exist outside their designated spaces in your life.

"Uh... hi Yeji?" you mutter, approaching the counter.

Your hand instinctively grabs the handle of your bag, clutching it like it might somehow explain this bizarre crossover episode of your life.

Jimin grabs your arm from behind, his fingers digging into your bicep as he tries to subtly pull you away. You can practically feel the panic radiating off him. 

Makes sense. 

Professor Kim is basically his academic idol—the guy probably has Namjoon's journal articles taped to his ceiling like other people have posters of rock stars.

But your curiosity is stronger than your sense of self-preservation. It always has been.

"Why are you with Professor Kim?" you blurt out, gesturing between them with your free hand. "That's such an odd combination?"

Yeji turns around, her perfectly glossed lips forming a small 'o' of surprise before morphing into an amused smile. "You mean my brother?"

Brother?

You actually feel your mouth hanging open, but you can't seem to close it. It's like your jaw muscles have gone on strike.

"Your what now?" you choke out, eyes darting between them. 

And holy shit, how did you not see it before? They have the same eyes. The same way of tilting their head slightly when confused. The same fucking dimples when they smile.

"Brother," Yeji repeats slowly, like you might not understand the concept of siblings. "You know, same parents, shared childhood trauma, occasional desire to commit murder?"

Professor Kim—Namjoon—lets out a deep chuckle that somehow makes him seem less like the intimidating academic genius and more like... well, Yeji's dorky older brother.

"I didn't realize you two knew each other," he says, looking between you and Yeji with genuine surprise.

"We're in the same class for History of Modern Art," Yeji explains, then turns to you with narrowed eyes. "Wait, how do you know Joon?"

"He, uh—" you start, but Jimin cuts you off, apparently having recovered from his initial shock.

"Professor Kim helped Y/N with her English assignment last week in the cafeteria," he says, his voice doing that slightly higher thing it does when he's nervous. "He's my Literary Criticism professor."

Jin, who's been watching this whole exchange with the entertained expression of someone witnessing a particularly juicy reality TV show, slides a cup across the counter. 

“Your usual, Joon. Maybe this will help you process the fact that your worlds are colliding."

"Thanks," Namjoon says, accepting the coffee. "And it's not that weird. University's a small place."

"Not that weird?" you repeat, your voice climbing an octave. "Yeji's been my friend for almost a month and she never once mentioned her brother is the Professor Kim who's published in like, every major literary journal and is the youngest professor in the English department!"

Yeji shrugs, completely unbothered by your minor meltdown. "Why would I? It's not like I go around introducing myself as 'Yeji Kim, sister of Namjoon Kim, academic wunderkind.'"

"You absolutely should," Jin interjects, wiping down the counter. "It's much more interesting than 'Yeji Kim, girl who complains about my coffee being too bitter even though that's literally how coffee tastes.'"

"It doesn't have to taste like liquid punishment, Jinjin," Yeji fires back.

“Call me that again, I dare you.”

She just sticks her tongue out at him. 

Meanwhile, your brain is still trying to process this information. Yeji—your friend who constantly convinces you to skip class—is related to the professor who casually dropped references to obscure literary theories while helping you with your paper. The same professor who Jimin practically worships from afar.

The bell chimes again, and Namjoon glances over your shoulder, his face lighting up with recognition.

"Jason! Perfect timing," he calls out, waving someone over.

You turn to see a man who looks like he walked straight out of an academic journal's "30 Under 30" feature. Dark wavy hair, green eyes, and a messenger bag settled against his thigh. He looks younger than Namjoon but carries himself with the same confident ease, minus the dorky energy Namjoon apparently reserves for his sister.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, approaching your little group. "Office hours ran long."

"Everyone, this is Jason Calloway," Namjoon introduces as the newcomer reaches you. "He's a teaching assistant in the English department, working on his PhD. Jason, this is my sister Yeji, her friend Y/N, and—"

"Jimin Park," Jason finishes, nodding at Jimin. "From Literary Criticism, right? Front row, always has insightful questions."

Jimin looks like he might spontaneously combust from the recognition. "Y-yes, that's me."

"And Jin, the coffee wizard," Namjoon adds, gesturing to the barista.

Jin gives a curt nod, his ‘usual’ friendliness suddenly dialed down to about a three. "Professor Calloway."

"Please, just Jason," he insists with a smile that reveals perfect teeth. 

(Of course they're perfect. The guy probably flosses twice a day and has never had a cavity in his life.)

His eyes land on you, and you feel weirdly self-conscious about the fact that you haven't brushed your hair since you woke up.

"Y/N, was it?" he asks, extending his hand. "I don't think I've seen you in any of the English department courses."

You shake his hand, noticing how firm his grip is. Like, professional-level handshake firmness. 

“That's because I'm not in Literary Criticism. Though I’m friends with Yeji and uh, occasionally get help from her brother when I'm desperate."

"She's being modest," Namjoon interjects. "She wrote an excellent analysis of Joyce's symbolism in 'Araby' last week."

"Really?" Jason's eyebrows rise with what seems like genuine interest. "That's one of my favorite stories from Dubliners. What was your take?"

And suddenly you're discussing your half-assed paper with this unfairly attractive TA while everyone else watches. 

"...so basically I argued that the bazaar represents this false promise of escape that ultimately just reinforces the narrator's entrapment," you finish, surprised at how coherent you sound.

"That's a compelling reading," Jason says, and he actually sounds like he means it. "Have you considered taking any of the modernist literature electives? Professor Harlow is teaching one next semester that would build on exactly those kinds of insights."

"Oh, I don't know if—"

"She'd be perfect for it," Namjoon agrees, nodding enthusiastically. "Y/N has a natural instinct for literary analysis.”

You shoot him a betrayed look. Way to trap you in front of Hot TA.

"I'll think about it," you say, which is your standard response to any suggestion that might involve additional work.

"You should," Jason says, pulling out his phone. "Actually, I'm putting together a study group for students interested in modernist literature. We meet at the library on Thursdays. Nothing formal, just discussions. Would you want me to text you the details?"

Is he... is he asking for your number? Under the guise of academic enrichment?

"Sure," you hear yourself saying, even though the last thing you need is another commitment. 

You recite your number as he types it into his phone.

"Great," he says, pocketing his phone with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'll text you the information."

Jin clears his throat loudly. "Are you ordering something, or just recruiting for your book club?"

"Black coffee, please," Jason says, unfazed by Jin's tone. "And whatever these two are having." He gestures to you and Jimin.

"Oh, that's not necessary—" you start.

"I insist," Jason says. "Consider it a thank you for the interesting conversation."

"I was going to treat Jimin," you protest weakly.

"Then you can treat him next time," Jason counters smoothly.

“Coming right up," Jin says in a tone that suggests he'd rather be doing literally anything else.

"So, Jason," Yeji pipes up. “In a scale of one to ten, how boring is it working with my brother?”

“I’m literally right here.” Namjoon rolls his eyes.

“I’m not talking to you.” She nudges his shoulder.

And just like that, you find yourself observing Professor Kim engaging in sibling banter with your black cat girl friend. 

Jimin just sighs.

Jason smiles.

And you… You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Because he’s kinda cute. 

And he thinks you're smart, which is... new. 

And nice.

And probably easy and not at all like what you have to fight everyday back at home.

Jimin leans close to your ear. "Did you just get adopted by the Teaching Assistant?" he whispers.

"Shut up," you mutter back, but there's no heat in it.

You're too busy wondering why Jin looks like he's trying to murder Jason with his eyes as he aggressively steams milk for your latte.

You are going to kill Yoongi.

Not in a fun, theoretical way. Not in a haha, wouldn’t it be so funny if you just disappeared way. No, in a genuine, how dare you way. A why the fuck would you tell me that way. Because now you know, and it’s annoying.

Because who the fuck just collects vinyls without owning a record player? Seriously? Is Jungkook, like, a museum curator in his free time? A hoarder? A hipster? A tragic romantic who thinks the idea of playing them is better than actually hearing the music?

And why do you know this about him now? Why do you have to sit here, staring at your phone screen, realizing that—wow, Jungkook actually cares about something other than his cat, his coffee machine, or sex?

(Not that you can complain about that last one. The guy is good. But anyway. Not the point.)

The point is: you need to get him a gift, and you had thought, for maybe five minutes, oh, a record player, that’s easy, before the internet informed you that you are, in fact, an idiot. Because apparently, these things are not cheap. Not even close.

Like, two hundred dollars minimum. Minimum. 

What the actual fuck? Are these things hand-carved by monks in the Swiss Alps? Does each one come with a vial of David Bowie’s blood? 

No wonder Jungkook doesn’t have one. Knowing him, he probably wants some artisan audiophile masterpiece that costs a month’s rent, because apparently, he only likes expensive shit. If his coffee machine is any indication, he’s the kind of guy who thinks “entry-level” is an insult.

So, yeah. That’s a dead end.

Which is just great, because why should it be easy to buy a gift for your stupid, annoying roommate? The same roommate you—occasionally—fuck. The same roommate who gives you pretty damn good orgasms (objectively speaking) but also apparently sometimes ties your shoelaces and carries your fucking laundry basket. 

Not that those things mean anything. He’s still annoying. 

And this is just… inconvenient.

Because it shouldn't be this hard. Emma’s gift was easier. A candle. Because you know her. Have known her for years, since high school, since braces and straight A’s and sleepovers in a house that wasn’t filled with the crushing weight of expectation.

It’s not like you and Emma were inseparable or anything, but she was safe. Predictable in a way that your own life wasn’t. Parents who asked about school but didn’t make your worth dependent on it. A house that felt lived in, not curated for appearances. You spent whole weekends there sometimes, away from the asphyxiating worry and tightly wound smiles of home.

And yet, even with all that history, buying her a gift was easy. Thoughtless, almost. Because you know what she likes. What she always likes. Ocean scents. Easy. Done. But with Jungkook—

You don’t know him. 

Not like that. 

Not in ways that make gift-buying easy. 

You know what his mouth feels like on your skin, what he sounds like when he’s cumming, the way his grip tightens when you push him past the point of coherence. 

You know he doesn’t just fuck, he devours, the way he lets himself lose control but never in a way that feels unsafe. 

You know that Jungkook.

But this? This is something else entirely.

And it’s not like you’re overthinking it. You just… refuse to get him something meaningless? Because, what—his friends are getting him stuff that matters to him, and you’re not gonna make yourself look stupid by giving him a random mug. 

And clearly, a vinyl player is out of the question because you are not spending two hundred dollars on this man.

Because, get real. You’ve known him for a month. 

Maybe you should just go with the whiskey. Or the macarons. Or whatever the hell else his friends suggested.

But the thought of it doesn’t sit right.

It should. It should sit right.

But it doesn’t.

And then Jason is holding the door open, and Jimin is nudging you through like you’re some kid hesitating at the threshold of a dentist’s office. You shoot him a glare, but he just raises his brows in that infuriating way that says get a move on, and okay, fine. 

You step inside the library. 

It’s its usual hushed, sterile self—muted conversations, the soft clatter of laptop keys, the occasional rustle of a page turning. You’ve spent enough time here that the whole place feels mapped into your brain, familiar in a way that’s more about necessity than comfort.

Jason, of course, is completely at ease, like someone who actually enjoys being in academic settings. He had mentioned he could help you both out with your subjects—literary criticism for Jimin, contemporary poetry for you—and maybe the whole thing should feel a little weird. 

Because it is weird. 

Jason is a teaching assistant. He’s basically one step removed from a professor, and getting study help from someone who could realistically grade your future papers seems like it should be against some kind of rule.

But also, he’s attractive. And if you have to suffer through an afternoon of studying, you may as well have something nice to look at.

And okay, it’s not just that. He’s actually competent. He seems interested in the material, which is already more than you can say for yourself when it comes to dissecting yet another pretentious poem that somehow manages to say absolutely nothing in fourteen unnecessarily complicated lines. 

And if he makes studying less of a slow, painful death? 

Well. That’s a deal worth taking.

So you walk. And you do it carefully, because the last thing you need is to trip over your own feet and make a spectacular fool of yourself in front of Jason and his perfectly effortless, I-have-my-life-together aura. 

Jimin moves ahead, leading the way like he always does, because he has a whole system for this.

The table. Your table. The one tucked away far enough that nobody bothers enforcing the stupid beverage policy, even though Jimin swears that’s not the only reason he picks it every time. But to get there, you have to take the lift, which means a little more walking, a little more weaving through the maze of bookshelves and seating areas.

You’re mid-step, following Jimin’s path, when the hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stand on edge.

It’s instant, sharp, like someone just screamed your name in the dead silence of a church. Except no one did. Nothing changed. The library still hums with the same subdued energy, people still absorbed in their own work, but—

Your head turns before you even realize why.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Sitting at a table to your left, laptop open, fingers resting on the keyboard like he was mid-typing before he got distracted. 

And yeah, he is distracted, because his eyes are lifted from the screen, gaze settled on the girl beside him. She’s leaning in, whispering something, lips barely moving, and whatever she said—whatever it was—makes his mouth quirk up at the corner in that stupid, smug way that he does when he thinks he’s being effortlessly charming.

It shouldn’t be interesting.

But for some reason, your feet almost stutter.

It’s like your body noticed him before your brain did, like some ridiculous internal Jungkook radar just activated without your permission.

And you hate that.

Hate that he’s even registering in your periphery, let alone taking up any space in your thoughts. 

But your eyes are still on him. And worse, his shift.

His gaze drifts from the girl—slowly, lazily, like he’s not in any rush—until it lands on you.

And that is the moment that something tightens in your chest.

Because now he’s looking. Now he sees you, standing there, caught in this stupid little moment of unexpected eye contact. And if there’s one thing you hate, it’s that Jungkook is the type of person who notices things. 

Apparently. 

Because since when do you notice he notices things?

And then his gaze drifts.

Past you. Over your shoulder. Taking in the presence behind you like he’s cataloging it. 

Jimin, probably. Maybe Jason. 

Either way, something shifts in his expression—not dramatically, not like some big revelation, just the smallest flicker of recognition.

But then?

Then there’s the eyebrow.

A small quirk, barely there, but unmistakably him. The way it pulls up, just enough to suggest something—questioning, curious, maybe vaguely amused. 

Or maybe not amused at all. Maybe something closer to why the fuck are you here? Or who the fuck is that? Or is this really what we’re doing today?

Like you have any idea.

Like you even know what it is about this moment that makes your stomach do something unpleasantly close to twisting.

Your shoulders pull up in an easy, practiced shrug, the universal sign for why the fuck do you care? Because, really, why does he? 

Or does he?

Whatever. You’re here to study. With Jimin. And Jason, apparently. Who happens to be helping. And also happens to be attractive. And none of that is Jungkook’s business.

Except now you have to keep walking.

Which, for some reason, feels like an entirely different task than just existing a second ago. Like there’s a new weight to it now, something too aware of the fact that he’s watching. 

You should just go. Pass by. Move on. But your body is hyper-conscious of every step, every shift, every inch of space between you and the table where Jungkook sits, his laptop open, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard like he’s supposed to be typing.

But isn’t.

And then Jimin is stepping ahead again, and Jason is right beside you, and there’s no reason for you to hesitate even for a second longer.

So you don’t.

You just keep walking.

And you feel him keep staring.

And then you’re sliding into a chair far away from him (thankfully), whilst Jimin settles across from you. Jason takes the seat to your left, close enough that you catch a whiff of something woodsy and expensive. 

It's fine. This is fine. You're just here to study, not to think about the way Jungkook's eyes followed you or how his stupid eyebrow quirked up like he was asking a question you couldn't quite decipher. 

So you reach for your bag, fishing out your contemporary poetry textbook—a tome so dense it could double as a weapon in a pinch. The cover stares up at you, all pretentious font and abstract artwork, like it's judging you for not appreciating its profound literary significance or whatever.

But before you can even crack it open, your phone buzzes against your thigh. Once. Twice. Like it's impatient, demanding attention right fucking now.

With a sigh that's more dramatic than strictly necessary, you pull it out, already knowing who it's going to be. Because of course. Of course he can't just let it go.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

You stare at the screen, torn between annoyance and something dangerously close to amusement. Because really? That's what he's going with?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’t 𝚒 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝??? 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 🤨

The reply comes faster than you expected, like he was waiting with his thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

You snort, earning a curious glance from Jimin. You wave him off, mouthing "it's nothing" even as your fingers are already tapping out a response.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚖

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. Because it's not funny. It's not. He's just being an ass, as usual. But there's something about the quick back-and-forth that feels... familiar. Easy. Like verbal sparring but without the weight of having to actually look at each other.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗?

There's a pause. Longer this time. You imagine him glancing at the girl next to him, maybe offering some half-assed excuse for his distraction. 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚙𝚕 𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝟸 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚏 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍... 😭 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚎. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘…

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚑𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?

Another pause. This one feels different. Heavier somehow. Like he's weighing his words, which is ridiculous because when has Jungkook ever carefully considered what comes out of his mouth?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚌 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟸? 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 👏👏👏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝

There’s a pause. 

One second.

Two seconds.

Three.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛 𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢

And there it is. The question you knew was coming but still somehow catches you off guard. Because how do you explain Jason? How do you casually mention that you're getting extra help from an attractive TA without it sounding... like something it's not?

Not that it matters what Jungkook thinks. Because it doesn't. At all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚊. 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 😀

You hit send before you can overthink it. But as soon as the message goes through, you feel a knot forming in your stomach. Like you've said too much. Or not enough. Or just... something.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. 

What the hell is taking him so long?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚑𝚖𝚖𝚖

That's it? Hmmm? What the fuck does that even mean?

You're about to type out a snarky reply when Jason leans in, his shoulder brushing against yours.

"Everything okay?" he asks, voice low enough not to disturb the library's hushed atmosphere.

"Yeah," you say, maybe a bit too quickly. "Nothing important."

Jason nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, whenever you're ready, we can start with Sylvia Plath's 'Lady Lazarus.' I think you'll find her use of Holocaust imagery particularly interesting in the context of personal rebirth."

Great. Just great. Holocaust imagery and personal rebirth. Exactly what you need right now when your brain is too busy trying to decode Jungkook's monosyllabic response.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 

You blink at the screen. Because what the actual fuck?

And maybe you stay there, waiting for another message that doesn't come. Which is stupid because there's nothing to say. You're here to study. He's... doing whatever the hell he's doing. That's it.

So why does it feel so weird?

"Y/N?" Jimin's voice cuts through your thoughts. "You with us?"

You look up, suddenly aware that both Jimin and Jason are watching you expectantly. Waiting for you to join them in the exciting world of modernist poetry or whatever the hell you're supposed to be doing.

"Yeah," you say, shoving your phone into your bag with more force than necessary. "I'm here. Let's do this."

But as you flip open your textbook, you can't shake the feeling that he’s here. Not watching you, because you’re nowhere near him right now. But it’s like his presence hovers in an inconvenient way.

Fuck Jungkook and his stupid, cryptic texts. Fuck him and his ability to get under your skin with just a few words. And fuck you for letting him.

You've got poems to analyze and a cute TA to impress. 

That's what you're here for. 

That's all you're here for.

So. Thirty-five minutes.

That’s all it takes.

Thirty-five minutes of Sylvia Plath and Jason’s smooth, perfectly enunciated explanations. Thirty-five minutes of Jimin occasionally sighing like he’s reconsidering his entire major. Thirty-five minutes of not thinking about Jungkook. Of not wondering if he’s still at that table, if he’s still watching, if he’s still—

Ding.

Your fingers tighten around your pen. You already know.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?

You exhale sharply through your nose, tapping your phone awake under the table.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎, 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚒’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝟹𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎???

It takes less than three seconds for the typing bubble to appear.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘???

“Your focus seems to be slipping.”

You blink up at Jason, who’s watching you with a raised brow, his fingers still resting lightly on his open book. Jimin doesn’t even pretend to hide his judgment, lips twitching as he leans back in his chair.

“Sorry,” you mutter, stuffing your phone between the pages of your textbook like it’s a bookmark instead of a distraction. “Just—uh, go on.”

Jason doesn’t push, but Jimin gives you a look. 

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚕𝚘𝚕. 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚞 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 “𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌”

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚛. “𝚊𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟻 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐”

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡. 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙.

The typing bubble appears again, then disappears. Then again. Then—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

Your heart skips.

Which is stupid. Stupid. Because why? What about that message is even remotely heart-skipping-worthy? It’s a statement. A fact. A piece of information you didn’t ask for and definitely don’t care about.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢…? 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛

And, okay. That’s fine. That’s totally, completely normal information. He’s in the bathroom. On the second floor. You’re on the second floor. That’s fine.

So why does your stomach feel weird?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚌’𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚗𝚘?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑??

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Your breath catches, pulse flickering against your throat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 💀 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚊𝚗𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚍𝚢𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍??? 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚘𝚔? 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚑𝚖. 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝚍𝚘. 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚍𝚘.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑. 𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 🤨

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚒𝚡.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚘.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔

Your stomach tightens.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒’𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚔𝚢𝚜

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑… 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚄𝙿

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎.

Your thighs press together under the table. Fuck.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚌𝚖𝚘𝚗, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

Your fingers flex around your phone, the heat creeping up your spine as your pulse stutters.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚑𝚖. 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

You swallow.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚛𝚗. 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞’𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙿𝙸𝙶

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚑?

You freeze.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗

Jason’s voice cuts through the heat simmering in your phone.

“You’re smiling.”

Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

Jason nods toward your phone, amusement playing at the edges of his lips. “Who’s got you so entertained? Boyfriend?”

You blink. Brain short-circuits for half a second before you manage, “What? No. Not at all.”

Jimin, the absolute menace, hums. “She wishes.”

Your foot connects with his shin under the table. Hard.

“Jesus—” He winces, rubbing his leg. 

Jason chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “So you’re single, then?”

His tone is casual. Smooth. Like he’s just making conversation, not fishing. But you see it. The way his gaze lingers just a little too long, like he’s waiting to gauge your reaction.

You shrug, feigning indifference even as your pulse betrays you. “Yeah.”

Jason’s smile widens slightly. “Interesting.”

Your phone dings again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗?

Your jaw clenches. You exhale through your nose. Mutter a quiet, ‘motherfucker,’under your breath.

Jimin raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.” You shoot off a reply before you can overthink it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘🖕

Then you lock your phone, shove it into your lap, and try to ignore the way your stomach flips.

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[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

"laundry day"

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index | wc: 8k

↪︎author's note : Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability. SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end. Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal. 

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that. 

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, and it’s heavily used on Sundays anyways—so you opt for the stairs. Some flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie. 

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips. 

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight. 

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time. 

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life. 

And on Sundays? 

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care. 

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness. 

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat. 

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook. 

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady. 

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air. 

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. 

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking. 

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm." 

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours. 

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him. 

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar? 

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around. 

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine. 

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent? 

That's... kind of pathetic, actually. 

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About." 

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely. 

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is. 

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster,  "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything. 

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you. 

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries. 

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate. 

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh. 

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine. 

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking. 

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why? 

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close. 

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. 

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that. 

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you. 

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades. 

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction. 

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read. 

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling. 

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces. 

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets. 

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb. 

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face. 

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned? 

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes. 

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side. 

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker. 

You don't ask. Not your business. 

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall. 

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?" 

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what? 

Surprise? 

Interest? 

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number. 

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket. 

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 13

“twists and tangles”

"You didn’t really want a vibrator… until you kind of did. Maybe it’s because his charm has worked on you (as usual). Or maybe it’s because of that glimpse of rawness you saw underneath. Either way, lunch with Taehyung was definitely not in your plans today."

next | index | wc: 6.8k

↪︎author's note : OKAY. So. This chapter is where you finally start understanding why this fic is called Fuck Me Up. Because this? This is fucked up. He’s fucked up. She’s fucked up. They are two disaster-coded individuals holding hands and running full speed into the abyss, and I? I am just the storyteller documenting their inevitable demise. The dots? THEY ARE DOTTING. I told you this would happen!!! You thought I was playing??? This is just the tip of the iceberg, the appetizer of destruction, but I’m so happy to finally nudge things a little further along. And look—I COULD HAVE dragged this out longer, because I love watching you all suffer. But your collective breakdown was seeping into my soul, and I had to do something before you started sending me carrier pigeons demanding answers. So. Here. A name. A villain. Someone other than me, God, or Satan for you to curse. Welcome to the narrative, Mia. May your Yelp reviews burn in hell. NOW. If you still don’t pick up on the trauma tells after this, I will physically throw myself into the nearest moving train. I am placing them in front of you on a platter. The finances? RECURRING THEME. Taehyung? MOVING WEIRD. Jungkook? ONE (1) WRONG TEXT AWAY FROM AN EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE. The constant deflections. The emotional walls. If you miss these, I cannot help you. That’s between you and God. And before any of you come into my inbox whining—YES, Y/N is pushy. YES, she’s immature. YES, she says shit she shouldn’t. That’s the WHOLE POINT. She was raised in an environment where control was love, where boundaries didn’t exist except as things imposed on her. She doesn’t know how to handle them properly. She was never taught how to set or respect boundaries in a healthy way. She is learning in real time. She doesn’t have your upbringing. She doesn’t have your experiences. PLEASE. USE. YOUR. BRAINS. I will not be changing her so two of you can stop crying in my inbox every time she opens her mouth. That being said, I do love you all. Most of the time. Occasionally. When you’re not being insane. And some of you? Some of you, I just want to kill. With kindness!!! :D (And a knife.)

You don’t even know how the fuck you ended up here.

It’s the weekend now, almost three weeks in, and somehow, somehow, you are in a sex shop with your nemesis-turned-sex-buddy, watching him inspect vibrators like a man on a fucking mission.

Like. Seriously inspecting them.

Jungkook’s standing there, brows furrowed, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek, turning over different boxes in his big veiny hands like he’s analyzing the specs of a new gaming console.

And you—

You are just kind of standing next to him, arms crossed, glancing around with mild disinterest, wondering when exactly your life took this turn.

“Come on,” he says, barely glancing at you, still deeply invested in the toys. “Which one do you want?”

You blink. “What?”

“Pick one.” He turns to you fully now, one brow lifted. “You’re not leaving here empty-handed.”

“Literally don’t care.”

“Nooo, come on.” He huffs, exasperated, looking around like the perfect vibrator is just waiting to be discovered. “You have to pick one. What about—” His eyes land on something, and his whole face lights up. “Oh, shit, what about the rose? I heard it’s good.”

Your gaze follows his pointing finger.

A small, red, flower-shaped device sits in its box, looking all innocent and delicate.

You stare at it.

Why the fuck is it a rose?

Like. What marketing genius sat in a boardroom and thought, ‘Oh my god broskis, let’s make sex toys for women shaped like roses, because girls are roses and pink and gentle and pure—’

What the fuck.

Why can’t there be a dragon vibrator or something? 

A skull vibrator.

You almost laugh at that. That would be so fucking funny.

It would fit Yeji so well, actually. A gothic, black, skull vibrator sitting proudly on her nightstand, next to a collection of anarchist literature.

Meanwhile, Irya? The rose toy. No hesitation.

And why the fuck are you thinking about your sapphic, in-a-healthy-relationship friends while standing in a sex shop with your fuck buddy?

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts, and take a step toward the dildos.

Which are—

Okay.

What the fuck.

Because why are there so many sizes.

Like, sure, you knew there would be options, but there is a horse-sized dick just casually sitting on display, and who in their right mind—

“Oh, shit,” Jungkook whistles from beside you, also staring at the sheer monstrosity. “That’s fucking insane.”

You cross your arms, deeply unsettled. “Who could even fit that inside?”

“I mean…” He squints. “Some people have range.”

“That’s not range,” you deadpan. “That’s a medical emergency.”

Jungkook bursts out laughing. “Fair.”

His hands land on his hips, taking in the absolute carnage of sizes before him, and then he shrugs. “But, hey, you know—” He gestures vaguely at the selection. “Maybe this is your moment to be adventurous.”

You stare at him. “If you even suggest that I buy the fucking horse dick, I’m leaving you here.”

“What?” He lifts his hands in surrender, grinning. “Just saying. You never know until you try.”

“You try it.”

He snorts, eyes scanning the shelves again. “Nah, I’m happy with my God-given talents.”

“Debatable.”

“Bullshit.” He reaches out and plucks a suspiciously realistic dildo from the shelf, waving it in your direction. “This one?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“You’re so picky.” He laughs, putting it back, and then he turns back to the vibrators, completely unbothered, like this is just a normal, casual Saturday and not the most unhinged shopping trip of your life.

“Alright,” he says, reaching for another box, examining it like he’s about to buy a new car or something. “Let’s get back on track. So you’re telling me you really don’t want the rose?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “No, Rogue.”

You watch Jungkook as he inspects yet another vibrator, flipping the box over like he’s comparing processor speeds or something. He’s so deep in thought, jaw slightly clenched, eyes scanning the back of the packaging like he’s about to make an informed purchase.

And you just—

You have to ask.

“Why are you so focused on vibrators?”

He hums, distracted. “What?”

“Vibrators,” you repeat, waving at the wall of them. “Why not dildos? Don’t most people start there?”

“You’re a clit girl,” he says absently, barely even acknowledging the weight of the words as he turns another box over in his hands.

You blink. “The fuck does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, still staring at the fine craftsmanship of whatever overpriced device he’s holding. But then, finally, one of his eyebrows quirks like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable.

“Phoenix.” He exhales, finally turning to you, looking slightly exasperated. “You cum through your clit. So, granted, a vibrator is best suited for you.”

You stare.

What the fuck is he even talking about? Isn’t the clit the whole point? Like, what else are you supposed to be cumming from?

“Is that supposed to be some kind of revelation?” you ask, crossing your arms. “Do you think I’ve been under the impression that my orgasms were coming from divine intervention?”

Jungkook finally drops the toy back onto the display, shaking his head. 

“I’m saying,” he starts, turning to face you fully, “some women can finish from penetration alone. No clit stimulation, nothing. Just dick.”

You squint. “That sounds fake.”

“It’s not.”

"How does that even work?"

"It's just how their bodies are built," he says, shrugging, but there's something mechanical in the way he delivers the information. Clinical. Like he's reciting from a textbook rather than speaking from experience. "Where their nerve endings are. Internal structure, whatever. Some girls get off from penetration alone, some need both, some can't come from penetration at all."

You tilt your head, studying him. "And you just know this?"

He goes still in that way that isn’t actually stillness.

It’s containment. 

Like something sharp is pressing up against the inside of his ribs and he has to lock his muscles to keep it there. His fingers twitch before curling into his palms, just barely, like he’s holding something back. 

Like maybe he doesn’t even realize he is.

"My ex," he says finally, voice carefully neutral. Too neutral. As if he's trying very hard to keep it that way. "She had... opinions about how things should work."

And—yeah.

He's definitely not smiling anymore.

There's something about him right now that's screaming at you not to push. It's in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hands have slipped into his pockets like he needs to physically contain them.

But you've never been good at holding back, and curiosity is a bitch.

"So..." You pick up a random vibrator, pretending to study it like you actually care about its ten vibration modes. "Your ex taught you all about female anatomy?"

His laugh is too sharp. "Something like that."

"Must've been quite the education."

"Phoenix." 

It’s a warning.

But you're already committed to being an idiot.

"What?" You twirl the vibrator in your hand like a professor's pointer. "Just trying to understand the extensive knowledge base here. Since when are you such an expert on—"

"Since I had to be." 

The words come out flat. Not casual, not even resigned—just… like he’s reading them off a list someone else wrote. Reciting, not remembering. 

Like it’s not something he ever got to choose.

"You done?" He says then.

"Not really." You follow him as he moves down the aisle, ignoring the way his shoulders go even stiffer. "So what, she gave you a crash course in female pleasure? Made you take notes?"

"Drop it."

"Was there a practical exam? Did you get extra credit for—"

He spins so fast you almost run into him.

"You really want to know?"

Something in his voice makes you pause.

Makes you actually look at him—at the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes have gone flat and distant. Like he's not fully here anymore.

Your instincts scream at you to back off.

Your brain screams at you to dig deeper.

"Yeah," you say, because you have no self-preservation skills whatsoever. "I do."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's weighing something. 

Then his mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile.

"She used to tell me exactly what I was doing wrong," he says, looking away. "Like a fucking Yelp review after every hookup. One star, would not recommend, needs improvement in all areas—" He waves his hand vaguely, trying to play it off as a joke.

You snort despite yourself. "She left reviews?"

"Oh yeah. She was thorough." His laugh is sharp, but he keeps his tone light, keeps moving like if he just acts casual enough, it won't matter. "Used to give me a full post-game analysis. Where I needed improvement. Where I failed completely. Bullet points. Diagrams. Really professional."

"That's..." You watch him fidget with the box in his hands. "Actually kind of insane?"

"Insane is one word for it." He turns back to the display, movements a bit too controlled, too precise. "So yeah, I learned. Because the alternative was—” 

He cuts himself off. 

Swallows.

Thickly. 

“Anyway, I don’t need another PowerPoint on my shortcomings.”

He's joking. 

You can tell he's trying to make it funny.

Trying to brush it off like it's nothing. 

"Whatever," he mutters instead. "Point is, you're a clit girl. Trust me on this one."

But there's something in the way his fingers keep twitching, the way his jaw keeps working, that makes your stomach turn.

You should let it go.

You should absolutely not push when he's radiating do not touch energy like a nuclear reactor.

But.

But.

“The alternative was what?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Phoenix.” 

“Just asking.”

“Yeah?” His eyes are dark now. “How about we talk about your daddy issues instead? Since we’re sharing.”

You reel back. “I don’t have—”

“Please.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You flinch every time someone mentions parents. Get this look in your eyes like you’re about to bolt.” His laugh is hollow. “But sure, let’s keep talking about my ex. That seems healthy.”

Your stomach turns. “I was just—”

“Being nosy?” He picks up another vibrator, movements sharp, eyes focused on nothing. “Yeah, got that. Here’s a crazy idea: how about we stick to the present?”

Message received. Conversation over.

Fine. You can take a fucking hint.

You exhale, shifting your focus back to the display in front of you, pretending you give a shit about which vibrator has the longest battery life.

Next to you, Jungkook huffs a breath, tilting his head toward a very questionable contraption. “Oh, look. This one has a suction function. Maybe you can use it to fix that attitude of yours.”

You snort. “I’d rather use it to drown out the sound of your voice.”

“Wow.” He grins, sharp and smug. “Doesn’t even own a vibrator yet but already talking shit. Impressive.”

Back to familiar territory. 

Easy banter.

Tension dissipated.

You’re still mentally rolling your eyes at him when something catches your attention over the top of the shelf.

And—

No fucking way.

You blink. Stare.

No fucking way people actually use that shit.

Before your brain can even fully process what you’re doing, your hand shoots out, grabbing Jungkook’s wrist.

“Hey—”

“Come here.” You tug him forward with purpose, leading him toward the display in question.

And then you gesture broadly at the lineup of full-sized sex dolls staring blankly back at you.

Jungkook takes one look and bursts out laughing. “Holy shit—”

“You’re fucking joking,” you snort, pointing at one that has dead, glassy eyes and a wig that looks superglued to its head. “People seriously get off with this?”

“Apparently.”

“How?” You squint, stepping closer, trying to comprehend how the fuck someone could get turned on by something that looks like a haunted mannequin. “They look so fake. And immobile—”

“Maybe some guys don’t like back talk.”

You whip around. “Excuse me?”

You stare at him. He’s holding back a chuckle, if that shit-eating expression of his is any indicator. Clearly being a jerk on purpose.

Yeah, this is the Jungkook you know. 

He grins, hands slipping into his pockets, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Just saying.”

“Right,” you scoff, turning back to the display, still deeply unsettled. “But, like, how do you even stick your dick inside something like this and cum? It looks like a human but isn’t—and it’s not even reacting. That’s fucking weird.”

“Dunno,” he muses, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s the thrill of no complaints.”

“Oh my god.” You slap his arm. “I take personal offense on behalf of all women.”

“Okay, okay, I’m kidding!” he laughs, eyes scanning the selection before suddenly—his expression lights up. “Oh, shit. Look, this one kinda looks like you.”

Your head snaps up. “The fuck it does—”

But then you see it.

And.

Oh fuck off.

Because it’s one of the more realistic-looking ones, similar skin tone, and a facial expression that, okay, fine, vaguely resembles your standard deadpan glare.

Jungkook is grinning like a fucking idiot. “Same eyes, same bitchy expression—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you groan, shoving his shoulder, but he just laughs harder.

“I’m serious,” he says, clutching his stomach. “She even looks unimpressed. It’s uncanny.”

“Right.” You narrow your eyes, scanning the aisle before your gaze lands—and then you smirk. “Well, in that case—”

You point.

At a tiny-ass, comically small dildo sitting on the shelf beside you.

“Look,” you say, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “It’s you.”

Jungkook gawks, then follows your finger—

And cackles.

“Are you fucking serious?” He grabs the unfortunate thing, holding it up between two fingers like it offended him personally. “This thing wouldn’t satisfy a Barbie doll.”

“So you’re saying it wouldn’t satisfy your last three hookups?”

His mouth drops open. “Oh, fuck you—”

“Not with that,” you grin, gesturing at the absolute embarrassment of a sex toy in his hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He snorts, shaking his head, but there’s something in his expression—something lighter, something real, and when his eyes meet yours again, he’s still grinning.

And you—

You realize you’re genuinely laughing.

Not the usual snarky huff, not the amused exhale when he says something ridiculous.

Actual, real laughter.

Jungkook looks away, but not before you catch it—the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying to suppress it. He exhales, glances around, and then—

Of fucking course.

His eyes land on another vibrator display, and just like that, he beelines toward it.

You roll your eyes but follow anyway, because, clearly, this is happening whether you want it to or not.

By the time you catch up, he’s already inspecting again, turning over boxes like a seasoned professional, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

“Okay,” he says, not even looking up. “No rose for you. What about this one?”

You glance at the new option in his hand—one of those fancy, curved vibrators that looks like it belongs in a modern art exhibit.

“Do I really need to get one?” you ask, arms crossing.

He hums, still studying the box. “I mean, I think it could be fun.”

You huff, shifting your weight. “You just wanna make me suffer.”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, before his voice drops into something softer. “But also… I kinda want you to try things you’ve never let yourself try before.”

You freeze.

It’s subtle, the way he says it. 

He’s still looking at the display, still turning the box in his hands like he’s casually making an observation. But something about it—the intention behind it—makes your breath catch.

“Like, of course,” he continues, still not looking at you, “no pressure on using any of this before you’re ready. But we can get some for now. Until you want to.”

Something warm expands in your chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, so you push it down. Look away.

“Okay,” you say before you can overthink it.

His head snaps up. “Seriously?”

And—oh.

His eyes light up in real time, something bright sparking behind them, and it’s so fucking genuine it makes your stomach twist.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, refusing to acknowledge the way your pulse just skipped. “But you’re buying it, since this was your idea.”

Jungkook pauses.

Glances at the box.

Then—checks the price.

You immediately narrow your eyes. “Oh my god—”

“What?” He clears his throat, shifting slightly.

Your gaze flickers between him and the price tag. “I was joking, dumbass.”

“No, I mean—” He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d be glad to, I just… can’t this week.”

The words drop like stones.

You frown. “What, you’re broke?”

His jaw clenches. Just a little. 

“Not broke.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Just… payments.”

He says it clipped, sharp, like it’s a dirty word. 

Like if he says any more, he’ll start drowning in it.

Silence.

Something about it—the way his gaze skitters away, the way his grip tightens like he hates admitting it—makes your throat seize uncomfortably.

You don’t know why.

You don’t understand what’s going on.

For the first time today, you don’t push.

Your eyes stay on him for a moment longer and then you reach out, grab the vibrator from his hands, and start walking toward the counter.

Jungkook watches, clearly puzzled, before following. “Wait—what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” You don’t even glance at him, just keep walking toward the register, vibrator in hand. “I’m gonna pay, obviously.”

Jungkook presses his lips together, trailing after you. “I can pay you back next week.”

You turn around before you reach the counter, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a grown-ass woman, Jungkook. Maybe I didn’t want a vibrator when I walked in here, but you piqued my curiosity. And now?” You lift the box slightly. “I kinda want one. So I’m just gonna go and pay for it, since, you know. It’s for me.”

“Yeah, but—” His hand runs over the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’ve picked up on by now. “I know I was the one who brought it up, so, really, you shouldn’t have to—”

“Why are you being weird about this?” you ask, exasperated. “You clearly can’t buy it, so just let me get it for myself. It’s not that deep.”

“It’s not that I can’t—” He sighs through his nose, jaw working. “I just… Can’t this week.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “What, you hit your spending limit or something?”

“Yeah.”

You blink. “Wait, why do you even have a spending limit on your credit card?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I mean—” You frown. “Isn’t that limit usually, like, high? Five, ten grand or something?”

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. Just shrugs, looking off to the side, like the conversation is already over.

And that—

That makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

Because you might not know much about his financial situation, but from what you do know—nice clothes, fancy coffee machines, the way he throws money around without a second thought—this doesn’t quite add up.

But you don’t pry.

Instead, you exhale and switch gears. “You should try saving.”

It’s a throwaway comment, something your mom used to say when you spent too much on books, something normal. But the way Jungkook exhales—sharp, dismissive, like the idea itself is laughable… makes you do a double-take.

He doesn’t even argue. Just shakes his head, quiet.

“If only it were that easy.”

The way he says it is flat, dismissive, absolute. It tells you that’s a road he’s not going down today.

You turn back to the counter and pay for the damn vibrator yourself.

By the time you step out of the shop, the mall is absolutely packed—which, of course, it is. Saturday, midday. Everyone’s either looking for food or wandering aimlessly, pretending they have a plan.

Jungkook walks beside you, hands deep in his pockets, and—

You can’t help but notice how awkward he is right now. 

Like, visibly awkward.

Which is new.

“Thanks,” he mutters after a moment, still looking ahead.

You glance over, frowning. “For what?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Paying.”

You stare at him. Nudge his arm. “Why do you look like I just forced you to witness a war crime?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” You smirk. “Relax. It’s just a vibrator, not a marriage proposal.”

Jungkook scoffs, looking at random display windows. “Still think I should’ve bought it for you.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes. “You act like I just disrupted the natural order of the universe by buying myself a sex toy. Women pay for their own shit all the time.”

He shakes his head, lips twitching. “Not the ones I used to date.”

You huff a laugh. “Oh, so what, they just made you foot the bill for everything?”

“Nah.” He glances at you, amused. “She enjoyed buying alone.”

And the way he says it this time—dry, laced with something bitter—makes you wonder if it’s related to his financial situation.

You snort, shaking your head. “Sounds convenient.”

“Super convenient.” He exhales, stretching his arms over his head. “Anyway, let’s focus on what really matters here.”

You groan. “If you say the rose toy, I swear to god—”

“No, no.” He grins, leaning in slightly. “Are you gonna name it?”

You stop walking.

“Are you fucking serious—”

But before you can even finish your rhetorical question, Jungkook’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and then—

“Oh, shit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Taehyung’s around here.” He types something back, then pockets his phone, already steering you toward the exit. “Let’s grab lunch with him.”

You snort. “Yeah, no. Pass.”

He pauses, blinking at you. “Huh?”

“What?” You cross your arms. “Taehyung. As in your friend. The one who looked at me like my existence was despicable—in my own apartment?”

Jungkook stares at you for a second. Then he laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, dramatic.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” you deadpan. “Roll back the footage to the morning I woke up late in my Pokémon pajamas, walked into the living room, and got blasted with the nastiest look of my entire life.”

“It wasn’t the nastiest.”

“It was fucking hostile, Jungkook.”

“It wasn’t hostile—”

“He looked at me like I was an infestation.”

“He was just surprised!” Jungkook huffs, tugging on your wrist again. “Come on, I promise he doesn’t bite.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“He’s just a little intense when he doesn’t know people.”

“Oh,” you scoff. “Great, that makes me feel so much better about being publicly executed by his eyes.”

“Okay, relax.” He tilts his head, amused. “Taehyung’s fine once you get to know him.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because he’s my friend.”

“Well, he clearly doesn’t want to get to know me.”

“Oh my god.” Jungkook groans, pulling you closer. “He’s just protective. It’s not personal.”

“It felt personal.”

“Phoenix—”

“He literally said ‘since when?’ when he found out I lived there.”

“I mean—” Jungkook purses his lips, clearly holding back a snicker. “To be fair, that was kind of my reaction too.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you mutter, but you don’t pull away.

“Listen,” he tries again. “Taehyung’s just blunt, alright? He was caught off guard, that’s all.”

“Off guard and actively scowling,” you point out. “Like, what, does he personally vet all your roommates? Did I need to submit an application?”

“You’re such a brat.”

“I just don’t like being glared at for existing,” you mutter. “Especially not before coffee.”

“So come and give him a new first impression.”

You blink up at him. “You’re really not gonna shut up about this, are you?”

“Nope.”

You exhale sharply, rolling your eyes. “Fine.”

Jungkook’s face lights up. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” You wave him off. “But if he glares at me again, I’m putting him in a headlock.”

“Oh, I’d love to see you try,” he snickers, already pulling you toward the street. “But fair warning—he probably carries a palette knife.”

You squint. “What?”

“What?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Nothing.” He grins. “Let’s go.”

“Jesus.” You groan, letting him drag you along. “You and your fucking cryptic friends.”

“You’re gonna love him.”

You highly fucking doubt it.

You glare at him across the table.

He glares back.

Jungkook sighs dramatically between you, dropping his sandwich onto its wrapper. “Come on, guys. What the heck is this?”

“That’s what I should be saying,” Taehyung mutters, arms crossed. “I invited you to lunch, not whoever-she-is.”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, well, my name is Y/N. In case you forgot when, you know, Yoongi introduced me—that beautiful day you barged into my apartment with mysterious keys.”

Taehyung lifts an eyebrow. “I have a key for a reason.”

“Enlighten me.” You gesture. 

“Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes, actually.” You lean in, tone flat. “It would be super nice to know why the fuck a random has keys to my apartment.”

“I am no random,” Taehyung says smoothly, voice steady. “You—”

“ALRIGGGHT.” Jungkook nearly shouts, hands raised like he’s trying to stop a war. “Jesus, guys.”

You and Taehyung don’t break eye contact.

Jungkook exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Phoenix, Tae has a spare key for emergencies. Tae, you did use the key for no reason,” he continues, turning to his friend. “There. Can we eat? And maybe talk about—I don’t know—video games?”

Taehyung huffs. “I had a reason.”

“Being impatient isn’t a reason.”

“Traffic is a perfectly valid reason.”

“No, it’s not,” you deadpan. “It’s just you being moody and entitled.”

His brows twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to say something rude. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t have to,” you fire back, popping a fry into your mouth. “You looked at me like I committed war crimes the second I walked into my own living room.”

“Because I didn’t know who you were,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Which is weird, because I know everyone who comes into Jungkook’s life.”

Jungkook shifts in his seat. “Tae—”

You lean forward. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Sounds like a red flag to me.” Taehyung doesn’t waver, jaw tense. “You move in, and suddenly Jungkook’s just fine breaking all his habits? Being careless? Nicknames? I don’t like it.”

“And I don’t like you acting like my existence is some kind of threat,” you shoot back. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

“Fine.” He clasps his hands together. “I don’t trust you.”

“Jesus fucking—” Jungkook runs a hand down his face. “Tae, can you not?”

You tilt your head. “And why is that?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Call it intuition.”

You snort. “Call it bullshit.”

“Call it experience,” he corrects, and—

There it is.

Something sharp, pointed, buried in those words.

Jungkook freezes.

You notice.

But instead of backing down, you match Taehyung’s stare. “Sounds personal.”

“It is.”

Jungkook groans, shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth. “God, I need fucking Hobi here.”

Taehyung, still staring you down, slowly pops a fry into his mouth. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just chews. Menacingly.

You squint. “Are you trying to intimidate me with potato consumption?”

“Is it working?”

“Absolutely not.”

Jungkook sighs like he’s aged five years in the last five minutes. “Can you two at least pretend to be normal?”

You both ignore him.

Instead, Taehyung finally leans back, exhaling through his nose, like he’s decided this isn’t worth his energy. “So. English major, huh?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Figures.” He picks up his drink, taking a sip. “You seem like the type.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You have that…” He gestures vaguely. “…literary snobbery about you.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Like the type to judge people for reading Colleen Hoover.”

“I mean—” You squint. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Exactly.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what about you? What do you do, paint or something?”

“Actually, yes.”

Jungkook snickers into his cup.

You pause, a little thrown. “Wait, really?”

“Yes?”

“Huh.” You pop another fry into your mouth. “Did not expect that.”

“What, because I’m not wearing a fucking beret?”

"No, because you have the vibe of a man who enjoys making legally binding decisions."

Jungkook snorts into his drink.

"Like," you continue, squinting at him. "You seem like the type to get a rush from telling people no just because you can."

Taehyung sips his drink, expression unreadable. "I mean, that does sound satisfying."

"See?" You gesture. "You look like you should be sitting behind a desk in a courtroom, banging a gavel, saying shit like ‘motion denied’ just for the fun of it."

Taehyung just tilts his head, studying you in return. "And you have the vibe of someone who reads in coffee shops just to judge other people’s book choices."

"That’s literally just an accurate description of what I do."

"Tragic."

“Says the guy who acts like he personally owns the lease to an apartment he doesn’t live in.”

“I should have a say in who lives there.”

“That’s not how leases work.”

“It is if I don’t like you.”

“Great. Now that we’ve established our mutual dislike—” You pick up your sandwich, taking a bite. “We can move on.”

Jungkook groans, running a hand down his face. “Can you two just, I don’t know, talk like normal people?”

“We are talking,” you and Taehyung say at the same time.

Jungkook exhales sharply, shoving more fries into his mouth like this is physically painful for him. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, setting down your drink. “So what, you actually do paint, or was that just an aesthetic choice?”

“I do.”

“So what kind of stuff do you paint?”

“People, mostly.”

“Lemme guess,” you hum. “Serious, brooding portraits. The type where everyone looks like they’re contemplating their inevitable demise.”

“Is that your way of asking if I paint you?”

You blink. “I—”

Jungkook snickers. “Oh, shit.”

You ignore him, refocusing. “Do you?”

“No.” Taehyung sips his drink. “I only paint things I find aesthetically pleasing.”

You gasp. “You bitch.”

“You asked.”

Jungkook is losing it now, full-on laughing as he watches this unfold.

Taehyung pops another fry into his mouth, looking deeply satisfied.

You glare at him for a second. Then you exhale, shaking your head. “You’re lucky I respect a good insult.”

Taehyung just smirks. “Likewise.”

And then—

Jungkook’s phone buzzes on the table.

Taehyung glances at it.

The screen lights up with a notification, and though you can't see the full message from your angle, you catch a glimpse of what looks like an unknown number.

But whatever it says must be significant, because Taehyung's entire expression shifts.

It’s quick—barely a flicker—but you see it. The way his brows furrow slightly, the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers flex against the table. His gaze darkens as it flickers to Jungkook, sharp and knowing.

"Mia," he mutters under his breath, so low you almost miss it.

But Jungkook—

Jungkook doesn’t react. 

Which is a reaction in itself. 

No flicker of surprise, no frown, no tension—just… nothing. Like his body shuts down before it can betray him. 

His face doesn’t change. His hands stay exactly where they are, resting on his lap. His whole posture stays neutral, perfectly controlled—but it’s the kind of control that’s too intentional, too careful, like he’s forcing himself not to react.

And then, without a word, Taehyung reaches out and flips the phone over, pressing it flat against the table with two fingers.

“Later,” he mutters, low and firm.

Jungkook’s throat bobs once. His fingers twitch—just barely—but he doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t look at Taehyung.

Doesn’t look at you, either.

Something in the air feels off.

“Who was that?” you ask, glancing between them.

Jungkook’s jaw works, but he keeps his gaze down, eyes fixed on the table.

Taehyung doesn’t even hesitate. “No one.”

His tone is smooth. Even. A little too quick.

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t look like no one.”

“It’s nothing.” Taehyung’s voice hardens slightly—just enough to make it clear that this conversation isn’t going any further.

Jungkook doesn’t argue.

Just sits there, hands loose on his lap, shoulders too still, like he’s bracing himself against something.

You don’t get it.

But Taehyung does.

Because after a moment, his gaze softens—only slightly, only in the way someone who knows would notice—but then he exhales sharply, grabbing a fry and popping it into his mouth like nothing just happened.

“Anyway,” he says, smoothly changing topics, “why the hell were you two even around here?”

Jungkook finally moves, reaching for his drink. “Just running errands.”

“Errands?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “In a random ass part of the city?”

“What, you track my usual routes now?”

“No, but I track bullshit, and that was a lie.”

Jungkook huffs, taking a long sip of his drink before waving him off. “Nothing sketchy, relax.”

Taehyung hums, unconvinced, before turning to you. “And you?”

You blink, caught mid-bite. “What about me?”

“Same errands?” His eyes flicker between the two of you, sharp and assessing. “Or did Jungkook just drag you along for one of his dumbass ideas?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your sandwich.

“Why do you care?” you ask instead, raising an eyebrow. “Worried he’s leading me into a life of crime?”

“No,” Taehyung deadpans. “If anything, I’d be worried you were leading him into one.”

Jungkook laughs, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “She does have the vibe of someone who’d steal wallets.”

“I do not,” you scoff. “If anything, you do. You have shifty eyes.”

“Shifty eyes?” He leans forward, smirking. “That’s crazy, because I was about to say you look like you smuggle contraband in your backpack.”

“Jesus Christ,” Taehyung mutters, rubbing his temples. “Forget I fucking asked.”

Jungkook just grins, finally settling back into his seat, and the tension—whatever the fuck it was—fades into something almost normal again.

But Taehyung’s eyes flicker to the still-facedown phone one last time.

And you don’t miss it.

Then the check arrives at the table, placed between the three of you. Jungkook reaches for it first, but Taehyung’s hand lands over his wrist before he can even flip it open.

“It’s the week, right?” Taehyung says, more like a statement than a question.

Jungkook tenses. Licks his lips. Looks away. 

Then.

“Yeah.”

Taehyung stares at him. Exhales through his nose. 

“I got it.” 

Jungkook’s jaw shifts. His fingers twitch. There’s a second—half a second—where his whole body tenses like he’s going to argue. Like he wants to say something, wants to fight it, wants to prove something. But then his hand relaxes, and the words never come.

Because he can’t pay.

And Taehyung knows it.

So this a thing, huh? Jungkook hitting his limit frequently enough to call it ‘the week’. Like this is a conversation they’ve had before. Like it’s routine. 

You don’t know why you care. You don’t know why you file that information away for later. 

You don’t know what exactly is happening here, but you do know this: Jungkook doesn’t like being helped. His pride is too big, his ego too stubborn—but right now? He has no choice.

And maybe that’s why you hear yourself speak before you fully think it through.

“Actually, I got it.”

Both their heads snap toward you.

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You got it?”

“Yeah?” You grab the check before either of them can stop you. “I mean, you were the one who invited us, but I was the one who kinda crashed lunch, so it’s only fair.”

Jungkook is still staring at you, expression unreadable. Taehyung leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “I invited Jungkook. Not you.”

“Right.” You nod. “But since you so graciously let me sit here and share your oxygen, I think it’s my duty as a lawful citizen to contribute to the economy.”

Taehyung snorts. “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know, sounded solid to me,” Jungkook mumbles, finally picking up his drink again.

“You just don’t want to argue because you know you can’t pay.” Taehyung doesn’t even look at him.

Jungkook just shrugs.

Taehyung turns back to you, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out. “I said I got it.”

“Seriously.” You pull out your card, waving it. “Let me do this. I’ll feel better about intruding if I pay.”

Taehyung watches you for a moment. Then he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, I’m covering it.”

“Next time?” You scoff. “I don’t remember signing up for a second round of whatever this was.”

“You think I want to see you again?”

“You literally just implied it.”

“Jesus,” Jungkook mutters, head falling back against the booth. “Can you two stop flirting for five fucking minutes?”

“Flirting?” you and Taehyung say at the same time, identical expressions of disgust.

“Yeah, no,” Taehyung deadpans, looking at you. “I still don’t like you.”

“Good. I’d be concerned if you did.”

Jungkook just groans again, rubbing his temples as you flag the waiter down and hand over your card.

Across from you, Taehyung watches. 

And for the first time, he doesn’t look pissed off. 

Just… curious.

The air outside is cooler now, the late afternoon sun starting to dip behind the buildings.

You walk a few steps behind Jungkook and Taehyung, half-listening as they talk, Taehyung holding a small bag in one hand.

“You heading home now?” Jungkook asks, glancing over.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, adjusting the bag. “Got something for Iri. She’s been swamped all week.”

Jungkook hums. “Bet she appreciates it.”

“She better,” Taehyung mutters, but there’s the faintest tug of a smirk at his lips. “I’m basically a saint at this point.”

Jungkook snorts. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

Taehyung just shrugs, glancing at his parked car ahead. As they reach the curb, he lifts a hand in a quick wave. “Alright, I’m out. Try not to be an idiot while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Jungkook grins.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, then looks at you.

It’s brief. A small nod. Not quite friendly, but… not hostile either.

Then he turns, unlocks his car, and drives off.

And just like that, it’s quiet.

Jungkook slows his pace as you catch up beside him, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket.

“Soooo,” he drawls, side-eyeing you. “What did you think?”

You raise an eyebrow. “About what? The sandwich? Solid six out of ten.”

“Phoenix.”

“Oh,” you hum. “You mean your guard dog?”

Jungkook laughs, shoving you lightly with his shoulder. “He’s not that bad.”

“He literally told me he doesn’t trust me.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t try to fight you, so I’d say that’s progress.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “High bar.”

“Tae just takes a while to warm up to people,” he says, kicking a stray pebble on the sidewalk. “He’s protective.”

“Clearly.”

Jungkook glances at you, smirking. “But you held your own.”

“Obviously.”

“Didn’t even back down when he hit you with the judge stare.”

“Judge stare?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook grins. “His girl’s a judge, and I swear to god he’s absorbed her whole authority complex by osmosis.”

You snort. “That makes so much fucking sense.”

“Right?”

You shake your head, exhaling. “Well, if nothing else, he’s not boring.”

“That’s basically a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

“Sure it is,” he teases, grinning wider. “You two are gonna be besties in no time.”

“Don’t fucking push it.”

The walk becomes quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Just the two of you moving in sync, side by side, the city buzzing softly around you.

Your hands swing loosely at your sides. Your steps match without trying. The air is crisp, the late afternoon light stretching shadows along the pavement.

And yet—

Your thoughts are nowhere near as calm as the moment suggests.

Because in your car—just sitting there in its stupid little box, waiting—is the vibrator you just bought.

With him.

The one he spent an unreasonable amount of time picking out, flipping over in his hands, reading descriptions out loud like it was a tech purchase and not a sex toy. The one he insisted you get, the one that—

You steal a glance at him.

At the sharp line of his jaw, the silver ring on his thumb, the lazy way his fingers twitch like they need to be doing something.

Your stomach tightens.

Your mind flickers—unbidden, unwanted—to the thought of actually using it.

Your lips part slightly, and then—

A shiver runs through you.

The temperature has dipped with the sun, and suddenly, your skin prickles against the evening chill.

Jungkook notices.

Without a word, he pulls his hoodie over his head, bunching it up before tossing it over your face like a goddamn net.

“Ew—” You yank it off immediately, grimacing. “What the fuck?”

“Put it on,” he clicks his tongue, completely ignoring your reaction. “It’s cold.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, holding the hoodie out to him. “Take your gross man-sweat back.”

“Phoenix.” He side-eyes you, long and tired. “I’m literally doing this for myself.”

You blink. “How the fuck does that make any—”

“If you get sick,” he sighs dramatically, “I won’t be able to fuck you at all.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

He grins.

And then he just keeps walking, like he didn’t just drop-kick your brain into the fucking void.

You stand there for a second, still gripping his stupid hoodie in both hands, before exhaling sharply and pulling it on.

It’s warm.

And it smells like rain.

You hate that you notice. 

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[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 12

"vanilla coffee"

"There's a science to making perfect coffee, he says. But there's no science to explain why watching him make it—shirtless and sleep-rumpled—makes you forget every reason you shouldn't want him."

next | index | wc: 7,4k

↱author's note : Listen. LISTEN. I don't know what kind of demonic possession took over me while writing this chapter, but I had zero control over my own hands. Like, the coffee scene? The mug sharing? The delicious moment??? I AM IN HELL. (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ I started this chapter with the intention of them being petty little gremlins about vanilla-scented products, and somehow it ended with Jungkook making a whole latte just to flex on Y/N. A LATTE. And don't even get me started on the mug proximity crimes. The way Y/N is actively short-circuiting over his hands and forearms like a Victorian woman seeing ankle for the first time?? We are ALL in trouble. (／／●／ω／●／／) And then—oh, god—the sweatpants menace. If you know, you know. As always, please send thoughts, screams, and existential crises to the comment box. Love you, stay hydrated, and if a man ever offers to elevate your coffee… RUN. (Or sit in his lap. Your call.) (¬‿¬)

Good tired is still tired.

Your bag hits the dining table with a thud that perfectly matches how your brain feels right now—heavy and slightly bruised. 

7PM. 

You gave him way more than forty minutes. Actually gave him two whole hours, not that you're counting. 

Not that you care. You're just... observant.

But then you catch it—that familiar scent hanging in the air. Vanilla. Your mind immediately goes to that specific vanilla body wash that costs way too much but is the only thing that doesn't make your skin break out.

Oh, he fucking didn't.

Your fist connects with his door maybe a bit harder than necessary. There's a loud thud from inside, followed by what sounds like someone falling off a bed, then a muffled "shit” before footsteps approach.

The door swings open and—oh.

Oh no.

He's shirtless, because of course he is. Hair a disaster, eyes heavy with sleep, that stupid silver ring catching the light as he runs a hand down his face. There's a pillow crease on his cheek and he looks... soft. Which is absolutely not what you need right now when you're trying to be angry.

"What," he growls, voice rough with sleep, "is your problem?"

Right. Anger. Focus on that.

"My problem?" You gesture vaguely at the air between you. "My problem is you letting random hookups use my shit!"

His brow furrows, like he's trying to process your words through a fog of interrupted sleep. Then his expression does this complicated thing—confusion to understanding to something else you can't quite read.

He presses his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Phoenix, I didn't." When he looks at you again, he seems more awake. "I told her your stuff was off limits."

"Then why does it smell like—"

He brushes past you, heading toward the bathroom, and you absolutely do not notice how warm he is when he passes. Or how he still smells like rain under the vanilla.

"Are you seriously walking away while I'm—"

He stops so suddenly you almost run into him. Turns. Points at the coffee table.

"It's your candle."

You follow his finger and... oh.

There's one of your vanilla candles burning quietly on the table, nearly at its end. Which means it's been lit for...

He groans, running a hand down his face again. "You said to open the windows, and I just..." He waves vaguely at the candle. "Whatever."

"You..." The words aren't quite computing. "You lit my candle?"

"You told me to air out the apartment."

"So you used my candle to get cozy with some random—"

"For fuck's sake, Phoenix." He looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him here. "I lit it because you like these stupid vanilla things, okay? Thought it'd make the place smell nice when you got back."

Oh.

Something warm and uncomfortable squirms in your chest. Because that's... that's actually kind of...

"Well." You cross your arms, refusing to acknowledge the weird feeling. "Maybe ask next time before using my stuff."

"Maybe don't ghost me for two hours when I asked for forty minutes."

"I was studying!"

"With your phone on silent?"

"Some of us have actual academic responsibilities, Rogue."

His mouth twitches. "Some of us have other responsibilities."

"Yeah, bet ‘pussy eating’ looks great on a résumé.”

“Didn’t eat her pussy. Just fucked it.”

You grimace. “TMI.”

He shrugs. “You brought it up.”

“You were the one bragging about responsibilities like it’s a noble calling.”

“Hey, takes dedication. Skill. Stamina.” A smirk. “Not my fault you’re fixated on it.”

Fixated—

“Right. Just like I’m fixated on your four-hour recovery nap.”

“Wasn’t napping the whole time.”

“Gross.”

“You asked.”

“I literally didn’t.”

He's fighting a smile now, you can tell. Which is annoying because you're trying to be mad about your candle. Or your body wash. Or... something.

"Whatever." You turn toward your room, because this conversation needs to end before you do something stupid like thank him for thinking about the smell. "Just ask next time."

"Before lighting your pretentious vanilla candles?"

"They're not pretentious."

"They're thirty dollars each."

"How do you know how much they—" You spin back around. "Have you been looking up my candles?"

"No."

"Oh my god, you totally have."

"I was curious why they cost so much when they all smell the same!"

"They do not all smell the same, you absolute heathen."

He raises an eyebrow. "French Vanilla and Vanilla Bean are literally the same thing."

"I'm not having this conversation with someone who probably thinks Old Spice is a personality trait."

"At least I don't need a PhD to buy soap."

"No, you just need—" You stop, narrowing your eyes. "Wait. How do you know what's in my shower?"

"You know what?" He stretches, and you absolutely do not track the movement with your eyes. "All this talk about vanilla is making me crave coffee. Specifically..." He grins, slow and deliberate. "Those vanilla capsules you hide in the back of the cabinet."

"Don't you dare—"

"The ones behind the protein powder?"

"Those are mine." You follow him as he saunters toward the kitchen, still annoyingly shirtless. "I specifically said they weren't for you."

"Come on, Phoenix." He's already moving toward the kitchen, all loose limbs and bare chest like putting on a shirt is beneath him. "Let me show you how to actually make coffee. Teach you some culture. Some technique."

You swat at him as he passes. "I know how to use a coffee maker."

"Sure you do." His laugh is rough with sleep, and you hate that you notice. "That's why you murdered a perfectly good espresso shot this morning."

"I did not—"

"The beans were crying, Phoenix. I heard them."

But you're already following him to the kitchen because apparently you hate yourself. 

He's wearing those stupid gray sweatpants that hang just low enough to be illegal in at least three states, and his hair is still a disaster from sleep, curling at the nape of his neck.

"First rule," he says, running his hands over the coffee maker like it's something precious, "is respecting the machine."

"It's a coffee maker, not royalty."

"See? No respect." His fingers dance over the settings with practiced ease. "That's why your coffee tastes like sad bean water."

You lean against the counter, watching as he measures grounds with ridiculous precision. 

"My coffee tastes fine."

"Your coffee tastes like betrayal and broken dreams." He adjusts the grind size, movements quick and sure. "You probably think instant coffee is acceptable."

"Only when I'm feeling particularly spiteful."

His horrified gasp is so dramatic it actually makes you laugh. "You're a monster."

"Guilty."

He shakes his head, tamping down the grounds with absolutely unnecessary focus. The muscles in his forearms flex with the movement, and you definitely don't notice. Just like you don't notice how his hands look wrapping around the portafilter, or how his ring catches the kitchen light when he locks it into place.

"Watch," he says, flipping switches with the confidence of someone who definitely spent too much time watching barista tutorials on YouTube. "This is where the magic happens."

"It's coffee, not alchemy."

"Shh. You're ruining the moment."

The machine hums to life, and okay—maybe you can kind of see why he's so precious about it. There's something almost hypnotic about the way the espresso streams out, dark and perfect.

"See how it's not running too fast?" He's fully in teacher mode now, gesturing at the flow. "That's what you want. Nice and steady. Not that waterfall disaster you created this morning."

"Are you done being pretentious yet?"

"Never." He grabs your vanilla capsules—the ones you specifically told him not to touch—and starts steaming milk. "But I'll make it worth your while."

"By stealing my coffee?"

"By elevating your coffee." The milk pitcher moves in his hand like it's an extension of his arm. "You'll never want that chain store stuff again."

"Bold of you to assume I want anything you make."

His smile is all trouble. "Liar."

And okay, maybe he has a point. Because the drink he slides across the counter a few minutes later looks... kind of perfect. The foam is glossy and smooth, and the vanilla smell hits just right.

"Well?" He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

You take a sip and—fuck.

Fuck.

"It's..." 

No. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

But he's already grinning, the bastard. "Say it."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, Phoenix." He leans forward, elbows on the counter. "Admit it. I made your vanilla whatever-the-fuck better than you ever could."

"I will literally die first."

"That good, huh?"

You flip him off, taking another sip instead of answering. But then he's there, right there, and when did he get so close? His fingers brush yours as he takes the mug, gentle but deliberate, and your throat goes dry.

He holds your gaze, something dark and playful dancing in his eyes. Doesn't ask permission with words—just tilts his head slightly, the question clear in the quirk of his mouth. And you should say something. Should stop him. Should—

The mug touches his lips. Your lips were just there. Three seconds ago, your mouth was exactly where his is now, and that shouldn't make your stomach clench but it does.

His eyes are too much. Too dark, too intense, too fucking knowing as he takes a slow sip. Have they always been this brown? This smoky? Like whiskey in low light, like trouble wrapped in honey. 

The kind of eyes that should come with a warning label: Danger. Side effects may include stupid decisions and ruined underwear.

His tongue darts out, catching a stray drop on his lower lip. Slow. Deliberate. The silver ring on his hand catches the light as he lowers the mug, and his voice drops to something husky.

"Delicious."

Nope. Absolutely not.

You snatch the mug back, ignoring how your fingers tingle where they brush his. "Make your own, you coffee nerd."

Retreat. Strategic retreat to the couch is definitely the smart play here. Because your brain is currently short-circuiting, trying to process how one word—one stupid, fucking word—in that voice can make your thighs press together.

His laugh follows you, low and knowing. The sound wraps around you like smoke, like the way he smelled that thunderstorm night, like—

Griffin chooses that exact moment to slink into the living room, green eyes judging you both as he hops onto the windowsill. He stretches, impossibly long, before curling into a perfect orange circle, pointedly turning his back to you both. 

At least someone in this apartment has standards.

Focus. You're focusing.

But then you hear him moving behind you. The quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft appreciative hums as he works the coffee maker. The whisper of fabric as his sweatpants shift with his movements. Each sound feels magnified, like your brain has decided to process everything in HD surround sound.

Don't look back. Don't do it. Don't—

Fuck.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment. Because his back is a work of art, all broad shoulders and defined muscle, and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair that even from behind he's attractive enough to make your mouth water. The way his shoulder blades move as he works the machine, the dip of his spine disappearing into those low-hanging sweats, the unruly hairs curling at his nape...

Snap your head forward. Drink your coffee. Stop being a horny disaster for five consecutive minutes.

But you can still hear him. Still feel his presence behind you like a looming cloud. Still taste the ghost of his lips where they touched the same spot yours did on the mug.

This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just tired and touch-starved and maybe a little worked up from your stupid assignments—

"Want another taste, Phoenix?"

His voice is closer now, right behind you, and you absolutely do not shiver. "Didn't anyone teach you to drink your own coffee?"

"Didn't anyone teach you that stealing tastes better?"

You refuse to turn around. Refuse to acknowledge how his words squeeze your chest. "You're impossible."

"You like impossible."

And that's... that's not something you're equipped to handle right now. Not with him standing there all sleep-warm and shirtless, voice rough like gravel, smelling like rain and coffee and sin.

"I like peace and quiet," you lie, taking another sip of your rapidly cooling drink.

His laugh is soft, dangerous. "Liar."

The couch dips as he drops down next to you, thigh pressed against yours like he owns the space. Like personal boundaries are just suggestions. He has a mug in hand now, and his coffee smells kind of amazing and you hate him for it.

You shift away, but his hand lands on your thigh—warm, heavy, there. His fingers span the width of it easily, and your brain helpfully supplies memories of those same fingers in other contexts. 

It doesn’t escape your notice, how his eyes linger on where your shorts have ridden up your thighs from your hours in the library. 

"No," you manage, swatting his thigh with yours.

"No what?" His voice is still rough from sleep, and it's doing things to you. Unfair things.

"No manspreading next to me." You try to sound annoyed instead of affected. "Keep your sweaty balls to yourself."

He squeezes your thigh, just once. Just enough to make you want to throw the mug at him. Or yourself. "My balls aren't sweaty."

"Bet they are.”

"Want to check?"

"You're actually the worst." But you don't move his hand. Why aren't you moving his hand?

"That's not what you said last time."

And fuck him for bringing up last time. Fuck him for smelling like rain and coffee and sleep-warm skin. Fuck him for the way his thumb is drawing absent circles on your thigh, like he's not even aware he's doing it.

"Lapse in judgment."

His laugh rumbles through you, too close, too much. "Which time?"

"Pick one."

"I'd rather pick you up."

You turn to tell him exactly where he can shove that line, but it's a mistake. Because he's right there, all heavy-lidded eyes and sleep-soft mouth, and your brain fizzles. His hair is still a mess, curling at his temples, and you want to grab it. Want to find out if it's as soft as it looks. Want to—

"You're staring, Phoenix."

"Untrue."

His fingers flex on your thigh. "Big word for someone who can't stop looking at my mouth."

"I'm not—" But you are. You absolutely are. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Always those two damn words. Always saying ‘make me’, like he knows how it riles you up. Like he likes how it riles you up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and you can feel his pulse through his fingers on your thigh. Or maybe that's your pulse. Everything feels too hot, too close, too—

"Your coffee's getting cold," you manage, voice embarrassingly breathy.

His smile is slow, knowing. "Yeah?”

His eyes drop to your shorts—the ones you've been wearing all day, the ones that rode up your thighs during your study session. And okay, maybe they're a little too short. Maybe you felt Jimin's concerned glance when you stretched in the library. But it's not your fault the AC in your car is temperamental at best.

"These can't be comfortable after sitting in the library all day," he murmurs, fingers playing with the hem. “Could help you out of them."

"Thought you were tired from your afternoon activities."

"Second wind." His thumb traces the seam where it cuts into your thigh. "Come here."

You raise an eyebrow, ignoring how your body wants to lean into his touch. "I am here."

"No," and his voice drops lower, rougher. "Here." He pats his lap, and the casual confidence of it irritating. Hot. Irritatingly hot. "Unless you're scared."

"Of what? Your ego?"

"Of how bad you want it." His eyes flick to your chest, where your shirt dips just low enough to be interesting. "Been thinking about these shorts all day. Since you drove me to class."

"Didn't realize my driving skills were such a turn on."

"Your driving skills are terrible." His hand slides higher, testing. "But watching you grip the steering wheel..."

You swallow. "That's kind of pathetic."

"Yeah?" His fingers find the spot where your shorts meet skin. "Then why are you breathing so hard?"

"Because you're annoying me."

He laughs, low and dangerous. "Hop on, Phoenix. Let me annoy you properly."

"That's your big move? 'Hop on'?"

“As long as it gets you on top of me...” He smiles now, actually smiles. “I’d say it’s working.”

And fuck him for being right. Fuck him for the way his eyes are all pupil now, for how his skin is still warm, for how he smells like everything you want to taste.

"You're awful," you breathe, but you're already shifting closer.

"Show me how awful."

His fingers hook through your belt loop and suddenly you're being yanked forward with zero warning. The squeak that leaves your mouth is embarrassing.

"Rude," you swat at him, but he catches your wrist easily. His hand is so warm around your cold skin.

"C'mere," he breathes, and before you can process it, you're straddling him. 

His hands slide down to grab your ass, fingers digging into the flesh and pulling you closer until you fall forward, catching yourself with hands on either side of his head.

He hums, the sound vibrating through you where you're pressed against him. And—yeah. Well. That's definitely not his phone in his sweats.

"Ride me?" The way he says it is almost lazy, but his eyes are dark, hungry. That half-lidded look that means tarnation.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on, Phoenix." His fingers flex on your ass, making you rock against him. "Don't be mean."

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good he feels under you. "Mean?"

"Been hard since I saw you in these fucking shorts this morning." He bites his lip, looking up at you through his lashes. "Just thinking about your thighs spread over my lap like this..."

"That sounds like a you problem."

His laugh is breathless, a little wild. "I’ll make it an us problem."

"Thought you were tired from earlier."

"Different kind of tired." His hands guide you into a slow grind against him. "This is more... inspiration."

"You're actually insane."

"Yeah?" He rocks up, making you gasp. "Feeling pretty sane right now. Feeling like I really want you to—fuck—" 

You'd rolled your hips, just to shut him up. Just to wipe that cocky smirk off his face. But now he's looking at you like you’re his favorite dessert, and his hands are everywhere, and—

"That's it," he breathes, voice gone raspy. "Just like that, come on..."

He guides your hips into another roll, watching you with that hungry, hazy look. His thumbs dig into your hipbones, controlling the pressure, the pace.

"Been thinking about this," he breathes, voice rough. "How you'd look bouncing on my cock. How your tits would—fuck—" You grind down harder, feeling him twitch against you. "Haven't even gotten to see them properly yet."

"Poor you," but your voice shakes when his hands slide up under your shirt, spanning your ribs.

"Poor me," he agrees, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "All I got was that quick fuck against the window. Then you cumming on my tongue." His eyes are dark, pupils blown. "But this? Getting to watch you ride me? See these bounce while you—"

"You talk too much." You're trying for annoyed but it comes out breathy.

"Make me shut up then." His hips snap up. "Come on, Phoenix. Show me how well you can take it, yeah?"

"That's your big plan? Get me all worked up in the living room?"

“Getting worked up anywhere you’ll let me.” His fingers find your nipples through your bra, rolling them until you arch. “Been waiting to get you like this. Spread out on top of me, swallowing me deep in this greedy pussy…”

You let out a breathy laugh, grinding down just to spite him. “Yeah?” Your voice is pure teasing, but the heat is real. “She didn’t wring you out completely?”

His grip tightens on your waist, nails pressing in just enough to make you feel it. “Seems like she didn’t.”

You hum, dragging your hips forward again, slow and deliberate. “Mm. That’s a shame.”

“Yeah?” His voice dips, rough and taunting, but his hands—his fucking hands—are already shoving your shirt up, fingers tracing up your spine before yanking your bra down just enough to expose you. His thumb drags over one nipple, his breath warm against your throat. “You wanna fix that?”

You pretend to consider, rolling your hips again, dragging your pussy right over the thick ridge of him. Fuck. He’s not even inside you, and it’s already so good.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Wouldn’t want to overwork you.”

His laugh is sharp, incredulous. “Nix.” His voice is wrecked—the kind of hoarse, hungry sound that goes straight to your cunt. “You feel what you’re doing to me?” He thrusts up, slow but deep, and you suck in a breath. “Think I’m fucking tired?”

And yeah, okay. He’s still hard as fucking steel beneath you. Still needy. Still looking at you like he’s seconds from losing what little patience he has left.

“It’s these fucking shorts,” he mutters, grabbing a handful of your ass like he wants to leave bruises. “Oh my god, this fucking ass.”

You hold back a laugh, rolling your hips again, enjoying the way his breath stutters. “That easy, huh?”

His hands tighten on you. “You know what you do to me.” His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make you quiver. “S’why you wore these, right?”

You don’t answer, just reach between you to shove down his sweatpants, dragging them low enough to free his cock. And—fuck. He’s so hard it’s almost obscene, thick and flushed and already leaking. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, running a teasing finger up his shaft, watching his stomach tense. “Didn’t even get a full reset, did you?”

His jaw flexes. “No.” A muscle in his cheek jumps as he watches you wrap your hand around him. “The fuck do you expect when you walk around in these little fucking—” His breath hitches when you thumb over the head, smearing the wetness there. “Shit—shorts. The second I saw you, I knew—”

“You knew what?” You press the question into his skin, lips just beneath his jaw, hand still working him slow.

His grip on your ass tightens, grounding, punishing. “Knew I was gonna end up inside you tonight.”

And fuck. That sends a fresh wave of heat through you, has your thighs squeezing around him. Because yeah, okay, maybe you had the same thought the second you walked in and saw him standing there in nothing but those damn sweatpants.

But there’s still one thing gnawing at you. One thing that makes your brain fight for a fraction of control through the heat.

“Did you use condoms?”

His head snaps up, brow furrowing like you just asked if water is wet. “Of course I did. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You exhale, relief flooding through you faster than the heat pooling low in your stomach. 

“Okay, fuck. Okay.” You swallow. “Where are they?”

And Jungkook—fucking Jungkook—instead of answering, he grabs your tits. Both hands, rough and impatient, unclasping you bra like it personally offended him.

“Jesus—wait—” You barely manage to lift your arms before he’s yanking it over your head, flinging it somewhere behind him.

“You on the pill?” he murmurs, barely pausing his focus on your tits.

“No.” You don’t even hesitate.

And to his credit, he doesn’t either. “Okay. Condoms it is.”

Respectful. A menace, but respectful.

You barely have time to process that before his fingers are pressing into the small of your back, guiding you forward, making you press flush against him as he leans toward the coffee table.

And you—because apparently you’re both equally insane—just let him.

His other hand reaches forward, jerking open the small drawer in the coffee table, fishing out a foil packet with practiced ease.

“You keep condoms in the living room?”

Jungkook doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. Just in case.”

“In case?” Your eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you fuck in your room like normal people?”

“Yeah?” He grabs the foil packet, tossing it onto the couch beside him before his hands are right back on your waist, thumbs sliding under the waistband of your shorts. “But, y’know… just in case you wanted it.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Me?”

“You, Phoenix.” He squeezes your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he has to touch you while he says it. “I usually fuck in my room. But you and me—we already did it against the window, so I figured…” He shrugs, casual as ever. “Might as well be prepared.”

“I—” You blink, processing, trying to form actual thoughts. “That’s crazy.”

He shrugs, so fucking nonchalant it’s unfair. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Think about it.” His mouth curls, eyes flicking from your mouth to your bare chest and back again. “Imagine I had to stop and go all the way to my room right now.” He pauses, letting the implication settle. “Wouldn’t that just kill the mood?”

And okay. You do snort at that.

Because this is ridiculous.

Because this is actually thoughtful.

Because he’s still hard as a rock under you, talking about condom logistics while casually groping your ass, like he’s planning for a fire drill and not fucking you senseless on the couch.

“No, like. You’re a complete nut case,” you murmur, shaking your head.

“Quick access,” he corrects, and then—fuck.

His mouth is on your tits again.

No hesitation, no teasing buildup, just his tongue dragging over one nipple, warm and slick before closing his lips around it.

Your breath catches, fingers twitching where they brace on his shoulders. “Jesus—”

He hums against your skin, like this is just an extension of the conversation. Like he can talk about fucking you and have his tongue on your tits in the same breath.

And then, because he’s Jungkook and apparently completely fucking obsessed with your chest, he moves to the other one, sucking deep and slow, like he’s savoring it.

“Can’t help it,” he mutters against you, voice rough. “Tits too fucking perfect.”

Which—okay. You shouldn’t preen at that, but his mouth is so fucking warm, and his hands are so fucking big—

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and his breath stutters.

And then he’s leaning back just enough to look up at you, lips slick, pupils blown. “You gonna let me fuck you cowgirl now, or you wanna keep pretending we’re still talking?”

You poke at his dick playfully, watching with satisfaction as it twitches immediately.

His breath stutters, eyes flicking up to yours, but he doesn’t say a word. Just watches—completely absorbed—as you pluck the condom from the side and roll it down over him, slow and deliberate.

His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly, and when you glance up, you catch it—his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice all low and wrecked.

You smirk, dragging your fingers back up his shaft just because you can, because you like making him twitch, like how he watches you like he’s seconds from losing his mind.

His hands are already on your thighs when you lift up, finally removing those tiny ass shorts—but when your fingers hook into your panties, he stops you.

“Keep them.”

You blink, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.” His hands skim up, palms rough against your bare skin. “They’re red and lacy and fucking beautiful—” His voice breaks off into a sharp exhale as he shifts under you, cock nudging against the damp lace between your legs. “Just shove them to the side and let me fuck you like this.”

Heat licks down your spine, and fuck, maybe it is kind of hot—his voice raw, gaze locked where you’re already so wet for him.

“Yeah?” You drag the fabric aside, slow and teasing, letting him see what he’s about to have. “You want me to ride you like this?”

“Nix.” His voice is all smoke and gravel. “Fucking sit on it.”

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

And then, in one swift motion, you sink down onto him.

“Fuck—”

Jungkook shudders, breath breaking apart as he bottoms out inside you, hands clamping down on your hips so hard it’s murderous. His fingers dig deep into your skin, like he’s fighting the urge to slam you down harder, deeper, but he doesn’t—he just grips, holds, feels.

And fucking watches.

Because this—this—is his favorite.

The way you stretch around him, the way he can see it, can watch himself disappear inside you from this angle. The lace of your panties bunched to the side, the way your slick coats his cock, the slow, obscene drag as he throbs inside you.

His jaw clenches, his head falling back, but his eyes stay locked on where your bodies meet. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You suck in a breath, thighs trembling slightly, trying to adjust to the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you completely. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle shift beneath your palms as he groans deep in his throat.

“You feel that, Nix?” His voice is rough, wrecked. “Feel how deep you’re taking me?”

You bite your lip, trying not to squirm at the way that sounds coming from him, the way his cock pulses inside you like he can feel every little squeeze.

His grip on your hips flexes. “Come on, let me hear you.”

You swallow hard, already feeling too fucking warm. “I—”

“I what?” His hands slide down, palms rough and greedy as they find your ass, grabbing handfuls, spreading you just to push inside you deeper. “Fuck, Phoenix, you feel so fucking good.”

Your thighs twitch, heat licking up your spine, and okay—okay, maybe that makes something inside you tighten. The way he wants you to feel it. The way he sounds like he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you. Sitting so fucking pretty on my cock like this.”

Your breath stutters.

“Fuck—” His fingers flex again, grip punishing, possessive. “Knew you’d look good like this. In this position. Been dreaming ‘bout it.”

You exhale shakily, pressing your palms harder against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your hands.

“Yeah?” The word slips out before you can stop it, quiet, breathless, barely more than an exhale. 

And then, even as much as you convince yourself you hate dirty talk—his dirty talk—how you tell yourself it’s cringe… You find yourself engaging. You find yourself slipping. 

“You wanted me in this position, Ro? Riding you?”

And Jungkook? He fucking relishes on it.

“Yeah,” he rasps, dark eyes flicking up to yours, mouth curling slow, dirty. “Getting bold on me, Phee?”

Heat rushes up your throat, your pulse pounding, but you don’t look away. You can’t—not with the way he’s looking at you, not with how deep he is inside you.

“God,” he groans, hands gripping your ass again, spreading you wider just to watch himself sink into you even more. “You should see how you look right now.”

His voice is wrecked—half-growl, half-moan—and you have to fight the way your thighs want to squeeze around him, hold him there.

But he notices.

And grins.

“Fucking knew it,” he mutters, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “You like hearing it, don’t you?”

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers twitching on his chest. “Shut up.”

“Nah.” He tilts his head, thumbs digging into your skin, grounding, teasing. “Think I finally got you to like it.”

And fuck—fuck—you can’t even argue, because his cock twitches inside you and your whole body reacts, a shiver running up your spine.

His smirk widens. “See?”

You exhale sharply. “Rogue.”

“Phoenix.” His hands tighten again, his voice a slow, taunting drawl. “C’mon, yeah? Ride me.”

Your thighs flex as you lift yourself up, the slow drag of him leaving you just enough to make you whimper, then you sink back down, faster this time, harder.

Jungkook’s jaw goes slack, hands gripping your ass like he’s barely holding himself together. “Christ—”

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

You move again, rising and dropping, setting a pace that has his breath coming out in ragged exhales, his nails biting into your skin. Every inch of him stretches you open, fills you up, makes your stomach coil tighter and tighter.

And then—

His right hand moves.

Fingers slipping lower, rough against your skin, then lower, lower—

Until he’s spreading you.

His fingers part your folds, stretching you open wider just so he can watch himself disappear inside you.

“For fuck’s sake Ro—”

“Shit,” he exhales, low and wrecked, eyes locked on where his cock is sliding in and out of you, the obscene wetness coating both of you. “Look at that. Fucking dripping for me, Phoenix. Can’t help it.”

Your thighs shake, breath shuddering, and you want to tell him to shut the fuck up—but you can’t, because you may not see it, but you feel it. The way your body takes him, how slick and messy it is, how deep he’s buried every time you drop back down.

It’s filthy. He’s filthy.

“You’re so nasty,” you gasp, nails digging into his chest for balance.

He laughs, dark and smug. “And you fucking love it.”

Before you can snap back, he finally—finally—looks up at you.

And his breath stutters.

Because, of course, in this position, your tits are bouncing.

His pupils blow wide, throat working through a hard swallow, and then—his hands fly up immediately.

Grabbing. Palming. Squeezing.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking apart, gaze flicking between your tits and your face like he doesn’t know where to look first. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

His grip on your waist tightens, nails digging in, and then—his head falls back. His chest rises and falls beneath your hands, breath coming in sharp, desperate pants.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, voice wrecked, low and so needy you almost mewl, because you’ve never heard him like that. “Gonna cum so fucking bad—”

Your rhythm stutters. “Don’t you dare finish before me.”

“Fucking—” He grunts, muscles tensing beneath you as his hands clamp down harder, like he’s fighting it, trying to hold on, but— “Oh my fucking god, Phoenix—”

You can feel him struggling—his thighs trembling beneath you, abs flexing tight, his cock twitching inside you, buried so deep.

“How the fffffuck—” his breath shudders, “do you expect me—Jesus Christ—to hold b-back when your tits—god—”

His hands are everywhere—palming, grabbing, fucking worshiping your chest like he’s possessed—and then his mouth is there again, latching onto your right tit, tongue flicking over your nipple, sucking deep and wet.

“Shit,” you whimper, back arching.

“Fuck—fuck—” 

He suddenly leans back, dragging you down hard onto his cock as he thrusts up to meet you, hips snapping with short, frantic rolls.

Your breath shatters, thighs burning, your whole body jolting with every desperate slam of his hips. 

And his eyes.

Jesus.

His eyes are locked on you, wide and hungry, flicking between your parted lips and your chest.

And then—

“Grab ‘em,” he pants, voice rough, ruined. “Fuck—grab those titties for me, Phee.”

Your stomach flips.

“Grab’em while you ride me—” His breath catches, his abs flexing. “Fucking—God, I need to see it—”

Heat floods your spine, your pulse pounding as you do what he says—palms sliding up, gripping the soft weight of your tits, squeezing just enough to lift, to move, to give him exactly what he wants.

And his reaction—

“Jesus fucking—” His head falls back hard against the couch before snapping back up, completely fucking wrecked. “Oh my god—look at them—look at you—fuck, fuck—”

His fingers dig into your hips, forcing you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you as he thrusts up, trying to get deeper, trying to burn this into his brain.

“Oh god, oh god, Phoenix— I swear to fucking God—” His hands slide down, gripping your ass. “Fucking dripping— so messy for me—”

His voice breaks on a groan, hips slamming up, chasing it, his body seizing up as he loses it.

“Shit—shit—I’m—oh my god—fuck—I’m cumming—”

And then—he snaps.

His grip on your waist locks, his whole body tensing beneath you, and his head tips back, mouth falling open as he moans—a deep, raw sound from the bottom of his fucking chest.

He creams inside the condom, hips jerking up in short, shallow thrusts, pulsing thick and hot as he spills into it.

His hands shake as they guide your hips down, grinding you onto him, milking every last drop, needing to feel every second of it.

And you—

You’re about to sigh, about to roll your eyes, because seriously? He just came? You haven’t even—

But before the frustration can even fully settle, he moves.

One second, he’s slumped against the couch, breathless, spent. 

The next—he’s flipping you onto your back.

Your gasp barely leaves your lips before his hands are on your thighs, gripping, spreading you open like it’s his fucking right, pushing your knees toward your chest.

And then—no hesitation.

No questions asked, no smug teasing, no half-assed effort—just his fingers shoving your panties back to the side, replacing his cock with two thick fingers, burying them inside you like he already fucking knows you can taste it.

Your breath shatters. “Jesus—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, focused, dark eyes locked on your pussy as his fingers curl, stretching you open, pressing deep. “Not leaving you hanging.”

And fuck—fuck—his thumb.

Right there, dragging over your clit, pressing just right with slow, deliberate circles.

Your thighs twitch, your hands clenching in the couch cushions as your body jolts from the sudden shock of pleasure. “Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he groans, gaze flicking up to watch your face, your wrecked fucking expression as he fingers you open. “Gimme that pretty little shake—know you’re close.”

You barely process your own whimper before he’s pressing in harder, thrusting his fingers faster, his thumb working you like he owns your orgasm.

“You think I’d leave you like that?” His voice is low, hushed, wrecked, pressing filthy into the space between you. “Think I’d fucking cum and not make you lose your mind, too?”

“Ro—”

“Nah, Phoenix.” His fingers drive into you, slick and obscene, thumb relentless. “You’re gonna cum all over my hand—” he leans in, breath warm against your throat, “and I’m gonna watch every fucking second of it.”

His fingers pump into you, wet and filthy, every slick thrust echoing between you. And god, the sounds are just so fucking obscene it makes you want to die a little.

“Come on, give it to me, Phee,” Jungkook rasps.

You can barely breathe. His thumb keeps dragging over your clit in these slow, devastating circles, the pressure just right, and your whole body is trembling, your thighs twitching where he holds them open.

“Listen to that,” he groans, gaze flicking down, mesmerized. “So fucking wet for me. Making a mess all over my hand.”

And then his mouth is on you again.

He latches onto your tit, sucking deep, tongue flicking over your nipple before pulling off just to groan against your skin. 

“God, your vanilla shit Phoenix. Makes you taste so good. Could suck on these all fucking day—”

“Jungkook—”

“Yeah? You gonna cum?” 

Your back arches, hands flying to grip his arms because—fuck—fuck. The pressure is too much, his fingers so deep, his mouth so hot, and you’re right there—right fucking there—

“That’s it,” he groans, hand drenched, your walls pulsing around his fingers. “Come on, give it to me.”

And then—

It hits.

Pleasure rips through you, fast and all-consuming.

And Jungkook—fucking Jungkook—just groans, watching you fall apart.

“Mm, yeah that’s it,” he mutters, fixated on the way you shake, the way your pussy flutters around his fingers, soaking his palm. “So fucking good, huh?”

His name slips out in a wrecked, shattered moan, and he loves it, enjoying every sound, drinking in every twitch and tremble.

He finally slows his movements as you shudder through the aftershocks, his fingers still deep, thumb pressing lazy circles to wring out every last second of it.

“Shit,” he murmurs, voice a little breathless, and when you manage to blink down at him, he’s staring at his own hand—glistening, messy, coated in you.

His throat works.

And then—his eyes flick back to yours.

And he fucking grins.

Jungkook collapses on top of you.

Full weight. No warning. Just dead fucking weight pressing you into the couch, knocking the air from your lungs.

“Oh my—get off!” You yelp, struggling beneath him, but he doesn’t budge.

“Nnngghh,” he groans into your neck, voice muffled, completely ignoring you. “Shut the fuck up and let me rest for five minutes.”

You blink up at the ceiling, absolutely fucking done. “Weren’t you sleeping, like, thirty minutes ago?”

“Your point?” His breath is warm against your skin, his body solid and heavy, still way too fucking hot from everything that just happened.

“My point,” you grumble, wiggling under him, “is that you’ve done literally nothing today except nut and nap, so why are you tired?”

“Because,” he mutters, arms tightening around your waist, “I’m a growing boy.”

You snort, smacking his bare back. “You’re a menace.”

He just hums, pressing his face into your neck like he’s about to fall asleep right there, and for a second, you let it happen—just breathing, the two of you still wrecked, bodies cooling down, silence stretching.

But then—

“Oh, shit—”

Jungkook jumps, suddenly wide awake, jolting upright so fast he nearly knocks you off the couch.

You blink up at him, still catching your breath. “What the fuck is wrong with you—”

“Wait—” He leans over you, hands on either side of your head, eyes huge and excited. “Do you have any toys?”

You stare at him. “What?”

“Toys,” he repeats, fully invested now. “Sex toys, Nix. I didn’t even think about it, but—fuck—I could’ve made you finish with one.”

You blink again, brain scrambling to catch up. “No?”

His brows furrow. “Why not?”

“Why would I—” You sit up slightly, pushing at his chest. “Do I look like I came here with a full-ass sex kit?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, genuinely baffled, “don’t you girls have dildos and shit?”

“Oh my fucking—” You shove his shoulder. “Do you really think when I was packing my shit to move in, I was like, ‘mmm, yeah, definitely need to bring my dildo’?”

His eyes narrow. “So you had one?”

“No—”

“So you’ve never had one?”

“No, Ro, my parents would’ve killed me.”

He pauses, frowning like he’s actually considering that for a second. Then, with absolutely zero hesitation—

“Okay, then we’re going toy shopping.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, no, fuck that.” He waves a hand, like this is a done deal, like you don’t even get a say. “You’re getting something. I refuse to believe you’ve gone your whole life without at least a vibrator. That’s a crime.”

“A crime?”

“Yes.” His face is serious, like this is a personal offense to him. “You deserve to cum even when I’m not here.”

“I don’t need you to cum.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Oh my fucking—” You drop your head back against the couch, groaning. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m being a good friend.” He grins, smug as hell. “And an amazing fuck buddy.”

“We are not friends.”

He blinks. “What?”

“We’re not friends.” You cross your arms, looking him dead in the eye. “Fuck buddies. No friends.”

Jungkook gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you just deeply wounded him. “That hurts.”

“You’ll live.”

“Aren’t we, like, friends with benefits or something?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Fuck buddies. No friends. Just the benefits.”

“That’s the stupidest logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Coming from Mr. Stupid himself? Woah.”

“Pft. Right.” He stretches, cracking his neck, still grinning like an idiot. “Then we’re going this weekend.”

“To what?”

“Buy you a vibrator.”

“Fuck you.”

“Bet.”

You swat at him, grin still on his face and all. 

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[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 11

car literature

"Halfway across the country to escape your parents' expectations, only to find their voices still echo in your head. Maybe freedom isn't about how far you run, but what you choose to hear when everything goes quiet."

next | index | wc: 7.5k

↪︎author's note : OKAY HI LOSERS!!!! Chapter 11 is here, right on schedule like the little miracle worker I am. I actually have ch11, 12, and 13 all done and ready to go but I'm sticking to my posting schedule because SOMEONE (me) knows she'll burn out at some point so you better savor this while it lasts. Anyway, about Y/N having a car: yes, she has one because I said so and Jungkook doesn't because he's a whole-ass LOSER LMAO. I did love weaving in the reason behind the car though and connecting it to her messy complicated relationship with her parents. God I love how human she is??? Like, she's so conflicted—grateful for what they've done but suffocated by their expectations. THE COMPLEXITY. I'm obsessed with my own creation, forgive me. I'll give Jungkook some credit here (GASP) because while he has the self-awareness of a potato, he IS observant and perceptive when he wants to be. Boy's too busy coping with humor and deflecting for his own good though. You'll see what I mean… eventually. Also can we talk about how much I'm LIVING for Y/N and Jimin's growing friendship?? I love how Y/N makes friends for such different reasons—Yeji is the one who makes her feel like she doesn't have to have her shit figured out, Irya is the emotionally intelligent one, and Jimin?? They bond over their shared love of literature and books and isn't that just *chef's kiss* beautiful? And I refuse to apologize for the text messages. REFUSE. The texts are staying because I love writing them too much. Deal with it. FINALLY THOUGH!!! NAMJOON MAKES HIS ENTRANCE!!! MY KING!!! I've actually had him planned since chapter 3 (don't get it twisted), there are hints if you paid attention. But now he's finally here in all his dimpled glory and we love him. Jin, I understand you completely, babes. ANYWAY. Chapter below. Enjoy bobs bobes and bobas!!!

The sound of Jungkook stubbing his toe for the third time this morning is, objectively speaking, fucking hilarious.

You hide your smirk behind your mug, pretending to be deeply invested in your FYP as another muffled "shit—motherfucking—” echoes from his room. The apartment has been a symphony of chaos for the past fifteen minutes: doors slamming, drawers banging, what sounds suspiciously like a guitar being knocked over (followed by more creative cursing).

And okay, maybe you're a little evil for enjoying this so much. But come on. Mr. "I Pretend To Have My Life Together" finally overslept, and you get to witness the glorious fallout while calmly sipping your morning coffee. The universe gives you so few gifts. You're allowed to savor this one.

His coffee sits next to yours, made exactly the way he likes it—because yes, you've noticed how particular he is about his precious coffee routine. Two shots of espresso, a splash of oat milk (regular milk upsets his stomach, not that he's ever admitted it), and just a hint of vanilla syrup. You absolutely refuse to acknowledge how or why you've memorized this.

Something crashes in the bathroom. Griffin, lounging on the windowsill, barely twitches an ear.

"Has he always been this much of a disaster?" you ask the cat. Griffin's slow blink feels judgmental. Fair enough.

More thundering footsteps. A drawer slams so hard you feel it in your teeth. You scroll past a video of someone's cute dog, not really seeing it, too focused on tracking the hurricane that is your roommate having a morning meltdown.

"Fuck—where is my—" His voice cuts off abruptly. 

You can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, tugging—that thing he does when he's stressed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Yeji.

𝐘𝐞𝐣𝐢🖤: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑?

You're typing back a quick 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 when Jungkook bursts into the kitchen like he's being chased. His hair is still wet from the shower, shirt only half-buttoned, and—oh. 

Oh no.

He's wearing The Jeans. 

The ones that make his thighs look like they were carved from marble. 

The ones you specifically remember clawing off him that first night, back when he was just Hot Stranger From the Bar. 

You take a very deliberate sip of coffee and absolutely do not think about that.

"Late for something?" you ask innocently, like you haven't been cataloging every crash and curse for the past quarter hour.

He whirls toward you, and for a split second, you catch him completely unguarded—flushed, disheveled, one hand still trying to button his shirt. Then his eyes narrow, landing on the coffee mug next to yours.

"Is that—"

"Just drink it, Rogue." You cut him off, rolling your eyes. "Unless you want to waste more time making your own."

The nickname slips out without permission. You blame it on the early hour, on not having enough caffeine yet. Not on how he looks with his hair still dripping, water darkening the collar of his shirt. Definitely not on how the morning light catches the silver ring on his hand when he reaches for the mug.

He takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up.

"This is—"

"If you say 'perfect,' I'm dumping the rest down the sink."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Actually, the extraction time on this is slightly—"

"I swear to god, if you start mansplaining coffee to me at—" you check your phone, "—eight forty-seven in the morning, I will personally ensure you never make it to wherever you're going."

"It's called sharing knowledge, Phoenix." He's already moving again, a blur of motion that somehow manages to look both graceful and completely chaotic. "And the optimal brewing temperature for espresso is—"

"Do you ever just hear yourself talk and think 'wow, I'm really like this'?"

"—between 195 and 205 degrees Fahrenheit, which you'd know if you actually paid attention when I—" He freezes mid-rant. "Wait, what time did you say it was?"

"Eight forty... eight now."

"Fuck. Fuck." He runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up even worse. "I can't be late to this one."

You can't help yourself. "Don't you skip Film Theory like, twice a week?"

"That's—that's different." He's practically vibrating now. "This is the one where we're presenting our—where the fuck is my phone?"

"The thing you set down right here when you grabbed your coffee?" You tap your fingernail against his phone, which has been sitting next to your elbow this whole time. "This phone?"

He lunges for it, and you definitely don't notice how he has to lean into your space to grab it, or how he still smells like his stupidly expensive shower gel. The screen lights up in his hand and—wait.

"Is that Griffin as your lockscreen?"

"What? No." He shoves the phone in his pocket too quickly. "It's—shut up."

"Oh my god, it totally is. Is it the one where he's sleeping in the—"

"I'm gonna be late," he cuts you off, already halfway to the bathroom. You hear him banging around, probably looking for his cologne. The one that makes him smell like rain and...

You glance at the time again. At this rate...

"Want me to take you?"

His head pokes around the bathroom door, hair falling in his eyes. There's a bit of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth that he hasn't noticed. 

"What?"

"My car?" You try to sound casual, like you're not offering to save his ass. "Unless you'd rather take the subway and definitely be late."

He stares at you like you've just started speaking in tongues. 

“You got a—" His brow furrows. "Wait, you got a car?"

"No, I'm offering you a ride on my imaginary unicorn." You roll your eyes. "Yes, I have a car. Had it for like, two weeks now. How have you not noticed?"

"I've been busy!" He disappears back into the bathroom, voice slightly muffled. "And since when do you—why would you even—who has a car in New York?"

"People who don't want to deal with the subway at 2 AM after work?" You raise your voice so he can hear you over what sounds like him knocking over every single bottle in the bathroom. "Also, time check: eight fifty-one."

"Shit." More crashing sounds. "Okay, yes, fine, please drive me, I'll never make fun of your tea collection again."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

You drop your mug gently in the sink, leaving washing for later in the day, next to his. Then grab your bag, your sunglasses too—from where they're perched on top of your head. Walk to the door and wait for Jungkook to finish spraying his perfume before he’s darting out of the tiny room and positioning himself next to you. 

Then you’re out, glasses sliding on as you lock the door. The movement is automatic, practiced—something you picked up during those long drives when the sun would hit just right and—

"Okay, Gossip Girl," he snorts, cutting into your thoughts.

"You haven't even watched Gossip Girl."

"Excuse you, I'm a man of culture." He's half-jogging to keep up with you, which is... something, considering his legs are approximately twice as long as yours. "Blair Waldorf is an icon and Chuck Bass is—wait, no, seriously." He catches up as you reach the elevator. "Why do you have a car? In New York? Who are you?"

The elevator doors slide open with their usual concerning screech. You step in, leaning against the back wall as he follows, hitting -1 with his thumb. The fluorescent lights make the shadows under his eyes more pronounced—definitely up too late gaming again.

"When I signed the lease," you say, watching the numbers tick down, "Miguel mentioned there was an unused garage spot included. It was actually one of my prerequisites."

"Prerequisites," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the word. When you glance over, he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. "You came here on your own?"

You shrug, suddenly very interested in a scuff mark on the elevator floor. 

"Yeah."

"Where from?"

The question hangs in the air between you. It's such a simple thing to ask, really. Basic getting-to-know-you stuff. But something about the way he says it, soft and curious, makes your throat tight.

"Small town," you say finally. "The kind where everyone knows everyone's business and the most exciting thing that happens is when someone paints their fence the wrong shade of beige."

He doesn't laugh like you expect. When you risk another look, he's still watching you, head tilted slightly.

"Must've been quite the change."

"That was kind of the point."

The elevator jolts, making you grab the rail. He doesn't move, somehow keeping his balance like he's got magnets in his shoes or something. Imbecile.

"So what, you just... packed up and drove to New York?" There's something in his voice—not quite disbelief, but close.

"I mean, I applied to NYU first. I'm not completely insane." You're aiming for light, casual, but it comes out a bit defensive. "But yeah, basically. Loaded up the car, picked a playlist, and..." You wave your hand vaguely.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He's quiet for a moment, and you can practically hear him piecing things together. The way you never talk about home. How you tense up when anyone mentions family. The fact that your room is filled with things you clearly bought after moving in, nothing old or sentimental except—

"The bear," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"The stuffed bear on your bed. The really old-looking one." He straightens up, like he's solved a puzzle. "That's why you got it. It's from before."

Something uncomfortable squirms in your chest. 

“Okay, Detective Kuko, maybe focus on not being late instead of psychoanalyzing my childhood toys?"

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal the garage. He pushes off the wall, but you catch his reflection in the mirrored doors—that little half-smile that he always pulls when he’s being particularly insufferable.

"You know," he says, following you out into the dimly lit space, "for someone who claims to hate nicknames, you sure throw around a lot of them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Rogue."

His laugh echoes off the concrete walls. "Whatever you say, Phoenix."

The car beeps when you press the button on the key fob, its sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. It’s a rundown 2010 Honda Civic, the kind of car that blends into the background of every suburban parking lot. 

The kind your father refused to buy you when you were eighteen and wanted to transfer to a college campus just a bit further away. 

Funny how that worked out for him. You ended up buying this one yourself, and now you’re in New York City—a hell of a lot further away than that first suggestion.

But your chest tightens at the thought, like it always does when you let your mind wander back there. 

What were you even aiming for? 

Retribution? 

Vengeance? 

For what? Daddy not wanting to get you a car? When they’ve paid for your tuition all this time, made dinner for you when you stayed up late studying, and even sat through all of the Avengers movies with you despite hating superhero flicks. Your mom would always cut up fruit for you during finals season, leaving little notes on the kitchen counter that said things like You’ve got this! or Proud of you! in her neat handwriting. 

A mix of guilt and frustration gnaws at you. Because what kind of ungrateful asshole feels bitter about something so small when their parents have done so much?

And yet, here you are. Feeling it anyway. 

It’s not like they were bad parents—strict, sure, but not bad. They just wanted what was best for you, didn’t they? 

So why does it still sting when you think about how they dismissed your creative writing journal as a “waste of time” or how they steered every conversation toward practicality and success? Why does it feel like every decision they made for you came with strings attached? Like love was something earned through achievements instead of something freely given?

You grip the keys tighter as if that’ll stop the spiral forming in your head. Because it’s not fair to them, is it? They did their best. They didn’t know how suffocating it felt to have every move scrutinized, every choice second-guessed. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re blowing it all out of proportion. Maybe they weren’t controlling; maybe you were just too sensitive. Maybe this whole mess is on 

you.

But then again... wasn’t it their fear that kept you tethered to that small town for so long? Their insistence on safety and stability that made leaving feel like rebellion instead of growth? 

You shake your head, trying to shove those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter now. You’re here. You made it out. You’re independent and capable and—

“Wow,” Jungkook’s voice cuts through your inner monologue like a knife, dragging you back to reality with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “This car sucks.”

Your head snaps toward him as he stands there, one eyebrow raised in judgmental amusement. He’s leaning against the passenger door like he’s too good to even touch it properly.

Without thinking, you slam the driver’s door closed with more force than necessary. “Changed my mind,” you snap, glaring at him over the roof of the car. “Go walk.”

He laughs, already folding his stupidly long legs into the passenger seat. "Aw, come on, Phoenix. I'm sure it has... character."

"Get out of my car."

"The duct tape on the mirror really adds something, you know?"

"I will leave you here."

"Is that a Fast and Furious sticker? Did you actually—"

"One more word about my car and you're taking the subway."

He holds his hands up in surrender, but he's still grinning. 

"Wouldn't dream of insulting your..." His eyes dart to the dashboard where the check engine light has been on since you bought it. "Unique vehicle."

"I hate you so much right now."

"No you don't." He starts fiddling with the radio, because apparently personal boundaries mean nothing to him. "Oh my god, is this a cassette player?"

You swat his hand away. "Touch my radio and die."

"But—"

"My car, my rules."

"What are you gonna do, make me listen to your sad girl hours playlist?"

You turn the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with its usual concerning cough. "Bold of you to assume I'd share my playlists with someone who butchers Mayer's solos every night."

"I do not—" He sits up straighter, actually offended. "That was one time, and the strings were new, and—"

"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room doesn't need your creative reinterpretation, Rogue."

And fuck. Why did you have to bring up that specific song? The one he was playing two nights ago, like it was just for you and him in the quiet of the night. 

"Didn't know you were such a Mayer purist, Phoenix." 

You check your mirrors, definitely not watching how he slouches in the seat, all long limbs and morning-messy hair. 

"Seatbelt, Kuko."

"Is that your favorite Mayer song?" 

God, why is he doing this? Making small talk about music like he didn't just watch you have a whole crisis about your car? 

"I guess." You mutter, exiting the garage once and for all.

You merge into traffic, grateful for the excuse to focus on something other than how he's angled his body toward you in the passenger seat. 

But then, because he can’t leave things alone…

"You know any others?"

You lick your lips. Two beats of silence. 

“Some ring a bell." You finally say. Swallow. Change lanes. Don't think about summer evenings and vinyl records and— "It's just that one... brings memories."

Silence, again.

You can feel him watching you, that way he does sometimes when he thinks you're not paying attention. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle but keeps finding new pieces.

Then he sighs, a soft chuckle that does absolutely nothing to your stomach. Nothing at all. 

“Guess I'll have to play some more for you." His voice drops slightly, just shy of teasing. "You know, expand your musical taste."

And what the fuck are you supposed to do with that? With the way he says it—like a challenge, like a promise? With how the morning sun catches his ring when he drums his fingers against his thigh, keeping time to whatever song is playing in his head?

"Bold of you to assume I want to hear more of your mediocre guitar skills."

It's weak and you both know it. 

But he lets you have it, just huffs out another laugh and turns to look out the window. 

And you absolutely do not notice how the sunlight catches the edge of his jaw, or the way his shirt is still slightly wrinkled from his rush this morning.

No. No, you don’t. 

"Wait, you're telling me you've never read Donna Tartt?"

Jimin's scandalized whisper makes you grin as you both push through the library's heavy doors. There's something endearing about how genuinely offended he is by this gap in your literary education.

"In my defense," you whisper back, following him up the stairs to the second floor, "I was a bit busy reading whatever my parents deemed 'appropriate' until, oh, about six months ago?"

He glances back at you, something knowing in his eyes. It should make you uncomfortable—usually does, when people look at you like they understand. But with Jimin, it feels... okay. Maybe because he was there that night at your apartment, quietly positioning himself next to you like a gentle buffer against the chaos.

"Okay, but now you have to read The Secret History." He leads you to what's clearly his usual spot—a corner table partially hidden behind the Classical Literature stacks. "It's like... Dark Academia meets murder mystery meets Greek tragedy."

"You had me at murder mystery, honestly."

He pulls out a chair, dropping his bag with practiced ease. "I actually have my copy here somewhere. The spine's basically destroyed because I've read it so many times, but—"

"Let me guess—you're one of those people who annotates their books?"

His cheeks flush slightly. "Maybe?"

"Oh my god, you totally are." You slide into the chair across from him, already feeling more relaxed than you have all day. "Do you use different colored pens? Have a whole system?"

"...you're making fun of me."

"I would never." You scoff. "I'm simply appreciating your dedication to the literary arts."

He tries to maintain his pout, but you can see the smile fighting through. 

"You know what? For that, I'm not telling you where the secret coffee spot is."

"The what now?"

"Oh, nothing." He starts unpacking his bag with exaggerated nonchalance. "Just a hidden corner where they don't enforce the 'no drinks' policy. But since you're so judgmental about my annotation habits..."

"Park Jimin." You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Are you telling me there's a way I can read and caffeinate without having to dodge the library police?"

"I don't know..." He draws it out, eyes twinkling. "Can you be trusted with such powerful knowledge?"

"I will literally annotate a book right now. Any book. Pick one."

His laugh is barely more than a breath, but it's warm, genuine. 

“Okay, okay. But first—what's your stance on dog-earing pages?"

You gasp. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

"Just checking." He grins, finally pulling out his battered copy of The Secret History. "Here. But I want detailed feedback on all my margin notes."

You accept the book carefully, noting the well-worn spine, the sticky notes peeking out from between pages. "Did you... color-code your tabs?"

"That's it." He starts gathering his things. "I'm leaving."

"No, wait!" You grab his arm, laughing as quietly as you can. "I actually love it. Really. Show me your system?"

He settles back down, mock-glaring but clearly pleased. "Fine. But only because you actually seem to care about books, unlike some people."

"Let me guess—Yeji ditched the second you mentioned the library?"

"'Sorry, babe,'" he mimics Yeji's voice with surprising accuracy, "'but I only enter buildings with books if they also serve alcohol.'"

You snort. "That tracks."

"Speaking of tracking..." He pulls out his phone. "Want to see my reading spreadsheet?"

"Your what now?"

"It's color-coded by genre, with separate tabs for—"

"Jimin?"

"Yeah?"

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

His smile could power the whole library. "Just wait until I show you my TBR organization system."

And you find yourself smiling back, real and easy, as he launches into an explanation involving multiple apps and something called "reverse timeline sorting." Because yeah, okay—maybe making new friends isn't the worst thing in the world.

Even if they are terrifyingly organized book nerds who probably alphabetize their bookmarks.

Also, the thing about being an English major at NYU is that you end up sharing a lot of classes with the Comparative Literature kids. 

It's not really surprising when you think about it—you're both basically studying books, just from different angles. 

While you're deep diving into English and American literature (thanks to your very traditional parents who would have probably had an aneurysm if you'd picked anything more "experimental"), Jimin's out here analyzing texts from all over the world, looking at how different cultures approach storytelling.

Which is how you end up in at least three classes together this semester. 

Modern Literature with Professor Sullivan on Mondays and Wednesdays (where Jimin always has the most interesting takes on international influences), Contemporary Poetry Analysis (where he somehow manages to connect Emily Dickinson to some obscure Korean poet you can't pronounce), and that one Friday afternoon workshop that everyone dreads but somehow becomes bearable when Jimin starts drawing parallels between Western and Eastern literary traditions.

It's actually kind of perfect. Your English major foundation gives you the deep knowledge of Western canon that his program requires, while his Comparative Literature perspective opens up whole new ways of looking at texts you thought you knew inside out. 

Like right now, as he's explaining how Japanese magical realism evolved differently from its Latin American counterpart, you're seeing 100 Years of Solitude in a completely new light.

Plus, it's nice having someone who actually gives a shit about books. 

Yeji, bless her chaotic heart, thinks anything written before 2010 is "prehistoric," and your other friend from Modern Lit only reads SparkNotes. 

But Jimin? Jimin color-codes his annotations and has strong opinions about Oxford commas. 

Which is probably why, when he suggested studying together, you didn't even hesitate. Because yes, okay, maybe you've been a bit... selective about making friends since moving to New York. 

But someone who understands why you got emotional about Woolf's use of semicolons? That's the kind of friend worth having.

"Okay, but consider this," Jimin whispers, sliding his Contemporary Literature notes across the table. "What if we compared Murakami's use of magical realism with García Márquez? Because I swear there's a connection between Kafka on the Shore and 100 Years of Solitude that no one talks about."

You lean forward, scanning his impossibly neat handwriting. Of course his notes are color-coded. "For the Modern Lit essay?"

"Yeah, Professor Sullivan mentioned wanting unique perspectives, right?" His eyes light up the way they only do when discussing books. "And since you're taking Modern Literature and I've got Comparative Lit Theory this semester..."

"A cross-course analysis?" You tap your pen against your notebook, mind already racing. "That's... actually brilliant?"

"Really?" He perks up, then immediately remembers to lower his voice when someone at the next table glares. "Because I was thinking, with your focus on contemporary Western literature and my background in Eastern literary traditions—"

"We could explore how different cultural interpretations of magical realism intersect!" You're probably too excited about this for a library setting, but whatever. "Jimin, you're literally a genius."

He ducks his head, but you catch his pleased smile. "I mean, you're the one who brought up the cyclical narrative patterns in class last week. I just thought maybe we could..."

"Collaborate?" You're already flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. "Please tell me you're not working with anyone else for the final paper."

"Was kind of waiting for the right partner." He gives you a pointed look. "Someone who wouldn't just make me do all the work."

"Unlike some people we know?"

"I'm not naming names, but..." He glances around conspiratorially. "Let's just say I've already witnessed Yeji's approach to required reading in our shared Literature and Gender class last week."

"Do tell."

"She showed up to discuss Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own and asked, completely seriously, if it was about interior design." He shudders dramatically. "Then tried to argue that her TikTok research should count as academic sources."

You have to stuff your fist against your mouth to muffle your laugh. 

"She did not."

"Direct quote: 'But professor, this BookToker made some really good points about, like, the feminist undertones and stuff.'" He pulls out his laptop, already opening a fresh document. "So, partner? I mean, we're only two weeks into the semester, but I can already tell you actually read the material. Plus, I've got access to some really interesting papers on Japanese magical realism through the Comparative Lit database."

"Only if you let me buy you coffee at Jin's after this." You pause. "Wait, is that weird? Am I being weird?"

His smile is soft, understanding. "Not weird at all. But only if you let me show you my favorite translation of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The annotations are chef's kiss."

"God, you really are a book nerd, aren't you?"

"Says the person who got excited about cyclical narrative patterns."

"...touché."

He starts typing, fingers flying over the keys. "So, structure-wise, I was thinking we could start with a brief overview of traditional magical realism in Latin American literature, then transition into..."

You settle in, watching him outline your shared project with the same methodical care he probably uses to organize his bookshelf. 

And maybe it's the quiet of the library, or the way afternoon sun filters through the stacks, but something in your chest feels lighter. 

Because this—this easy back-and-forth about books and ideas—this is what you came to New York for.

"Oh!" Jimin's whisper breaks into your thoughts. "We should definitely include the cat symbolism in both texts. Speaking of..." He glances up from his screen. "How's living with Griffin?"

"The cat or his stupid owner?"

The words slip out before you can stop them. Jimin's eyebrows shoot up, a knowing look crossing his face that makes you want to hide behind your textbook.

"Why? Wanna talk about his owner?”

"I meant—that's not—he is stupid!" You grab your water bottle just to have something to do with your hands. "Whatever. We should focus on the magical realism thing."

"Mhm." He's still giving you that look. "Whatever you say. But you know, if you ever want to talk about... cats..."

"I will literally throw this book at you."

"The annotated one? You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, Park."

His quiet laugh makes a few people look over, but you can't bring yourself to care. Because somehow, in the span of an afternoon, you've gained both a study partner and what feels like a real friend.

Even if said friend is now wiggling his eyebrows at you every time you try to redirect the conversation back to Murakami.

Your phone buzzes against the table, making Jimin glance up from his color-coded notes. 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛 𝚞 𝚛𝚗

You roll your eyes, typing back quickly.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your screen lights up with his reply.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚛 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷𝟻𝚖𝚒𝚗? 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚍 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚖? 🥺

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞

Your fingers hover over the keyboard because—what the fuck is he saying right now? What does he mean?

But then.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

Fucking bitch-ass motherfucker. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 🤢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜? 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: "𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡”

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 💅

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 😏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙹𝙸???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎

Read 4:47 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙾𝚆

Read 4:48 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑

Read 4:49 PM

You shove your phone in your bag. Whatever. You've got actual priorities here—like making real friends who appreciate literature and don't judge your drink choices (does he?).

"Actually," you say, straightening up and pulling out your Modern Lit syllabus, "let’s go to Jin’s right now. Because I could use a caramel frappuccino, and I'd love to hear more about your take on Murakami's symbolism."

Jimin's whole face lights up. "Really? Because I have thoughts about the significance of wells as transitional spaces in—"

"Lead the way, book nerd." You start packing up your stuff, already feeling more centered. "But fair warning—I will absolutely judge your coffee order if it's anything boring like plain black."

"You order everything with extra whipped cream, don’t you?”

"It's called having taste, Jimin. And yes, I want the little chocolate sprinkles too."

His laugh echoes through the stacks as you both head out, earning a few glares that you can't bring yourself to care about. Because this? This is exactly what you need. Good conversation, sugary drinks, and someone who gets genuinely excited about literary analysis.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You don't even think about checking it.

After all, you've got more interesting things to focus on—like whether Jin will let you convince him to add extra caramel to your drink, or finally having someone who understands why you cried over that one Sylvia Plath poem.

Because honestly? There’s just something deliciously satisfying about choosing exactly how you want to spend your afternoon. 

And right now? That means ordering the sweetest drink on the menu and diving deep into a discussion about magical realism with someone who actually gets it.

Sometimes the best kind of freedom is just... doing whatever the fuck you want.

The thing about Jin is that he treats his coffee shop like it's a kingdom and he's the benevolent (but definitely judgy) ruler.

"Well, well." He quirks an eyebrow as you and Jimin push through the door, the familiar smell of coffee and old books wrapping around you like a hug. "Where's the demon child?"

"Yeji's allergic to studying." You lean against the counter, already eyeing the pastry display. "Breaks out in hives if she gets too close to academic pursuit."

Jin snorts, wiping his hands on his apron. "That tracks. Haven't seen you in a few days—were you actually at the library? Or is this some elaborate cover story?"

"Studying, actually." You gesture to Jimin, who's hovering politely beside you. "With actual books and everything. Jin, this is Jimin. Jimin, this is Jin, who makes the best coffee in the East Village but will definitely judge your order."

"I don't judge." Jin's mouth twitches. "I merely... evaluate life choices."

Jimin waves shyly. "Nice to meet you. Yeji's mentioned this place a lot."

"All lies, probably." Jin's already moving to the espresso machine, hands automatic in their movements. "What can I get you both? And Y/N, before you say it— no, I will not make you one of those abominations with eight pumps of syrup."

"Rude." You straighten up, pretending to study the menu like you don't order the same thing every time. "Fine. Latte with cold foam?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's fondness there. "Let me make you something better. Just got a new blend in—Ethiopian, hints of blueberry. You'll love it."

"Bold of you to assume I can taste anything beyond sugar."

"Trust me." He turns to Jimin. "And for you?"

"Just an americano, please."

You whirl around. "That's so sad."

"Shut up." Jimin shoves your shoulder lightly. "Not all of us need a sugar high to function."

"Your loss." You're already heading toward your usual spot—eyeing the different tables and settling for the corner one with the best lighting and a perfect view of both the street and the counter. "Come on, I'll show you where—"

"Ah ah." Jin's voice stops you. "Not that one."

You turn back, eyebrow raised. "What? It's empty."

"Someone sits there."

"I literally see no bag?" You gesture at the conspicuously empty table. "No books, no laptop, no nothing."

"Someone," Jin repeats, voice somehow both firmer and more amused, "sits there."

"But—"

"Y/N." He gives you that look, the one that somehow makes you feel like a kid being gently scolded. "Pick another table."

You glance at the mysterious empty table, then back at Jin, then at the table again. Because what the actual fuck? Since when does Jin reserve tables? And for who? 

But he's already turned back to the espresso machine, humming something under his breath, clearly considering the matter closed. 

"Come on." Jimin tugs your sleeve, pointing to another corner. "That one looks good too."

You let him lead you away, but not without throwing one last suspicious look over your shoulder. Jin pretends not to notice, but you catch the slight smile playing at his lips as he starts grinding coffee beans.

Weird. Very weird.

You sigh loudly, and woah okay you’re starting to sound like Yeji now. Her energy is definitely rubbing off on you. You take your stuff out along with Jimin and start chatting right away.

"All I'm saying is," you whisper-rant to Jimin, still bitter about this morning, "if someone makes you coffee, you say thank you. You don't launch into a TED talk about optimal brewing temperatures like some pretentious—"

The bell above the door chimes, and holy shit.

HOLY. SHIT.

The man who walks in is... 

Well, first of all, he's tall. Like, unfairly tall. 

And he's wearing these round glasses that should look dorky but somehow don't, perched on a face that belongs in one of those aesthetic academic Pinterest boards. His blonde hair is slicked back in a way that screams 'I definitely know about wine pairings', and his light blue dress shirt paired with navy pants is giving very much 'yes, I read Proust for fun.'

But it's the way he carries himself—confident but not cocky, with a laptop bag swinging gently by his thigh—that really catches your attention. 

That, and how Jin's whole demeanor shifts when he sees him.

"Joon!" Jin's voice is different—warmer, maybe? "The usual?"

The man—Joon, apparently—smiles, and oh. Oh. That's just unfair. Because he's got actual dimples. Like, dimples dimples. 

They chat for a moment, their conversation too low to hear from where you're sitting, but you catch Jin gesturing toward... wait. 

Toward the table. 

THE table. 

The one you were just exiled from.

Namjoon nods, that devastating smile still in place, and heads straight for what is apparently his designated spot in Jin's kingdom.

You narrow your eyes. Who exactly is this mysterious dimpled giant with table-reserving privileges? And why does Jin look slightly pink around the ears as he starts making what is presumably 'the usual'?

"Hey?" Jimin waves his hand in front of your face. "You good?"

"Sorry, just..." You tilt your head toward the table-stealer. "Trying to figure out who managed to get permanent dibs on prime real estate in here."

Jimin turns, trying (and absolutely failing) to be subtle about it. Then he makes a small choking sound.

"Oh god," he whispers, whipping back around. "That's Professor Kim."

You blink. "Professor who now?"

"Namjoon Kim? From the English department?" When you continue staring blankly, he adds, "He teaches Literary Criticism in my major? Published in like, every major literary journal? Youngest professor in the department?"

"That's a professor?" You peek over again, watching as he sets up his laptop with methodical precision. "Why does he look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." You gesture vaguely. "You know. Like that.”

"Please stop staring," Jimin hisses. "He's brilliant and terrifying and I have to present in his class next week."

"Terrifying?" You snort. "The man has dimples, Jimin. And his glasses are literally round. He looks like a very tall teddy bear who probably reads Keats for fun."

"He once made someone cry by asking them to explain their interpretation of a Emily Dickinson poem."

"Okay, but was their interpretation wrong?"

"Y/N."

"What? I'm just saying—"

Jin appears with your drinks, setting them down with more force than strictly necessary. "Stop gossiping about my customers."

"We're not gossiping," you protest. "We're... conducting academic observation."

"Mhm." He raises an eyebrow. "How's that new blend?"

You take a sip of whatever fancy coffee he made you, and... oh. Oh.

"This is..."

"Better than your sugar milk?" His smirk is unbearable. "You're welcome."

He walks away before you can argue, heading back to where Professor Dimples is apparently grading papers, judging by the red pen in his hand.

"Don't even think about it," Jimin warns.

"Think about what?"

"Whatever you're plotting. I can see it on your face."

"I'm not plotting anything!" You take another sip of your annoyingly perfect coffee. "I just think it's interesting that Jin never mentioned having a designated professor spot in his shop."

"No."

"What? I'm just being observant."

Jimin looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him to befriend you. "Can we please just focus on Murakami?"

"Fine." You pull out your notes, but you can't help stealing one more glance at the mysterious professor. "But just so you know, anyone who makes students cry over Emily Dickinson is definitely going on my list of people to investigate."

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jimjim."

20 minutes pass by. 20 minutes of Jimin humming as he searches articles on the web. 20 minutes of you two now doing your individual assignments for your different classes. 20 minutes of you nearly losing your mind over yours. 

"Who," you groan, slumping over your laptop, "decided that writing a comparative analysis of post-modern narrative structures was a good idea for week two? Week two, Jimin. I still haven't figured out where half my classes are."

Jimin chuckles, leaning over to point at something on your screen. "Look, if you connect these two themes here—"

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. "I will literally pay you to write this for me."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I'm broke. But I'll owe you my firstborn."

"Still no."

"My soul?"

"Bold of you to assume you still have one after declaring an English major."

You're about to argue that your soul is perfectly intact, thank you very much, when you feel it—the weight of someone's gaze. You glance up and oh fuck.

Professor Dimples is looking right at you, one eyebrow raised slightly above those round glasses. Because of course he heard your entire breakdown about his colleague's assignment. Of course he did. 

You drop your eyes back to your laptop so fast you probably give yourself whiplash. Maybe if you slouch low enough, you'll just... dissolve into the floor. That's possible, right? 

Jimin swats your arm. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," you whisper-hiss. "I'm just saying, who assigns a five-thousand word analysis before we've even figured out the coffee situation on campus?"

"Having trouble with Professor Lee's class?"

You freeze. Because that voice—deep, warm, and definitely coming from right next to your table—belongs to exactly who you think it does.

Slowly, you look up. Professor Kim is standing there, coffee cup in hand, looking far too amused for someone who apparently makes students cry over poetry.

"I, uh—" Words. You know words. You're literally majoring in them. "No? I mean, yes? I mean—"

"She's struggling with the comparative analysis assignment," Jimin supplies helpfully, the traitor. "The one about narrative structures in post-modern literature."

"Ah." Professor Kim's dimples make an appearance. "Mind if I...?" He gestures to the empty chair at your table.

What are you supposed to say? No? To the professor who apparently has permanent dibs on the best table in Jin's? Who probably knows seventeen ways to destroy your GPA with a single red pen mark?

"Sure," you manage, shooting Jimin a panicked look that he completely ignores.

Professor Kim settles into the chair, setting his coffee down carefully. "The thing about post-modern narrative structures," he says, like he's sharing a secret, "is that everyone overthinks them."

You blink. "What?"

"It's actually quite simple." He gestures to your laptop. "May I?"

You turn the screen toward him, watching as he scans your document. His brow furrows slightly, and you resist the urge to slam the laptop shut and run away.

"See, here—" He points to a paragraph. "You're actually onto something interesting. The way you've connected the unreliable narrator to the fragmented timeline... that's good. You're just getting caught up in the academic language instead of trusting your instincts."

"My... instincts?"

"Mhm." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Tell me—without thinking about theory or criticism or any of that—why did this particular narrative choice catch your attention?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Because honestly? "It reminded me of those dreams where you're trying to remember something, but the memory keeps slipping away? Like, you know it's important, but every time you get close, it sort of... dissolves?"

His smile widens. "Write that."

"What, the dream thing?"

"Exactly that. In exactly those words." He leans back, looking pleased. "That's what post-modern literature is about—the messy, fragmented way our minds actually work. Not the polished academic analysis we think we're supposed to write."

From behind the counter, you hear Jin snort. "Are you corrupting my customers with your literary theories again?"

"Always," Professor Kim calls back, and something in the way they smile at each other makes you think of your earlier observations.

"Thank you," you say, already starting to rework your intro paragraph. "That actually helps a lot."

"Any time." He stands, gathering his coffee. "And Y/N?"

You look up, surprised he knows your name.

"Don't worry too much about Professor Lee's assignments. He likes to seem tough in the beginning, but..." He adjusts his glasses with a slight smile. "Let's just say I've heard his Emily Dickinson lectures. Man cries every time."

As he heads back to his table, you turn to Jimin with wide eyes.

"Did that just happen?"

"Yep."

"And did he just..."

"Give you permission to basically write your paper in normal human language? Yep."

"Huh." You look between your laptop and Professor Kim's table, where he's already absorbed back in his grading. "Maybe the dimples aren't so terrifying after all."

"Please stop talking about our professor's dimples."

"I'm just saying—"

"Whatever you're about to say, don't."

Fair enough. You turn back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. 

Maybe this assignment won't be so bad after all.

Even if you do kind of want to investigate why Jin keeps stealing glances at Professor Kim's table and thinking he’s being subtle about it. 

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 10

“slow dancing”

"Late night melodies have a way of slipping past your defenses. And maybe that's why he chose 2AM to show you a side of him you weren't supposed to see."

next | index | wc: 4.5k

↪︎author's note : FIRST OF ALL! I CREATED A PLAYLIST OF SONGS FMU!JUNGKOOK PLAYS ON HIS ELECTRIC GUITAR to make him feel more human and lived in. Go check it out! You can play it whenever he's playing the guitar. Hello everyone! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Currently writing this from the past since I'm scheduled to be stuffing my face with gyros in Greece right now. Which, honestly? Living my best tourist life with my partner. (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ I know I said chapter 10 might be delayed because of the trip BUT Wednesday night hit different and suddenly my brain went feral. You know how it is - either write nothing for weeks or channel an entire novel in one sitting. There is no in-between. (；一_一) Here's the thing about this chapter though - I'm actually proud of it? Which never happens, so cherish this moment. It's finally time to plant some seeds (about time, right?). ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ Listen, I know I'm absolutely unhinged about slow burn. Like, genuinely concerning levels of commitment to dragging out emotional development. I kept second-guessing if 50k words in was too early for their first Moment™, but you know what? They deserve this tiny crumb of softness. (`･ω･´) Before you get too excited - remember who's writing this. Your resident slow burn demon. What I consider a huge development, you'll probably read and go "... that's it?" (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ But I promise, if you pay attention to the vibes, there's something special here. Quick question! I've sprinkled about three of Jungkook's trauma events throughout the story so far. Any theories? Some of you perceptive souls (looking at you, Koopsy) have probably figured them out, but I'm curious what everyone else thinks! ψ(｀∇´)ψ See you next weekend! Mwah! P.S. Written at 5AM running on spite and caffeine. If you spot typos, no you didn't. (￣▽￣*)ゞ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Your hair's a fucking mess and it's all his fault.

You tug at your oversized pajama shirt as you emerge from your room, trying to look less... well. Less like you just had your roommate's tongue down your throat.

The living room's exactly as you left it, except now Jungkook's manspreading in the armchair like he owns it, arguing with Yeji about—wait, what?

"—can't seriously think the Stratocaster is better for metal," he's saying, gesturing with those stupidly nice hands of his. "The humbucker pickups alone—"

"The clarity though?" Yeji cuts in, looking personally offended. You've seen that look before—usually right before she launches into a thirty-minute rant about music theory. "You get way better note definition with single coils, especially for complex riffs—"

"Yeah, if you want it to sound like a tin can—"

"Excuse me?" 

God. Two guitar nerds in one room. This is literally your worst nightmare.

Irya's sitting between them on the couch looking thoroughly entertained, phone in hand. "Jimin!" she calls out suddenly. "Check the one I just sent you!"

Jimin glances up from his own phone, that soft smile playing on his lips. He's claimed the other end of the couch, as far from the guitar debate as possible. Smart man.

The doorbell rings, and before you can even think about moving, Jungkook launches himself out of the armchair like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit.

"I got it!" He's already halfway to the door, and you roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck.

"Whatever." You grab one of the bean bags from near the big window, dragging it to the other side of the coffee table. As far from the armchair as possible, because you know exactly where he's going to sit when he gets back.

"Just saying," Yeji continues like the pizza interruption never happened, "if you're going to shit-talk Fender, at least have a decent argument."

"Oh, I've got arguments." You can hear Jungkook fumbling with his wallet at the door. "Want me to grab my guitar? I can demonstrate—"

"Please, god, no," you mutter, dropping onto the bean bag. The last thing you need is an impromptu concert from either of them.

"Pizzaaaa," he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. He's somehow managing to balance four boxes, and you definitely don't notice the way his arms flex under the weight. "Who's hungry?"

You end up sharing your calabrese with Jimin because he's literally the only person in this room with taste. Plus, watching him take small, careful bites makes you feel better about the way you just inhaled your first slice like some kind of starved animal.

Everyone else claimed their own pizza—Yeji's practically mainlining her extra spicy diavola, Irya's defending her hawaiian from Yeji's judgmental looks, and Jungkook...

God. Jungkook.

He's sprawled in that armchair like it's a throne, one leg thrown over the armrest, decimating his meat lovers' like he's getting paid for it. And it's annoying. Everything about him is annoying. The way he tears into the crust with those stupidly white teeth. The way his throat works when he swallows. The little appreciative sounds he makes that are way too similar to—nope.

Not going there.

"Want some?" He catches you staring and holds out a slice, cheese stretching obscenely. "Since you keep looking over here."

"I'm not—" You break off as a string of cheese snaps. "I was judging your eating habits."

"Uh-huh." He takes another bite, and you hate that you notice the way his lips curve. "Sure, phoenix."

"Fuck off."

"Make me."

Yeji makes a gagging sound. "Do you two ever stop?"

No. You don't. That's the problem. Whether it's fighting or fucking or whatever the hell happened in your room twenty minutes ago, you just... don't stop. Can't stop. Won't stop.

And maybe that should worry you more than it does.

"Pass me a napkin?" Jimin asks quietly, and you grab one gratefully. Away from thoughts of Jungkook's mouth and what it was doing to you earlier and—focus. Pizza. Friends. Normal things that don't involve your roommate's tongue.

Except he's right there, existing in your peripheral vision like some kind of extremely annoying sun. Being all... present. With his hair still messed up from your hands and that mark on his neck that your friends definitely haven't noticed but you know is there and—

"Phoenix." His voice cuts through your spiral. "You're staring again."

"I'm plotting your murder."

He grins, slow and knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He's still chewing. Like, unnecessarily loud? Who taught this man table manners, a pack of wolves? 

You watch him demolish another slice with the same energy your mom attacks Facebook conspiracy theories. It's giving feral raccoon energy. No, worse—it's giving mukbang YouTuber who's about to get canceled for something weird. The way he's manspreading in that chair like he's about to start a podcast about cryptocurrency—

And then you see it. Griffin, the little menace, has somehow gotten onto the coffee table (again) and he's sniffing at—fuck, is that garlic bread?

You're out of the bean bag before you can think, nearly falling on your face in your haste. "Griffin, no—"

But Jungkook's already moving too, pizza forgotten, practically launching himself out of the chair. "G, don't—"

You snatch Griffin away from the bread just as Jungkook reaches for him, and for a second you're both frozen there—you with an armful of disgruntled cat, him with his hands outstretched and something raw and panicked in his eyes that makes your chest tight.

"He can't have garlic," you explain, which is stupid because obviously Jungkook knows this, it's his cat. "It's toxic for—"

"Yeah." His voice is rough. He swallows, hands falling to his sides. "Yeah, I know."

The silence stretches for a beat too long. 

Something's off about his reaction—it's just bread, right? 

But there's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before.

"He's got this thing about human food," he says finally, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. His laugh sounds hollow. "Always goes for the stuff that'll fuck him up."

You raise an eyebrow, absently scratching under Griffin's chin. "What, like a death wish?"

"More like bad judgment." He reaches for Griffin, and you notice his hands aren't quite steady. "Likes the wrong stuff. Just like his dad. Don't you, buddy?"

Griffin just purrs, completely unbothered by all the drama he just caused. Jungkook checks him over anyway, like he might have somehow eaten the entire loaf in the two seconds you weren't looking.

"Devil cat," you mutter, but you find yourself reaching out to scratch Griffin's ears anyway. "Always trying to unalive himself with human food."

Jungkook's quiet for a moment, just watching you pet Griffin. 

Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Thanks."

You blink. "For what?"

"For—" He cuts himself off, nonchalance sliding back into place. "For not letting him add 'bread thief' to his criminal record."

But there's something in his voice, in the way his fingers keep checking Griffin like he needs to make sure he's still there—

"Yo," Yeji cuts in, "can someone please explain to my girlfriend why pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity?"

"It's not a crime," Irya's saying, waving her slice of hawaiian like a weapon. "It's culinary innovation."

"It's fruit on pizza." Yeji looks personally wounded. "That's like putting ketchup in coffee."

"Don't give him ideas," you mutter, watching Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's settled back in the armchair with Griffin, but something's... off. The casual sprawl looks forced now, mechanical. His phone's out, thumb scrolling without really seeing.

Weird. 

"Some people actually do that," Jimin offers quietly. "The ketchup thing."

"Those people need therapy." Yeji steals a piece of pineapple off Irya's slice, examining it like it's evidence in a crime scene. "Like, immediately."

You should probably join in. Make some quip about food crimes or Yeji's weird vendetta against fruit. But you keep getting distracted by the way Jungkook's shoulders are still tight, how his other hand hasn't stopped checking Griffin. Like he needs to make sure he's still there.

Doesn't make sense. He was fine ten minutes ago, being all loud and annoying about guitars. What changed?

"Speaking of crimes against humanity—" Irya starts.

"We are not discussing the mint chocolate incident again."

"It was one time!"

Griffin shifts in Jungkook's lap, and you catch the slight flinch in his fingers. The way his eyes snap to check what the cat's doing. It's so different from his usual careless energy, from the way he usually lets Griffin do whatever the fuck he wants.

"Phoenix." His voice makes you jump. Caught staring. Fuck. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The words are right—that usual cocky bullshit—but the delivery's wrong. Flat. Like he's reading from a script of himself.

"What, and boost your ego more?" Keep it casual. Normal. Whatever's happening, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. "Pretty sure that's like, directly against the Geneva Convention."

He tries for a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Didn't know you were so concerned about war crimes."

"Only the ones happening in my living room."

A ghost of his usual grin, there and gone. Then he's back to his phone, shoulders a hard line under his t-shirt. You watch him tap the screen exactly four times, precise and measured. Since when does he do anything precise?

"Y/N?" Jimin touches your arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at your half-eaten slice. "Food coma."

But you keep watching. Can't help it. The way his jaw clenches every few seconds. How he's barely touched his pizza since the Griffin thing. The slight tremor in his fingers when he scratches behind the cat's ears.

He just... trusts the wrong people sometimes, you know?

What the fuck was that about?

"Earth to Y/N!" Yeji's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Back me up here. Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?"

"What? Oh, uh." You force yourself to look away from Jungkook. "Definitely no."

"Thank you!"

"Traitor," Irya accuses, but she's grinning. "I trusted you."

Trust. There's that word again. You glance back at Jungkook, but he's not even pretending to listen anymore. Just staring at his phone, one hand buried in Griffin's fur like an anchor.

Something happened here. Something you're missing. But the more you try to piece it together, the less sense it makes. It's just bread, right? Just Griffin being his usual chaos gremlin self. So why does Jungkook look like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop?

"Hey." Jimin's voice is soft. Private. "Sure you're okay?"

No. Yes. Maybe. You don't know why you're so fixated on this, why you can't just let it go. It's not like you care. It's not like—

"I'm fine." You reach for another slice. "Just tired."

But you can't quite shake the image of his face when you caught Griffin. That raw panic, like he was seeing something else entirely. Someone else.

“Alright I’m so done with this. We are watching Love Island.” Yeji jumps in.

“Since when do you like reality shows?” Jimin asks, smiling.

“Since, uh, never.” She replies, defensively. “I just like seeing stupid people doing stupid shit.”

And that’s how you end up watching Love Island reruns, because apparently that's what your life has devolved into. Jungkook disappeared to his room twenty minutes ago, taking Griffin and his weird mood with him, and you're trying very hard not to think about either of them.

You're failing spectacularly, but whatever.

"You good?" Yeji nudges you with her foot. "You've been weird since the whole bread thing."

"M'fine." You bat her foot away. "Just tired."

She gives you that look, the one that says she knows you're full of shit, but before she can call you out on it, the front door opens.

Yoongi trudges in looking like he's been through seven circles of hell and maybe a Walmart on Black Friday. His beanie's askew, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual—classic post-studio energy. He stops dead when he sees your little gathering, letting out the longest, most defeated sigh you've ever heard.

Then he takes off his beanie, hanging his keys, and—

"You're fucking joking." 

Yeji practically launches herself off the couch, dislodging Irya from where she was curled into her shoulder. What the—

Yoongi freezes. Turns. Very. Slowly.

"........."

"Mint????" Yeji's voice hits a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. "What the actual fuck?"

Yoongi closes his eyes like he's praying for strength. "Please god, no."

Hold up.

You look between them—Yeji vibrating with chaotic energy, Yoongi looking like he wants to evaporate on the spot. Since when does your anti-establishment new possibly best friend know your lowkey famous producer roommate?

"Wait." You sit up straighter. "You know Yoongi?"

"Know him?" Yeji's still staring at Yoongi like he's either Jesus or a sleep-deprived hallucination. "He produced my track six months ago and then ghosted everyone like—"

"I didn't ghost." He dumps his bag on the counter with maybe more force than necessary. "I was working."

"For six months?"

"Yes."

You regard both of them slowly. Because yeah, you knew Yoongi was Mint—Hoseok had dropped that bomb like it wasn't a whole thing. But Yeji? Your anarchist, fight-the-system best friend worked with him? 

"Hold up." Irya's sitting up now too, eyes wide. "You're telling me this is the guy? The one who made that track that almost got you banned from three venues?"

"It was one track." Yoongi's already heading for his room, clearly done with this conversation. "Six months ago."

"It was fire though!" Yeji calls after him. "Could've been more if you hadn't—"

The door closes with a very pointed click.

"Well." Irya breaks the silence. "That was fun."

Another door opens and Jungkook peers out, probably drawn by all the noise. "Was that Yoongi? What's with all the—"

"Did you know Yeji worked with him?" you demand, because apparently this is your life now. Finding out your friend and your roommate have secret music history.

He blinks. "With who?"

"Our roommate? Mint PD? Ring any bells in that empty head of yours?"

"Oh." He shrugs, leaning against his doorframe. "Yeah, but I didn't know it was your Yeji."

"She's not my—wait." You narrow your eyes. "How many Yejis do you know?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, phoenix?"

"It’s not like Yeji is a super common name in New York." 

His grin is insufferable. "Sure about that?"

"God, do you ever shut up?"

"Only when I'm sleeping." He stretches, all casual arrogance. "Sometimes not even then."

"Gross." You turn to your friends. "You guys don't have to leave just because he's being... himself."

But Yeji's already getting up, collecting their stuff. "Nah, it's late. Plus, I need to process the whole Mint thing. That was weird as fuck."

"Text me the story later?" Irya asks, helping gather the pizza boxes. "I want to know everything about this track that got you banned."

"It wasn't banned," Yeji protests. "Just... strongly discouraged from ever being played again."

Jimin helps clean because he's literally an angel walking among mere mortals. You walk them to the door, hyperaware of Jungkook still hovering in his doorway like the creep he is.

"Text me," Yeji mutters as she hugs you goodbye. 

The door closes behind them. When you turn around, Jungkook's gone, door clicking shut like he was never there.

Typical.

You stare at his closed door for a moment, thinking about garlic bread and panic and things that don't make sense.

Whatever. Not your problem.

You're going to commit a murder tonight.

Your friends left hours ago, and you've been trying to wind down—reading, scrolling through TikTok, attempting to be a functional human being who sleeps before their 8AM class. But someone apparently decided 2AM was the perfect time to practice his goddamn electric guitar.

The electric guitar riffs pierce through your wall for the hundredth time, each note a personal attack on your sanity.

Who the fuck plays at 2AM? Who? What kind of sociopath—

Another chord progression. Louder this time.

You grab your pillow, smothering a scream into it as your nails dig into the fabric. Eight AM class tomorrow. Eight. Fucking. AM. And this absolute waste of oxygen is out there having his main character moment like he's the star of some teen angst movie.

Fuck him. Actually fuck him. And fuck past you for fucking him in the first place. Yeah, okay, he's hot. Fine. But does that really balance out this? The constant noise and the attitude and the way he acts like the whole world revolves around him? 

The guitar gets louder, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Pain in the ass doesn't even cover it. Pain in places that don't have medical names yet. Pain in the fucking soul.

You snatch your phone off the nightstand, fingers flying over the keyboard:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚊𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 🖕🏻

The guitar stops. Thank god. Thank every possible—

A low chuckle filters through the wall.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞

Your blood pressure spikes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚗 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑

A pause. Then:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚢 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

You actually growl.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝟷𝟸??

Another chord rings out. Deliberately slow. Testing.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛? You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢?

The guitar stops. Complete silence. Maybe you went too far, bringing up—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚖

Your heart definitely doesn't skip. Absolutely does not.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛? 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍

You stare at your phone. At the wall separating your rooms. At your reflection in the dark window, hair a mess and eyes too bright.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Fuck.

Fuck.

Your feet hit the floor before you can think better of it. And isn't that just the whole problem? You never think better of it. Not with him.

So yeah, you make it to his room. Where the devil sleeps.

Your eyes sweep over his walls, taking in all the black and red and—yep, exactly what you expected. Some alt-boy Pinterest board threw up in here. Black wooden bed with those lumberjack pattern sheets, gaming setup that probably cost more than your tuition, wardrobe that's definitely hiding at least three identical black hoodies.

No windows. Makes sense. Vampires and all that.

He's sprawled on the bed like some renaissance painting gone wrong, all long limbs and messy hair like he's been rolling around like a dog marking its territory. The guitar sits easy in his lap, familiar. Natural. 

Not that you notice. Or care.

His eyes flick to you, that insufferable smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't stop playing, just watches as you hover in his doorway like—nope. Not finishing that thought.

"Didn't think you'd actually come."

"Didn't think you'd actually know how to play." You step into his space, ignoring how the air feels different in here. Heavier. "Yet here we are, disappointing each other."

He snorts, fingers still moving over the strings. Something slower now, almost melodic. "Always so sweet, phoenix."

"Always so annoying, rogue."

But you find yourself moving closer, drawn by the way the notes fill the space between you. It's... not terrible. Actually kind of good, if you're being honest. Which you're not. Obviously.

"What?" He catches you watching his hands. "Surprised I can do something besides annoy you?"

"Mostly surprised you can do anything besides game and be a pain in my ass."

His grin turns wicked. "Pretty sure I do more than that to your—"

"Finish that sentence and die."

He laughs, low and warm, but goes back to playing. Something different now. Softer. You hate that you want to ask what it is.

"Didn't take you for a musician." The words slip out before you can stop them.

His fingers stutter on the strings. Just for a second, barely noticeable. But you notice.

"No?" His voice is carefully casual. Too casual. "What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Professional asshole? Chief Expert in Being Insufferable?" You comment, flicking a small plushie on his bed. "First Chair Fuck-Up?"

He huffs a laugh, but something's off about it. Like earlier with Griffin. That same weird tension.

"Used to play in a band," he says after a moment. Still not looking at you. "Back in high school."

"Let me guess—My Chemical Romance covers?"

"Nah." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Original stuff. Mostly."

You wait for more, but he just keeps playing. That same soft melody, over and over. Like he's trying to get it right. Or trying to forget something else.

"It's good."

The words surprise you both. His hands freeze on the strings, eyes snapping to yours.

"The song," you clarify, because apparently your mouth's just doing whatever it wants now. "It's... not horrible."

He stares at you for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression—that cocky mask slipping just slightly. Then:

"Want to hear the whole thing?"

And maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's the way he's looking at you, all quiet uncertainty beneath that usual swagger. Maybe you're just fucking tired.

"Yeah." You slide down to sit on his floor, back against the bed. "Show me what you got, rogue."

He starts playing something different. Not that angry teenage angst from earlier—this is... softer. More careful. Like he's showing you something he doesn't usually let people see.

Not that you care. Obviously.

The melody wraps around the room, settling into the spaces between your breaths. Your eyes track his hands, the way his fingers move over the strings with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. It's... nice. Which is annoying. Everything about him is annoying, including the way he makes this look so effortless, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates—

Wait.

You know this song.

The notes hit something in your chest—a memory you didn't know you still had.

Your mom's old radio, the one she kept in the garden.

This exact song came on while you were planting flame lilies along the back fence. Then the storm hit—one of those sudden summer downpours that turns the whole world grey.

But instead of running inside like a normal person, your mom just... laughed. Turned the radio up louder, John Mayer's voice competing with the thunder. Grabbed your hands, still covered in dirt, and pulled you into a clumsy dance right there in the rain.

We're slow dancing in a burning room...

You'd both ended up soaked, mud-splattered, spinning in circles while the rain poured down. She'd sung along, completely off-key but not caring. Just you and her and this song, the rest of the world washed away in the storm.

The memory feels wrong now. Too bright. Too clean. Like looking at an old photograph and realizing all the edges have been carefully trimmed, the shadows cropped out.

Because that was before, wasn't it? Before the schedules and the expectations and the constant, crushing weight of—

"Is that—" You cut yourself off, but it's too late. He glances up, catches you staring.

"What?"

You blink. Jungkook's watching you, hands paused on the strings.

"Nothing."

His fingers hover over the guitar. "No, what were you gonna say?"

"Just..." Fuck it. "Pretty sure that's 'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.' Right?"

Something flickers across his face. "You know Mayer?"

"Unfortunately." You pick at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. "My playlist's not just WAP and Carpool Karaoke, contrary to what you probably think."

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds different. Less cocky asshole, more... something else. His fingers start moving again, picking up where he left off. The notes fill the silence between you, and it's... peaceful? Is that the word? No, that can't be right. Nothing about him is peaceful.

And yet.

"Do you sing too?"

His hands freeze on the strings. Just for a second, but you catch it. The way his shoulders tense, how his jaw ticks slightly before he forces that easy smile back.

"Nah." He starts playing again, but it's different now. Mechanical. "That's... that'd be embarrassing."

There's something in his voice. Something raw that makes you think of earlier, of his panic over Griffin and bread. But before you can chase that thought, he's already shifting gears.

"What, you offering voice lessons, phoenix?"

"As if." You roll your eyes, but you clock the way his fingers are slightly less sure on the strings now. "Just thought maybe you'd want to torture me with your whole package of terrible talents."

"Oh, I've got plenty of talents to torture you with."

"Gross."

But he's relaxing again, that weird tension leaving his shoulders as the conversation drifts back to familiar territory. Safe territory. He keeps playing, and you definitely don't notice how the melody gets smoother, more confident, like maybe he needed the distraction of your bickering to find his rhythm again.

Speaking of distractions—you glance around the room, frowning. "Where's Griffin?"

"Thought he was with you."

"What?" You blink at him. "You never let him sleep with anyone else."

"Well." He sets the guitar aside, stretches like some oversized cat. "You can now."

"I can... what?"

"Have him." He shrugs, but there's something careful in the movement. "For the night. If you want."

You stare at him. He stares back, that almost-smile still playing at his lips.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

"Who are you and what have you done with my asshole roommate?"

He laughs, and just like that, the weird tension breaks. "Aw, you think I'm yours? That's cute, phoenix."

"I think you're a pain in my ass," you correct, but it lacks heat. Maybe because you're tired. Maybe because he just played something beautiful and shared his cat and you don't know what to do with any of it.

"Only sometimes." He stretches again, shirt riding up. You definitely don't look. "Other times I'm a pain somewhere else—"

You throw the nearest object (a pencil) at his head. "And we're back to normal."

His laugh follows you as you leave, hunting for Griffin. You tell yourself the warm feeling in your chest is just satisfaction at finding new ammunition for future arguments.

He's actually good at something. Who knew?

And if you catch yourself humming "Slow Dancing" as you search for the cat... well. 

Nobody has to know.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 09

“rules”

"Rules are funny things. You make them thinking they'll keep you safe, keep everything contained. But sometimes the person you're really trying to protect yourself from… is you"

next | index | wc: 6.5k

↪︎author's note : OKAY FIRST OF ALL—who absolutely LOVES Yeji? Because ME. The way she clocked Jungkook within seconds and had NO filter??? Like, I'm obsessed. Mans was genuinely SHOCKED that someone told him to sit his ass down. The audacity of this woman to not immediately melt under his smirky, tattooed menace energy?? I respect her so much. A feminist icon, if you will. And IRYA. Ughhh, my precious girlie. The way she’s just casually vibing with Jungkook? Like?? They are NOTHING alike, and yet she’s over here just mingling with him, being friendly, unbothered, meanwhile Yeji is foaming at the mouth in the background. I love that contrast so much. It’s like, she doesn’t see him as a threat, just another guy in the room, which makes Jungkook (who is used to either being hated or obsessed over) lowkey confused. You can see the gears turning in his head like “Wait. Why aren’t you scared of me. Or pissed at me. Or flirting with me.” HAHAH POOR BOY. And let’s talk about Jimin, because HELLO, my quiet support KING. He’s not even saying much in this chapter, but he’s there, next to Y/N, just in case. That kind of silent loyalty? The “I know you can handle yourself, but if you need me, I’m already here” type of presence??? I eat that up every time. Their friend group is everything to me. Speaking of menace behavior—Jungkook. Are we surprised? He’s so unserious about everything. I loved giving him Kuko as a contact name for Y/N because in every fic, it’s always Kook or Kookie or Koo and I just—I wanted something different. Something slightly sharp and weird. Like, why does it sound like a pet name and an insult at the same time 😭😭 It’s PERFECT for their dynamic. And finally, Y/N. My messy, mouthy, disaster baby. She is THEE representation of someone who’s barely entered adulthood, fresh into uni, kind of immature, kind of figuring it out, but loud as hell about it. Like, I KNOW some of y’all are probably reading this chapter thinking “girl, seriously??” but THAT'S THE POINT. She’s got so much personality, she’s a walking contradiction, she’s flawed, but she’s HER. I love her for it. I also stuffed this chapter with SO many Easter eggs. Like, the foreshadowing is right there at the end, but I know y’all aren’t catching everything yet. You’ll come back later, reread it, and be like “OH MY GOD, KIKI???” And I’ll just be sitting here like 😌✌️ I love when a plan comes together. Anyway, here’s Chapter 9, babes. Enjoy the mess. I’m off to go prep for my therapist session because, let’s be real, I probably projected a little too hard in this one LMAO.

You don't know why you agreed to go shopping with Yeji. 

She texted at ass o'clock in the morning about "needing your expert opinion," and honestly? Your sleep-deprived brain just went sure, whatever without processing the implications. You just mentioned having to buy something for Emma — her birthday's in two weeks — and it was downhill from there.

"This place smells like a Pinterest board threw up," Yeji announces as you enter the third candle store of the day. Some fancy boutique with mason jars everywhere and prices that make you want to cry. "Who names a candle Whispers of Moonlight?"

"Someone getting paid way too much," you mutter, checking the price tag. Jesus. "Forty dollars for—is this supposed to smell like grass?"

"Rich people grass." Yeji picks up another one, face scrunching. "Autumn's Last Kiss. What does that even mean? Like, trees making out?"

"Pretty sure it's just pumpkin spice trying to be fancy."

"Capitalism is wild."

She moves down the aisle, combat boots squeaking against the polished floor.

"Oh shit, look at this one. Midnight Jasmine's Secret Rendezvous. That's not a candle, that's a Mills & Boon novel."

You snort, trailing after her. "Speaking of reading material—"

"We are not starting a book club book chat right now."

"I'm just saying, if you actually showed up to Victorian Lit—"

"And listen to Professor Stevens cream himself over Dickens for two hours? Pass." She picks up another candle, this one in black glass. "Dark Temptation. Bet you five bucks it smells like axe body spray."

She's not wrong. You wrinkle your nose as she waves it under your face. "Why does everything 'dark' and 'masculine' smell like a frat house?"

"Because the straights are not okay." Yeji sets it back, wiping her hands on her jeans like the scent might be contagious. "What did Emma say she likes again?"

"Anything except roses." You pause at a display of seasonal scents. "Her roommate burns those generic rose ones from the dollar store. Pretty sure she's traumatized."

"Valid." Yeji's already moved on to the next shelf, picking up random ones and reading their names in increasingly dramatic voices. "Summer's Sweet Embrace. Woodland Mystery. Oh my god, Bachelor's Button? What the fuck is a bachelor's button?"

"It's a flower," you say, distracted by a actually nice-looking sage and cedar one. Still overpriced, but... "My mom used to grow them."

"Sounds fake, but okay." 

She’s quiet for a second. Then:

"What about this one?" Yeji holds up a purple candle, squinting at the label. "Lavender Dreams. Sounds pretentious as fuck."

"Put that down before you break it," you mutter, scanning the shelves. The prices are criminal. “And aren't you supposed to be in Art History right now?"

"Professor Wang's doing that thing again where he talks about his divorce for two hours." She shrugs, setting the candle back with surprising care. "I've already heard all about Karen three times this semester."

You roll your eyes, picking up a sage-scented one. And no, you're not lingering in the candle section because you love them, okay? Emma likes candles too. It's completely reasonable research for a birthday gift. Nothing to do with how your apartment could use some—

"These are boring anyway," Yeji declares, already moving on. Her attention snaps to something across the street. Barnes & Noble, its windows displaying the latest bestsellers. 

"Wanna check out some books?" she asks, hands stuffed in the pockets of her worn-out grey zip-up. The one she definitely stole from Irya's closet.

"Since when do you read?" You snort, following her out of the candle store. Because you know damn well Yeji's idea of "reading" is skimming SparkNotes twenty minutes before class.

"Woah, judging a book by its cover?" She gestures to her whole aesthetic: combat boots, ripped jeans, that stolen sweater. "Just 'cause I look like this doesn't mean I don't read."

"You told me last week that Romeo and Juliet was, and I quote, 'straight people nonsense.'"

"It is straight people nonsense." She pushes open the bookstore's door, a blast of air conditioning hitting you. "But we need books for the club."

"You mean the chat group you named 'Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club' that's basically just for rambling and complaining?" Like how you ended up here today, victim to Yeji's class-skipping schemes. "That club?"

"Yeah?" She flashes that smile that you’re starting to associate with trouble. "C'mon, I need to check if they have Pride and Prejudice."

You trail after her into Fiction & Literature, past towering shelves and that distinct bookstore smell. "Pride and—hold up. Weren't you just shitting on romance classics?"

"Yeah, and?" She's already scanning the 'A' section with laser focus. "My girl wants to read it, so we're reading it."

"You're buying it because Irya mentioned it once in the group chat."

"And?" Yeji doesn't even pretend to deny it, moving purposefully through the aisles. "My girlfriend has taste. Unlike some people who waste their time reading..." she picks up a random book, "The Art of Corporate Finance."

"That's not even—"

"Found it!" She pulls out a leather-bound edition, definitely not the cheapest version available. "Look at this fancy shit. Irya's gonna love it."

You're about to point out how whipped she is when something catches your eye. A "Now Hiring" sign at the front counter, clean white letters against dark wood. Huh. You've been meaning to look for a job, something to get you out of the apartment more. And to help your finances. too. God knows you’d rather avoid having to ask mom and daddy for more money. 

"Earth to Y/N?" Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You good?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at the sign. 

Working at a bookstore wouldn't be the worst thing. Plus, employee discount.

"Oh shit, you should totally apply." She examines the sign with newfound interest. "Then you can hook me up with discounts on all the books Irya wants."

"I haven't even—"

"Excuse me?" she calls to a passing employee, ignoring your attempt to shut her up. "My friend here wants to apply for the job opening."

You're going to kill her. Slowly. With one of these hardcover books.

But the employee's already turning around—young guy, probably another student, name tag reading 'Mark'—and you can't exactly bolt without looking insane. Perfect. Just perfect.

"Oh, yeah?" Mark brightens. "We're actually pretty desperate for people who can work weekday afternoons. You have any retail experience?"

"I—"

"She's great with books," Yeji cuts in, because apparently she's your agent now. "Like, literally will fight someone over their trash literary takes. You should hear her rant about Hemingway."

You shoot her a death glare, but... well, she's not wrong about Hemingway.

"That's actually perfect," Mark says. "We get a lot of students asking for recommendations. Here—" He heads to the counter, returning with an application form. "You can fill this out now if you want. Manager's still here."

And somehow, because the universe hates you, you end up at one of the reading tables, filling out your work history while Yeji "helps" by suggesting you list your special skills as "roasting bad authors" and "setting pretentious men straight about their Joyce opinions."

Your phone buzzes. Group chat.

6B Hell

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜? 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚛𝚗

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟻𝚝𝚑

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚝𝚑𝚡 𝚖𝚊𝚗

You're about to reply that you'll grab some later when another message pops up.

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

What the actual fuck?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜?

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚌 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 

You let out a disbelieving sound. Yeji, who's been "helping" by pointing out every minor spelling mistake in your application, peers over your shoulder.

"What's up?"

"My roommate being a jerk as usual." You know for a fact Jungkook's probably sprawled on the couch right now, doing fuck-all except maybe killing brain cells on his PlayStation. But sure, you should get the coffee.

You: 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

You: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘, 𝚒’𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚊𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝?

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚝 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎? 

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. That asshole.

You: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗? 

You: 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝…

You: 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎?

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚈/𝙽.

Something about Yoongi’s message makes you pause. That's... weird. But before you can think about it:

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 :)

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚢𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?

"I'm assuming he means video games," Yeji says, still reading. "Not the fun kind of grinding."

You elbow her in the ribs.

You: 𝚔 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

You: 𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘

You: 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎? :)

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡? ;) 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜? 

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 :)

You're going to murder him. You're actually going to commit homicide, and Yoongi's going to have to find a new roommate, and you know what? He'll probably thank you.

You: 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕

You: :)

"So," Yeji says as you aggressively save his number under 'Kuko🖕🏻', "this is fun."

"I hate him so much."

"Uh-huh." She glances at your phone, where he's still sending coffee emoji spam. "You know what this means though, right?"

"That I need better roommates?"

"That you're definitely getting this job." She taps the half-completed application. "Can't spend all your time at the apartment if you're working retail hours."

She... might have a point.

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚢 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 

Yoongs 🎧: 𝚈/𝙽, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚆𝚎,𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

Your phone buzzes again, but this time it's the other group chat. Thank fuck.

Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club 📚

Irya 🌸: 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜?

Irya 🌸: 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

Jin ☕️: 𝙲𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

Jin ☕️: 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜.

Jin ☕️: 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝟻𝟶𝚔𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝟻.

Jin ☕️: 𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎.

Your phone keeps vibrating with notifications from the other chat. You peek at it. 

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Jesus fucking Christ.

Yeji 🖤: 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚊𝚝 𝚢/𝚗’𝚜?

Yeji 🖤: 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 

Your head snaps up. "Excuse me?"

"What?" Yeji doesn't even look guilty. "You keep complaining about him, might as well know what we’re working with here."

You: 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

Irya 🌸: 𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚜!! 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗??

Irya 🌸: 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 

Irya 🌸: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You let out a loud sigh, now considering Irya’s question. Because part of you thinks about bringing unwanted guests to the apartment, about how that could disturb the peace, especially for Yoongi.

But also? Also, Jungkook brought his friends last time. No warning, no group chat message to let you know you’d meeting random dudes in your pokemon PJs.

So he can suck it, honestly. 

You: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

You: 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘

Jin ☕️: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙹𝚘𝚎’𝚜.

Jin ☕️: 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎.

Jin ☕️: 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗.

Another cascade of coffee emojis floods your notifications. You switch back to the apartment chat.

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡𝚡𝚡𝚡𝚡

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟿𝟶% 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚎

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

Kuko🖕🏻: ☕️

You hit mute so fast you nearly crack your screen.

You: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎

You: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚓𝚒

Yeji 🖤: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘 𝚗𝚘

Yeji 🖤: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟻𝟶 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔

Yeji 🖤: 𝚒𝚖 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎

Irya 🌸: 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔? 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎? 👀 

Irya 🌸: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔?!?!?! 💘

Jin ☕️: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

Jin ☕️: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜.

Yeji 🖤: 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢

Yeji 🖤: 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜

"So," Yeji says, watching you aggressively fill out the availability section of your application. "Should we warn your roommate about pizza night or...?"

You think about the endless coffee emojis. About how he's probably still spamming them, the notifications piling up in your muted chat.

"Nope."

She grins. "Chaos it is."

You make it to your apartment after what feels like the longest trek ever, juggling the coffee capsules bag and your dignity. And no, you didn't buy them because of him, okay? You bought them because Yoongi deserves his caffeine fix. Yoongi, who actually helped you carry boxes up flights of stairs when you moved in. Yoongi, who warns you when the hot water's acting up. Yoongi, who—unlike some people—doesn't blast music at 3AM.

"Still can't believe you actually bought them," Yeji says for the fifth time, trailing behind you up the stairs. "Like, you're really just gonna enable his bratty ass?"

"They're not for him." You dig through your bag for your keys. "I got the regular ones for Yoongi. The vanilla ones are mine."

"Uh-huh." She's got that look again. "And you got the vanilla ones because...?"

"Because I like vanilla coffee." Your keys jangle aggressively as you search. "Not everything is about him."

"I offered to spike them," she reminds everyone, way too loudly for a hallway. "Could've made it look factory-sealed and everything."

Jimin looks slightly concerned. "Do I want to know why you know how to do that?"

"Probably not," Irya says cheerfully. "But that's why I love her."

You finally locate your keys, jamming them into the lock. It sticks—because of course it does, these old-ass doors—and you have to do that weird wiggle thing to get it open. "The last thing I need is a lawsuit for attempted murder by coffee."

"It wouldn't kill him," Yeji argues. "Just, you know. Mild poisoning. Character building."

"Pretty sure that's still illegal," Jimin says.

"Only if you get caught."

The door finally gives, swinging open to reveal... nobody. The living room's empty, thank fuck. No sign of Yoongi or—more importantly—no sign of him. Maybe they're both out. Maybe you'll actually get through this pizza night without any—

"Yo, this is actually nice," Yeji says, already making herself at home on the couch. "When you said 'bros' cave' I was expecting, like, beer pong tables and stolen street signs."

"Those are in Jungkook's room," you mutter, dropping the coffee bag on the kitchen counter. Not that you've seen his room. You haven't. Obviously.

Irya's examining the vinyl collection by the TV. "These are good albums. Your roommates have taste."

"Those are Yoongi's." Probably. You're like 90% sure they're Yoongi's. You've never actually asked.

"The place is surprisingly clean," Jimin notes, still hovering politely by the door. "Need help with anything?"

"Nah, just—" You pause as something orange streaks past. "Oh, shit, wait—Griffin, no—"

Too late. Your cat roommate's already winding between Jimin's legs, purring like the attention whore he is.

"You have a cat?" Irya drops to her knees immediately. "Oh my god, he's gorgeous."

"He's not mine." You dump your bag on the counter. "He's Jungkook's emotional support menace."

"Like owner, like cat," Yeji says, watching Griffin charm his way into Jimin's arms.

"True." You roll your eyes. "Demanding, dramatic, and constantly in the way."

Griffin headbutts Jimin's shin, purring louder.

"Should I..." He looks uncertain. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, he does that." You start unpacking the coffee capsules. “He's harmless. Just attention-starved and thinks he owns the place."

"Again," Yeji says, "like owner, like cat."

"Pretty much.”

"At least the cat's cute." She stretches out on the couch, combat boots definitely leaving marks. "Makes up for the personality."

"Tragic how the genes weren't distributed evenly," you mutter, strategizing about how to arrange the coffee capsules in the cabinet. Normal ones for Yoongi, vanilla ones hidden in the back where grabby hands can't reach them.

Irya's still on the floor with Griffin, who's now rolled onto his back. "I don't know, he seems sweet."

"The cat? Yeah." You slam the cabinet open. "The owner? Walking nightmare."

"Speaking of nightmares." Jimin's still by the door, ever polite. "Should we maybe warn him we're having pizza here? Since it's his apartment too..."

You think about the forty-seven coffee emojis still sitting in your muted notifications.

"Nope."

"Absolutely not," Yeji agrees. "He can deal with it like she dealt with having his dudebro friends over last week."

Irya looks up from scratching Griffin's belly. "Oh yeah, didn't you say you ran into them in your—what was it?"

"Pokemon pajamas," you groan. "Look, they were clean, okay? And it was like, Saturday morning. Who has people over at Saturday morning?"

"Douchebags," Yeji supplies helpfully. 

You're about to agree when you hear it. A door opening down the hall. Footsteps.

Of-fucking-course.

"You bought the coffee, phoenix?"

The drawl comes from behind you, and you briefly consider whether jail time for murder would really be that bad. Jungkook's leaning against his doorframe in—are those fucking Sonic pajama pants?—looking like he just rolled out of bed. At 7PM. Because of course he did.

"Nice little reunion you got going on here, by the way." 

He yawns, running a hand through his messy hair as he saunters into the kitchen. Like this is totally fine. Like having your friends over without warning isn't exactly what he did last week with Hoseok and Taehyung—who, by the way, apparently has keys to your fucking apartment. 

You pointedly ignore him, which would work better if he wasn't literally heading straight for you. He reaches around you to rummage through the shopping bags, and you slap his hands away. 

“Get out of my stuff."

"Oh," he pulls out the vanilla capsules before you can stop him, "you actually got me the vanilla ones?"

"They're not for you." You snatch them back. "Get your hands off them."

He grabs for them again. "Pretty sure you bought them because—"

"I bought them for me." You yank them away, but he's already going for the other bag. "Oh my god, can you not—"

"So this is the pain in the ass?" Yeji's voice drips with disdain from the couch. 

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow, still trying to get his hands on your shopping. "Who's Cruella de Vil over there?"

You elbow him away from the bags. "None of your—"

"Another candle?" He snatches it up, holding it over his head where you can't reach. Dick. "Seriously? After last time?"

"If you'd stop making everything smell like balls and nachos—" You jump for it, but he just stretches higher, "—I wouldn't have to buy them, Rogue."

"I don't smell like—"

"Wait," Irya interrupts, and you catch her hiding a smile behind her hand. "Phoenix?"

"Rogue?" Jimin adds quietly from his corner, looking between you back and forth.

Jungkook's smirk widens as he finally lets you grab the candle back. "Oh, she hasn't told you that story?"

"We are not discussing this again." You shove the candle in its bag. "Ever."

"Why not? It's hilarious." He's fully grinning now, leaning his hip against the counter like he owns it. "Haven't told them about how you almost set the place on fire your first week here?"

"BECAUSE YOU ENTERED THE HOUSE LIKE A FUCKING—" Your hand's fisted in his t-shirt before you can stop yourself, and he's snickering, the absolute dick. "Like a complete psychopath," you finish through gritted teeth.

"The lock sticks!" He's still laughing. "I told you, it's an old door—"

"You didn't have to shoulder it open like the SWAT team!"

"You dropped a lit match!"

"Because you scared the shit out of me!" 

"Ugh," Yeji groans. "Is he always like this?"

"Worse," you mutter, finally releasing his shirt. "Usually he's too busy being edgy in his room with his electric guitar."

Irya's definitely smirking now. Jimin looks like he wants to disappear into the wall.

"Whatever, phoenix." He makes another grab for the vanilla capsules. "Rising from the ashes of your attempted arson."

"That's not—" You smack his hand away. "That's not why you started calling me that and you know it."

"Pretty sure it is."

"Pretty sure you're full of shit."

Griffin chooses this moment to abandon Irya and wind between Jungkook's legs, the little traitor. Jungkook immediately scoops him up, and you pretend not to notice how the cat starts purring instantly.

"See?" He scratches under Griffin's chin. "G knows I'm right."

"G's a whore for attention." You start shoving the shopping bags away. "He'd side with Satan if Satan had treats."

"So that's why he likes you."

"You calling me Satan now? Wasn't it phoenix? Pick your poison, dumbass."

"Nah." He's still petting Griffin, who's practically melting in his arms. "Just saying you're both dramatic as fuck."

"Says the guy who kicked down a door over a—"

"The lock was stuck!"

"Yeah? Like your head up your ass?"

“Do you two always do this?” Irya prompts. 

"No," you mutter, yanking the coffee bag away as he tries to sneak another grab at it. "When he's not gaming like a twelve-year-old, he's—stop touching my stuff!"

"Just checking what flavor you got," he says innocently, which might work better if he wasn't actively trying to steal the vanilla capsules. "Since you bought them for me and all—"

"I will actually murder you."

"With what? Another candle?"

"Keep talking and find out."

"Children," Yeji interrupts, looking physically pained. "Can we not?"

But Jungkook's already reaching for the bag again, and you swat his hand away. "I swear to god—"

"What? I'm just being neighborly—"

"You're being a pain in the ass—"

"Aw, you noticed?"

"Hard not to when you're—" You break off as he successfully snags a vanilla capsule. "Give that back."

"Make me."

"What are you, five?"

"Says the one hoarding coffee—"

"It's my coffee—"

"Pretty sure you bought it with daddy's credit card—"

The words hit like a slap and before you can think better of it, you snarl, "Fuck you."

Your eyes widen the second it leaves your mouth because you know that look on his face, that slight quirk of his lips, the way he's already—

You slam your hand over his mouth so fast you practically punch him, fingers digging into his jaw. He makes a muffled sound of protest, but you can feel him grinning under your palm, the absolute dick.

"Don't," you hiss. "Don't you fucking dare."

He raises his eyebrows like who, me? but you can feel him trying not to laugh.

"Okay!" Jimin claps his hands together, looking slightly alarmed. "So, pizza? Anyone want to look at the menu?”

“Oooh, that sounds promising.” Jungkook says, yanking your hand away. 

"Can't you leave?" You eye him. "Go jack yourself off while you look in the mirror or something. Maybe play your fucking guitar."

"Huhhh?" He's already propping his elbows on the back of the sofa, leaning over the narrow table that ‘separates’ the kitchen from the living room. "I want pizza too. Plus, your friends look nice." His smile is all teeth. "I'm sure they don't mind."

Jimin materializes next to you in the kitchen like some kind of conflict-sensing angel, pretending to be interested in the coffee maker. You know he's checking if you're okay, which would be sweet if you weren't currently fantasizing about drowning Jungkook in vanilla coffee.

"I mind," Yeji announces flatly.

"No problem!" Irya chirps at the same time.

Yeji shoots her girlfriend an exasperated look, but Irya just settles more comfortably against her side. You're going to kill both of them.

"Who's the pink pony over here?" Jungkook nods at Irya, and you see Yeji's arm tighten around her shoulders, hackles practically visible.

"Touch her and die."

"Aww, babe." Irya pats Yeji's thigh. "I'm Irya, and this little black cat over here is my girlfriend Yeji." She points across the room. "That's Jimin."

Jungkook glances back at where you're now aggressively reorganizing coffee capsules, Jimin hovering uncertainly beside you. There's something in his expression you don't like, mouth opening to say god knows what—

"And the third roommate?" Yeji cuts in.

You're about to answer but Jungkook beats you to it. "Yoongi's not here."

"Working late," you add, just to be contrary. "You know, like an actual adult with a job?"

"Unlike some people," Yeji mutters.

You snort at her commentary, and you tune out Jungkook’s comeback. Instead your eyes flicker to Jimin, who’s scrolling through his phone, probably looking at pizza options, when—

"Yo Jim, come here." Jungkook waves him over. "Let me look at the menu."

You grab Jimin's arm before he can move, linking it with yours. "I'm choosing first, wait your damn turn."

Jungkook rises from the sofa with a click of his tongue. "Come on, I just wanna—"

"Did she fucking stutter?" Yeji snaps, and Jungkook actually blinks, like he's not used to being shut down that fast.

You turn back to Jimin's phone with maybe a bit too much satisfaction. "Okay, so what are we thinking?"

"They have this new quattro formaggi that's supposed to be good." Jimin tilts the screen so you can see better. "Or the classic margherita—"

"Boring," you mutter, scrolling past. "Oh, what about the spicy one? With the—"

"The calabrese?" He zooms in on the description. "Spicy salami, fresh basil..."

"That looks good." You're actually getting hungry now. "Maybe we could—"

A shadow falls over the phone as Jungkook appears in front of you like some kind of pizza-seeking missile. He peers over both your lowered heads, close enough that you can feel the heat from his chest, and you resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Have you two decided?" His breath hits your ear. "Because I—"

You're about to grab a fistful of his hair and yank him back to a respectable distance when he snatches Jimin's phone right out of his hands.

"What the fuck—" You start to reach for him, but Jimin catches your wrist.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "Don't worry about it."

Jungkook's already scrolling, completely unbothered. "Yo, what do you two want?" He nods at the couch without looking up.

"Hawaiian for me," Irya pipes up cheerfully. "Yeji wants the diavola, extra spicy."

Yeji just grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "men" and turns on the TV.

"Cool, cool." Jungkook's still scrolling. "Phoenix, you getting the calabrese?"

"None of your business."

"Just trying to make sure we don't order the same thing." He glances up with that insufferable smirk. "Unless you want to share?"

"I'd rather eat glass."

"Okay, so that's a no on sharing." He's still scrolling through Jimin's phone like he owns it. "I'm thinking meat lovers."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're basic as fuck."

"Says the one getting—" he squints at the screen "—spicy calabrese, like some—"

"Can you two shut up for five minutes?" Yeji snaps from the couch. "Some of us are trying to hear the TV."

"My bad," Jungkook says, not sounding sorry at all. He hands Jimin's phone back—finally—and stretches. "Alright, four pizzas ordered. Now we wait."

You watch him sprawl onto the armchair—the one he keeps arguing it’s his (it’s not?)—like he belongs there, and something about it sets your teeth on edge. The casual way he's inserted himself into your evening, how he's somehow charmed Irya into actual conversation, how he keeps looking at you when he thinks you're not paying attention.

"Whatever, man." You push away from the counter, desperate to get away from his presence for at least two minutes. "I'm gonna get into my PJs, I'll be back."

You head down the hall, your skin prickling like he's watching you go. Which he's not. Obviously. You're just on edge because he's being more insufferable than usual, getting all cozy with your friends like he has any right to—

"Yo, phoenix, wait." Jungkook's voice stops you. "Remember that thing with the landlord? The, uh, maintenance form?"

"What maintenance form?"

"You mentioned to Yoongi about the lock sticking, right?" He's already moving towards you with that easy confidence that makes you want to punch him. "Super's been bitching about proper documentation. Needs your signature since it's your door."

He keeps talking as he approaches, something about liability and repair schedules, and it sounds legitimate enough that you almost miss how he's gradually crowding your space. Almost miss how each step brings him closer until—

He reaches past you, hand brushing your hip as he turns the handle. The door barely has time to click shut before Jungkook’s on you, his whole body crowding into yours, ushering you backward so fast you stumble. Almost fall.

“Jesus—”

Your balance tips, but before you can catch yourself, his hands are already on you—grabbing, steadying, possessive. A solid chest against yours, broad palms locking around your wrists before you can shove him away.

He grins down at you, smirky, flushed, pupils blown. That lazy, cocky amusement dripping from his expression like he planned this. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Relax, Phoenix.” His grip tightens, pulling your wrists just slightly apart. “You’re fine.”

And then his mouth crashes onto yours.

Hard. Messy. Zero warning, zero hesitation. Just heat and teeth and tongue, urgent like he needs to shut you up.

You match him instantly, kissing back just as fiercely, nails curling into his shirt, yanking him closer. His hair is soft under your fingers, thick and dangerous, and you tug—just the way he likes it. Just the way that always makes him groan, makes him grab.

Which he does. Both hands drop to your ass, full palms, fingers digging in like he can’t help himself. A rough squeeze that pulls a breathy sound from your throat before you can stop it.

He chuckles, low and wrecked against your lips, hips rolling slow and deliberate against yours. 

“Fuck—” Another squeeze, his voice dropping. “You get all mouthy with me, and then you act surprised when you turn me on?”

Your stomach flips.

His mouth is still moving against yours, sharp and demanding, and fuck—you’re dizzy, heat curling low and deep.

You don’t realize he’s backing you up until your spine collides with the wardrobe.

You wince. “God, fuck—”

Jungkook barely lets you finish before his teeth graze your jaw, lips dragging lower—

No.

You shove at his chest, breath coming fast. “What is your problem?”

His smirk is instant, panting slightly, lips wrecked. The fucking look in his eyes—smoky, half-lidded, shamelessly pleased with himself.

“Mm?” He tilts his head, like he didn’t just grope the hell out of you. “What?”

“You can’t—” A sharp inhale. You straighten your shirt, glare sharp enough to cut. “My friends are here.”

He blinks. Shrugs. "So?"    

"So," you bite out, "we are not doing this."    

Jungkook just looks at you, like you’re speaking a foreign language. "Doing what?"    

"Don't." You level him with a flat stare.    

His head tilts, gaze dragging over you, slow and deliberate. "I just wanted to talk."    

"Talk," you repeat, incredulous.    

"Yeah." He plants a hand on the wardrobe beside your head. Not caging you in—just existing in your space, like he belongs there. "Privately."    

Jesus fuck.    

"Nope." You press your palms to his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through cotton. "Not happening."    

"Phoenix." His voice dips, lazy and smooth, like he’s humoring you. "I'll be quick."    

A disbelieving scoff. "Absolutely the fuck not."    

He laughs, quiet and amused, like this is funny to him.    

Of course it is. Of course it is.    

You shove at his chest again. "They don’t know about this, and they’re not going to know about this."    

His brows pull together, expression open, genuinely confused. "Why?"    

Oh, you could kill him.    

"Because," you grind out, "I don't need them speculating."    

"Speculating about what?"    

"About us, dumbass!"    

The words land—and then he snorts. He just, snorts. Like you just told him a funny joke he lowkey doesn’t want to laugh at. 

"Oh, fuck off," you snap.    

His grin lingers. "Nix. We fuck. That’s it. No one’s gonna think we’re picking out wedding invitations."    

You glare. "You're missing the point."    

"I really don't think I am."    

"Rogue." You exhale sharply. "I don’t want them in my business, okay?"    

He watches you for a beat, head tilted like he’s reading between the lines.    

Then he nods. Simple. Easy. "Okay."    

You blink. "Okay?"    

"Yeah?" He shrugs. "You don’t want them to know, they won’t know. It’s not that deep."    

Right. Not that deep.    

It shouldn’t be a relief—he’s only agreeing because he doesn’t care—but your shoulders still drop a fraction.    

"Good," you say.    

He hums, gaze flicking over your face, considering. "I mean, it’s not like you gotta tell them I’m your boyfriend or something. Just that we fuck sometimes. What’s wrong with that?"    

You scoff. "Everything is wrong with that, Jungkook."    

He raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"    

Like—god, where do you start?    

Like the fact that this is supposed to be contained, something that stays locked in this apartment and nowhere else. Like the fact that you need to be in control of it because if you’re not, it means it’s spiraling, and spiraling is—    

Not an option.    

He hums, considering. The vibration shivers over your skin. "Interesting."

The fuck does that mean?

You glare at him. "What?"

"Nothing." But there's a glint in his eye you don't like. Knowing. Assessing. "Just seems like you're overthinking it."

"I'm not—"

"Ashamed?" His head tilts. "Embarrassed?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "Fuck you."

"I mean." A slow drag of his gaze, head to toe and back again. "If you insist..."

Oh my god. 

Your foot connects with his shin. Hard. He grunts, flinching back. Good.

"Touch me again," you growl, "and you lose your dick."

 He holds up his hands. The picture of innocence. "Message received."

"Is it?" You cross your arms. Narrow your eyes. "Because it seems like you're having trouble understanding basic fucking boundaries."

"Nah, I get it." But there's a wicked glint in his eye, and oh, that can't be good. "No telling your friends about all the filthy things we do."

"There is no we.” You jab a finger at his chest. "No us."

A slow nod. "Right."

"I mean it, Rogue." You hold his gaze, unflinching. "This?" A sharp gesture between your bodies. "Doesn't leave this apartment."

"Mm." His tongue swipes over his bottom lip. Deliberate. Obscene. "So I shouldn't mention how you like it when I—"

Your hand clamps over his mouth, muffling his words. "Finish that sentence and die."

He grins against your palm, wholly unrepentant. Bastard.

You drop your hand. Take a step back. "I'm serious, Ry."

"Oh, I know." But there's a curl to his lips you don't trust. Not one bit.

"Do you?" You cross your arms. "Because it sounds like you're angling for a free pass to run your mouth."

"Nah." He mirrors your posture, arms folding over his chest. “Just getting a feel for the rules."

Right. Sure. "The rules are simple." You hold up a finger. "Rule one: no one knows we're fucking."

A nod. "Easy enough."

"Rule two," you continue, "if anyone asks, we're just roommates."

"Uh-huh." His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. Considering. "That all?"

Wariness prickles up your spine. "Why?"

A shrug. Too casual. "No reason."

Bullshit.

You shake your head. "Just—forget it. Are we done here?"    

Jungkook watches you for another long second.  

Then he nods. "Yeah, we're done."  

He turns, already reaching for the doorknob, when—  

"Oh." A pause. Like he just remembered something. "And just so we're clear—this isn’t exclusive, right?"  

You blink. "What?"  

He glances back, expression easy. Casual. "Like, I can fuck other people. That cool with you?"  

A laugh bursts out of you. Short. Sharp. "Why the fuck would I care?"  

His mouth twitches. "Dunno. Just making sure."  

"Well, consider it confirmed." You fold your arms. "Do whatever the fuck you want, just—"  

He lifts his brows. "Just?"  

"Don’t give me an STD." You level him with a flat look. 

He snorts. "Noted." A beat. Then, amused— "You want test results?"  

"Oh, fuck off, Rogue."  

"Just offering, Phoenix." His smirk lingers for half a second before his expression smooths out. "So, rule number three, then."

You narrow your eyes. "Rule what?"

"Rules." He gestures between you. "One: no one knows. Two: if they ask, we're just roommates." A pause. "Three: no feelings."

Something in his voice shifts, something light but pointed, like he's not saying it just for your benefit.

You scoff. "Yeah, no shit."

He nods once, satisfied. "Cool."

And then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him like the whole thing never happened.

The air in the room is suddenly too thick.  

You exhale sharply, back hitting the wardrobe, and press your palms over your face.  

God damn him.  

Not just for being an insufferable pain in your ass, but for being right. Because logically, there's no reason to keep this a secret—he's not your boyfriend, he's just your roommate who happens to fuck you sometimes. It's not a big deal. It's not anything.

But something in you rebels at the thought of anyone knowing. Of having to explain yourself, to justify your choices. You've had enough of that to last a lifetime, enough of measuring every decision against someone else's expectations. Enough of being told what you should want, what you should do, who you should be.

This thing with Jungkook? It's yours. Messy and stupid and probably a horrible idea, but it's yours. The one thing in your life that nobody gets to have an opinion about, that nobody gets to control but you. 

And maybe that's fucked up. Maybe normal people don't feel this desperate need to keep parts of themselves hidden, to maintain this iron grip on every aspect of their lives. Maybe they don't lie awake at night planning escape routes from their own decisions.

But you've never been very good at normal, have you?

You straighten, smooth your shirt, school your face into something neutral.  

Then you open the door, step back into the living room, and pretend like your world isn’t tilting.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎8

“spare keys and loaded glances”

"The thing about meeting your roommate's friends is that they always know more than they let on. And sometimes, the way they look at you feels less like curiosity and more like a warning."

next | index | wc: 6.4k | explicit

↪︎author's note : OKAY SO. First of all, I need y'all to be chill about Taehyung. I KNOW he's giving major asshole vibes rn but TRUST THE PROCESS. There's waves hands vaguely stuff going on. You'll see. Eventually. Maybe. No promises on the timeline because I'm a disaster who writes chapters at 3am fueled by spite and caffeine. Also yes, I did just write an entire Pokémon debate. No, I will not be taking criticism at this time. Yes, this is absolutely vital to the plot. Trust me, I'm a professional. whispers and before anyone asks - Charmander supremacy. fight me. ANYWAYS. Hope you enjoyed whatever this mess was! Your comments give me life and serotonin, which I desperately need because my sleep schedule is absolutely wrecked and i may or may not be writing this from my blanket fort. No I will not elaborate. catch you in the next one! ♥₁₄₋(❛◡‾◯)❞ (also @ the person who keeps asking about Griffin's backstory… patience young padawan. all will be revealed. maybe. possibly. don't quote me on that.) oh. quick suggestion! re-read chapter 8 when the january one night stand is out, btw :) visual at the end of the chapter bc god gave me hands that can also draw apparently

You know what's worse than being woken up from a perfect dream? Being woken up by Jungkook trying out different variations of your stupid nickname like he's auditioning for a role in your personal hell.

"Finny."

You're dreaming of some beautiful resort in Hawaii, living that millionaire lifestyle, sunbathing next to your giant swimming pool without a care in the world.

"Nexus."

The sun kisses your skin, warm and perfect. You're practically melting into the lounge chair as a gentle breeze carries the scent of ocean and expensive cocktails.

"Phoenixa."

You look up from under the rim of your designer sunglasses (because dream-you has taste) and spot a hot guy entering the pool. Dark hair, water dripping down his toned chest as he runs a hand through his locks—

"Nyx."

Wait. Your eyes lock with his and—what the fuck is Jungkook doing in your dream?!

"L'Oréal Paris?"

You jolt awake with a start, nearly launching yourself off the bed as reality crashes over you like a bucket of ice water. And there he is—the bane of your existence, the star of your unwanted dream, and...oh yeah, the guy you fucked against a window yesterday.

"What the actual—" You scramble to sit up, yanking your covers around you like a shield as you glare at him. "Why are you in my room?!"

Jungkook's standing right next to your bed, the side of his knee brushing against your mattress like he owns the place. He's already dressed for the day in a black t-shirt and jeans, looking way too put-together for...whatever ungodly hour this is.

"Just came to get Griffin," he says casually, like breaking into your room is a totally normal thing to do. "But decided to wake you up since I was already here."

You groan into your pillow, trying to smother yourself because it's too early for this. Too early for him and his stupid face invading both your dreams and your reality.

But of course, he doesn't take the hint. Instead, the mattress dips as he sits down, making himself comfortable as he leans back on his hands.

"Also," you mutter, turning your head just enough to scowl at him through strands of messy hair, your cheek pressed against the cotton. "L'Oréal Paris? Seriously?"

His lips twitch into that infuriating smirk—the one that makes you want to either kiss him or kill him, and right now you're leaning heavily toward the latter.

"What? Thought it was clever. You know, since I called you Nyx, and it's a makeup brand, and—"

"I got it," you cut him off, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts. "You're not as witty as you think you are."

He grins wider, clearly enjoying your morning grumpiness. "I don't know, Phoenix. You seemed pretty impressed with my wit yesterday."

Heat crawls up your neck as memories from yesterday flood back—his hands, his mouth, the way he'd—nope. No. Too early for that train of thought.

"Get out of my room," you groan, pulling the pillow over your head.

"No can do."

You quirk an eyebrow at him from under the pillow because he sounds almost...conspiratorial?

Speaking of cats... "Where even is Griffin?"

"Hmm?" There's a pause, and then: "Oh, he left like five minutes ago. Guess he got bored waiting for you to wake up."

You whip the pillow off to stare at him incredulously. "So why are you still here?"

He shrugs, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Stuff."

"...Stuff," you mumble. Sigh. "Literally leave me alone."

You faceplant into the pillow again because it's too early for his everything. Too early for his stupid face and his stupid presence disrupting your peace.

"Come on, Nini," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice as he tests out yet another variation of your nickname that you definitely, absolutely don't find funny. At all. "It's Saturday. Nine AM. There's so much to do. Enjoy the day."

"The day can enjoy itself without me," you grumble into the pillow, burrowing deeper into your sheets like they'll somehow protect you from his chaotic energy. Who even is like this at nine AM on a Saturday? Serial killers, probably. And Jungkook.

"Ah ah, none of that." Before you can react, he's grabbing your sheets and yanking them away from you.

The sudden rush of cool air makes you yelp, and you lash out instinctively, trying to kick him. But Jungkook's faster (of course he is, the asshole), and his hand wraps around your ankle mid-kick.

You have exactly one second to process what's happening before he yanks, pulling you down the bed toward him in one smooth motion. The world tilts and spins, and suddenly you're flat on your back, staring up at him as he twists and moves over you, caging you against the mattress.

This is...this is definitely a position. One that feels way too familiar after yesterday.

Your sleep shirt has ridden up slightly, and you're acutely aware of how close he is—his knee pressed between your thighs, his arms bracketing your head, his face right there, looking down at you with that insufferable smirk.

"Well," he says, voice dropping lower as his eyes flick over your face. "This feels familiar."

Yeah, it does. It feels way too familiar, especially with the memory of yesterday still fresh in your mind—his hands on your skin, his mouth on your neck, the way he'd—

No. Nope. You are not going there. Not at nine AM on a Saturday when you haven't even had coffee yet.

But your body apparently hasn't gotten the memo because your pulse is racing and your skin feels too hot and you're suddenly very aware of every point where his body touches yours.

"Rogue, what are you—" The words catch in your throat because suddenly his mouth is on you, pressing hot and wet against your nipple through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. Your back arches before you can stop it, body betraying you like the traitor it is.

"C'mon," he mumbles against you, and you can feel the vibration of his voice through the damp cotton. "You gave me only one last night. You can do better than that."

You exhale shakily, cursing your body's reaction to his stupid words. Because seriously, how can something so douchey have such an effect on you? It's ridiculous. It's unfair.

"What makes you think I can—"

"Three," he cuts you off, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, and there's something dark and hungry in his gaze that makes your stomach clench. "You gave me three that night, Phoenix. You're crazy if you think a guy would forget that."

Stupid cocky bastard with his stupid good memory. What, does he keep a sex journal or something? Dear Diary, today I made Y/N come three times and my ego grew three sizes.

"Come on," he coaxes, dipping back down to mouth at your other nipple. "I'll make it quick. Promise it won't take more than five minutes."

"You're too sure of your—gnh" The words dissolve into a strangled sound because he just bit you through the shirt, the asshole.

"C'mon, yeah?" His voice is lower now, rougher, as his hands slide up your sides. "Say yes."

You want to fight it. You really do. But he sounds...eager. Like he's craving it, like making you fall apart gets him going in a way you don't even want to think about right now.

"...Okay," you grumble finally, and his answering grin is so bright it's almost blinding in its intensity.

Because that's the thing about Jungkook—it's not just smirks and smugness with him. No, sometimes he grins like that, all boyish enthusiasm and excitement, and it's...it's a lot. It's too much this early, with him hovering over you, looking at you like you're something he can't wait to unwrap.

It's obnoxious, is what it is. It definitely doesn't make your stomach swoop in a not-entirely-unpleasant way. Definitely not.

But with his hands sliding under your shirt and his mouth trailing down your neck? Yeah, telling yourself that is getting harder by the second.

Then he's moving, dropping down onto his stomach between your legs. His arms hook under your thighs, and before you can process what's happening, he's manhandling you again—pulling you down until you're right where he wants you. And the way he's looking at you now? That is not helping your situation.

"Take these off," he mumbles, eyes flickering up to meet yours, and the intensity in his gaze makes your throat go dry.

You swallow thickly, brain already turning to mush. But then—wait. Self-consciousness crashes into you like a wave because you literally just woke up.

Your hand shoots out to grab his hair, pushing his forehead back slightly. "Hold up, I just woke up—"

"And?" The single word is loaded with so much genuine confusion that you almost laugh.

You click your tongue in frustration. "It's been like, nine hours since I showered, let me just—"

You try to wiggle away, but his grip on your thighs just tightens. "Stop being weird about it."

"Rogue," you tug his hair harder, trying to make him see reason. "I'm literally all sweaty, I need to—"

He yanks your hand away from his hair, pinning it to the mattress. "So?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "I like my breakfast marinated."

You stare at him, speechless, as heat floods your face. The crimson spreads from your cheeks down your neck because what the fuck did he just say?

"You're disgusting," you manage to choke out, but your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

"Mhm. Now take them off," he grumbles, fingers already hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

There's no room for argument—he's tugging them down before you can even think to protest, the fabric sliding over your hips, down your thighs, until they're completely out of the way and you're left bare in front of him.

"That's better," he sighs, the words dripping with satisfaction as his eyes rake over you, cataloging every inch of exposed skin. A soft chuckle escapes him, low and warm and entirely too smug, and then he leans in, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh.

The first kiss is soft—almost teasing—but then he follows it with another, and another, each one trailing higher as his hands tighten their grip on your legs. His thumbs rub slow circles into your skin, grounding you as his mouth works its way closer to where you're already embarrassingly wet.

And then he pauses, just long enough to glance up at you through those dark lashes that should honestly be illegal. His tongue flicks out briefly, wetting his lips before he drags a long stripe up your slit.

Your whole body jerks at the contact, a sharp, breathless gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Both hands fly to his hair instinctively, fingers tangling into the soft strands as if holding onto him will somehow keep you tethered to reality.

He hums against you in appreciation—a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your core—and your lips tremble with the effort it takes to hold back any more sounds. Because no way in hell are you giving him the satisfaction of knowing just how good this feels.

But Jungkook? He notices. Of course he does.

He stops just as abruptly as he started, pulling back slightly to look up at you with a raised brow and a glint of mischief in his eyes. "What'd I tell you yesterday about holding your sounds?"

You release your bottom lip from between your teeth just long enough to shoot back: "You'll have to earn it then."

His smile spreads slowly across his face—thoroughly wicked and entirely too confident—as he dips back down without another word.

The tip of his tongue brushes against your clit in a feather-light tease that has your thighs twitching around him, but his gaze never wavers. He holds it steady on yours, watching every flicker of reaction like it's some kind of reward.

And goddamn it if that doesn't make this ten times worse—or better. You're not even sure anymore. All you know is that his mouth is working magic between your legs while his eyes stay locked on yours like he's daring you to break first.

You probably will.

His mouth latches onto your clit like it's a fucking binky, and the sound that leaves you—a sharp, breathless gasp—is so mortifying you want to crawl out of your own skin. But you can't help it. Can't stop the way your head throws back against the pillow, your fingers digging into his scalp like you're trying to root yourself to reality.

(And yeah, maybe you hope it hurts a little. Hope it stings just enough to remind him that he's still the bane of your existence, even if his tongue is currently doing things that should be illegal.)

His hold on your hips tightens, those strong arms locking you in place like he knows you're going to try to squirm away from how overwhelming it all is.

When you manage to tilt your head forward again, looking down at him between your legs, he's not even looking at you anymore. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in pure concentration like this is some kind of sacred mission for him. Like the only thing that matters in this moment is making you come so hard you forget your own name.

And honestly? You don't know what's hotter—the way his tongue flickers over your clit at what feels like sonic speed, the way his face looks so focused and determined, or the iron grip he has on your thighs, keeping you pinned down so you don't miss a single second of what he's giving you.

His tongue is relentless, flicking over your clit with a precision that's downright criminal, and you're already teetering on the edge, your body strung tight like a bowstring. But then—then—as if sensing your gaze (like he's got some kind of fucking spider sense or something), his eyes snap open.

And he looks at you.

Not just a glance, not just a flick of his gaze—he locks onto you, his dark eyes boring into yours like he's daring you to look away. And the worst part? The absolute worst part? He smirks.

He fucking smirks against your clit, his tongue never faltering as it speeds up, flicking faster and faster like he knows exactly what that little expression is doing to you.

Your thighs clamp around his head instinctively, squeezing like you're trying to crush the smugness out of him because that's it. That's all it takes. The orgasm slams into you so hard and fast it knocks the air from your lungs, and the moan that rips out of your throat is loud enough to wake the entire building.

But Jungkook? He doesn't stop. Doesn't let go. Doesn't even let you breathe. He keeps going, keeps sucking and licking like his life depends on it, like he's determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you no matter how sensitive you are or how much your body jerks against him.

You're trembling now, hands fisted in his hair as aftershocks ripple through you in waves so intense they leave you gasping. It's too much—it's way too much—but he doesn't care. He just holds you tighter, grip on your thighs unyielding as he drags his tongue over your clit again and again until you're practically sobbing from the overstimulation.

Finally—finally—he slows down. His tongue softens its assault, lips releasing their hold on you as he pulls back just enough to look at you again.

And there it is—that stupid smirk curling across his face like he knows exactly what kind of mess he's just made of you.

"Told you I'd make it quick," he says, voice low and smug as he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, like this is some kind of victory lap for him.

You can barely process what's happening as he stands up, ruffling his own hair with one hand while the other adjusts the waistband of his jeans ike nothing about this situation is unusual. Meanwhile, your chest is still heaving, your legs feel like jelly, and your brain is struggling to catch up with the fact that this man just ate you out like it was breakfast.

"You..." You scramble for words, eyes darting down to the very obvious tent in his pants because what the fuck. "Huh..."

"Nah," he shrugs casually, cutting off your half-formed thought. "Just had a craving."

He chuckles then—a soft, lopsided sound that makes heat crawl up your neck all over again—and shrugs one shoulder like this was no big deal for him at all.

"Good now," he adds simply.

And you just...stare at him. Because what the actual fuck? Who does that? Who wakes someone up at 9AM just to eat them out like it's breakfast and then just...pulls away? While hard?

Jungkook, apparently. Jungkook does that.

You stare, mouth slightly open, as he just stands there. Looking all satisfied with himself like he didn't just turn your brain to complete mush before most people have even had their morning coffee.

"What… is wrong with you?," you finally manage to croak out, voice still embarrassingly shaky.

He grins—actually grins, the bastard—and runs a hand through his messy hair again. "Didn’t eat you out yesterday. Felt off."

Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible. "Get out of my room."

"Already going," he says, backing toward your door with that same insufferable grin plastered across his face. "Got what I wanted."

"Piss off."

"Mhm." He pauses at the doorway, hand on the knob as he throws one last look over his shoulder. "By the way? You taste better in the morning."

And then he's gone, closing the door behind him before you can throw something at his head.

You flop back against your pillows, staring at the ceiling as your heart rate slowly returns to normal. Your thighs are still trembling slightly, and you can feel the ghost of his grip on them—marks that'll probably show up later as bruises.

What the actual fuck just happened?

More importantly, why are you already thinking about when it might happen again?

When you wake up again by 1PM, it's like someone hit the reset button on your entire nervous system.

It's weird, honestly. You should be exhausted—should be feeling that bone-deep ache that comes from getting railed against a window (which, by the way, is definitely not in any apartment safety guidelines), and being eaten out for breakfast. But instead, you feel...rested. Like that was exactly what you needed to wring out all the tension that's been building between you and Jungkook since, well, January.

Maybe there's something to be said for hate-fucking your roommate. Like some kind of stress relief therapy, except instead of a stress ball, you're squeezing...other things.

You stretch lazily in your bed, noting the pleasant soreness in your thighs—a reminder that yes, that actually happened, and yes, it was actually pretty fucking great. The thunderstorm has passed, leaving behind that clean, crisp morning air that seeps through your slightly open window, and for once, you don't immediately want to commit murder when you hear Jungkook moving around in the kitchen.

Which is...new.

But then again, everything about this situation is new. You just agreed to some kind of fuck-buddy arrangement with your most annoying roommate. The guy who steals your leftovers and plays video games at ungodly hours and somehow gives the best orgasms of your life.

God, what have you gotten yourself into?

It's Saturday, and officially a week since you moved into this chaotic apartment. The digital clock on your bedside table reads 1:00PM, which is a perfectly reasonable time to wake up on the weekend, thank you very much.

You're wearing your Pokémon pajamas and honestly? Whatever, man. Jungkook's seen you naked twice already—if he has a problem with Pikachu plastered across your ass, he can suck it up.

You yank your door open and shuffle out lazily, not bothering to tame the mess that is your hair. It's still somewhat wet from last night's shower, curling awkwardly at the ends, but after the window incident? Yeah, you couldn't care less about appearances.

The bathroom door is closed, and you figure it must be Yoongi in there because who else would it be? The thought barely registers as you make your way toward the kitchen, still rubbing sleep crusties from your eyes like the elegant creature you are.

"Morning, Rogue," you mumble, voice still rough with sleep.

Jungkook glances in your direction from where he's standing at the stove, scooping something that looks like chicken breast onto a plate. He snorts when he sees you—actually snorts, the asshole—before his lips curl into that familiar smirk.

"Afternoon, Nix," he says, eyes darting back to his protein-heavy lunch spread.

You're about to ask where Griffin is—the orange menace usually demands breakfast scratches—when the bathroom door opens. You turn slightly, ready to grunt a good morning (afternoon?) at Yoongi, but...

That's not Yoongi.

That's a whole ass random man you don't know.

Your brain short-circuits for a second because what? Who—?

"Ah, that's Hoseok," Jungkook pipes up from the kitchen, like he's reading your thoughts. "Hobi, for friends."

And suddenly you're very, very aware that you're wearing Pokémon pajamas with your hair looking like something nested in it overnight.

Great. Just great.

"Great choice, by the way," this dude—Hoseok, did Jungkook say?—mentions, gesturing at your shirt as he joins Jungkook in the kitchen. "Charmander, I mean."

Ah, yeah. You almost forgot about Charmander's smug little face plastered across your chest. The fire-type starter, flames blazing behind him like he's ready to burn down a forest or something. A classic. Iconic, even.

"Thanks," you mumble, tugging at the hem of your shirt like that'll somehow make you look less ridiculous. Not that it matters. Hoseok's already grinning at you like he's decided you're his new favorite sitcom character.

"Jungkook's more of a water-type trainer," he continues, accepting a plate of food from Jungkook and leaning against the counter. "Bit of a loser if you ask me."

"Hey!" Jungkook's voice cuts through the kitchen noise, indignant as he points his fork at Hoseok. "Squirtle is literally the best fucking starter and I will not take criticism for that!"

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, dragging your hand down your face as you shuffle toward the coffee maker. "Of course you'd be a Squirtle guy," you mutter under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jungkook shoots back immediately, turning to face you with a challenging quirk of his eyebrow.

"It means," you say, pouring yourself a mug of coffee and inhaling the steam like it's the only thing keeping you sane, "that Squirtle is basic as hell. Like, oh wow, a turtle with water guns. Groundbreaking."

Hoseok snickers at that, clearly enjoying himself as he watches the two of you bicker between bites of chicken. "She's got a point," he says, raising his eyebrows at Jungkook in mock sympathy.

Jungkook glares at both of you like you've just insulted his entire family lineage. "Squirtle is not basic. He's strategic."

"Strategic?" You scoff, leaning back against the counter and letting the warmth of the mug seep into your hands. "He's a turtle with sunglasses in exactly one episode. That's not strategy; that's fan service."

"Okay, first of all," Jungkook starts, jabbing his fork in your direction for emphasis, "the Squirtle Squad was iconic. And second—what are you even talking about? Fire types are literally just pyromaniacs with fur."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He smirks now, all cocky and insufferable as he takes a bite of his lunch like this argument isn't slowly chipping away at your will to live. "Fire types are for people who want to watch the world burn. Which makes sense for you, Phoenix."

There it is. The nickname. The one he insists on using every chance he gets because apparently calling you by your actual name is too much effort for him.

Hoseok, who's been quietly observing this entire exchange with the kind of amused smile that makes you feel like a zoo exhibit, finally pipes up. "So, nicknames?"

Your eyes widen, and you're about to launch into an explanation—because no, it's not whatever he's thinking it is—when Jungkook cuts you off with a pointed glance in your direction.

"She almost burned the house down, Hoseok," he says, tone so casual it borders on infuriating. "I really need to tell you the story."

"Excuse me?" You whip around to face him, coffee mug clutched tightly in your hand like it's the only thing keeping you from committing a crime. "You were the one who startled me! Making a grand entrance into the house like some kind of parody villain."

"Parody villain?" Jungkook repeats, eyebrows shooting up as he sets his plate down on the counter with a dramatic clink. "I literally just entered the house like a normal human being."

"A normal human being," you scoff, taking a sip of your coffee and relishing the way it scalds your tongue, "who rattled the door like a gorilla."

"It was the lock!" he snaps back, gesturing wildly with his fork. "Okay? The door—"

"Is old," you finish for him, rolling your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck. "I know. But still? Who does that?"

Hoseok snorts from his spot leaning against the counter, clearly enjoying this far more than he should be. "Ah," he says, nodding like everything suddenly makes sense. "Now I get why Yoongi is always in the studio."

You blink at him, momentarily distracted from your ongoing war with Jungkook. "Wait—you know Yoongi?"

"Of course I do," Hoseok replies with an easy shrug, setting his now empty plate in the sink. "We've worked together a few times." He pauses, lips twitching into another grin as he adds, "He talks about you two a lot."

"Oh god," you mutter under your breath because that can't possibly mean anything good.

Right on cue, Yoongi's door creaks open, and there he is—hair mussed, wearing what looks like the same hoodie he's been living in all week. He takes one look at the scene before him—Hoseok grinning like the cat that ate the canary, you glaring daggers at Jungkook while Jungkook waves his fork around like it's a weapon—and sighs deeply.

"Please tell me you two are not at it again," Yoongi says flatly, rubbing at his temple like just existing in this apartment is giving him a headache.

"At what?" Jungkook asks innocently, though his smirk gives him away immediately.

"At this," Yoongi replies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as he makes his way to the coffee maker. "Whatever this...thing is that makes me want to move out and live under a bridge."

"It's not a thing," you protest quickly because no way are you letting Yoongi lump you into whatever nonsense Jungkook is always pulling.

"It's definitely a thing," Hoseok chimes in unhelpfully, and you shoot him a glare.

"We're just...having a conversation," you say, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

Yoongi raises an unimpressed eyebrow as he pours himself a mug of coffee. "A conversation about what? Why Jungkook keeps calling you Phoenix?"

Hoseok's eyes light up like he's just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip in the world. "She's calling him Rogue," he announces, his grin so wide it's practically blinding.

Yoongi pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow as he glances between you and Jungkook. "Huh," he says, voice flat but laced with the faintest hint of curiosity. "That's new."

"It's not—" You start, but Hoseok cuts you off with a knowing smile that somehow manages to feel both comforting and infuriating.

"Don't worry," he says, waving a hand like he's brushing away your impending protest. "I'm not judging. I mean, nicknames are cute."

"Cute?" Jungkook snorts, setting his now empty plate in the sink with a clatter. "Phoenix isn't cute. It's accurate."

"Oh my god," you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose because this is already spiraling out of control. "We literally hate each other."

"I can vouch for that," Yoongi mutters, taking another sip of his coffee.

There's a brief moment—barely three seconds but somehow it feels longer—where Hoseok and Yoongi exchange a look. Something passes between them, something you can't quite read but definitely feels significant. You catch it only because you happen to be glancing their way, hoping for some backup in your ongoing war against Jungkook's ego.

But then Hoseok's smile brightens again, turning back to you with that same easy warmth.

"So" he says, smoothly changing the subject, "how are you liking the apartment so far? Besides the obvious entertainment value of watching Jungkook try to defend Squirtle's honor?"

"It's..." you pause, considering. How exactly do you describe living in what feels like a sitcom written by someone with a vendetta against peace and quiet? "...interesting."

"She hates it," Jungkook supplies helpfully, now leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "And me. Mostly me."

"Can confirm," Yoongi mutters, finally moving from his spot by the coffee maker to shuffle toward the couch. "They're like cats and dogs. Or maybe just two very angry cats."

"Hey," you protest, gesturing vaguely at Griffin, who's now lounging on his windowsill throne. "Don't drag cats into this. They're way more civilized than Rogue over here."

"See?" Jungkook points at you, lips curling into a smirk. "Rogue. It's definitely becoming a thing."

Yoongi ignores Jungkook's comment entirely, fixing Hoseok with a suspicious look over the rim of his coffee mug. "Why are you here?"

"Mainly waiting for Taehyung."

"Mainly?"

You watch this exchange with growing curiosity because seriously, what is up with these two? Yoongi's already got his Signature Done™ expression plastered across his face while Hoseok just...stands there, pursing his lips together and glancing around the apartment like he's trying to look anywhere but at Yoongi.

"I just need to...do..." he trails off, suddenly very interested in examining his fingernails. "Some content creation..."

"For the love of god, Hoseok," Yoongi groans, already looking like he's contemplating that bridge residence he mentioned earlier.

"I haven't even said anything!"

"I know exactly what you mean."

Hoseok huffs, dropping the innocent act. "Come on! Everyone wants to know who my handsome best friend mastermind producer is. The comments are flooding with questions!"

You glance between them, feeling like you're missing several chapters of this story, until Jungkook pipes up from the kitchen.

"Hobi runs HOPE Studios," he explains, rinsing his plate in the sink. "Pretty big dance studio in Chelsea. Does a lot of content creation, tutorials, that kind of thing."

And," Hoseok adds pointedly, "Yoongi is a producer. The best producer. The mysterious MINT PD everyone's been dying to meet."

"No," Yoongi says simply.

"But—"

"Absolutely not."

"Just one TikTok!" Hoseok whines, pulling out his phone. "Think of the engagement! The reveal everyone's been waiting for!"

"I don't care if all 1.2 million of your followers are having collective breakdowns in your comments," Yoongi deadpans. "I'm not doing it."

"But you're so talented!" Hoseok insists. "People should know—"

"They know MINT PD," Yoongi cuts him off. "That's enough."

You watch this exchange like a tennis match, fascinated by how Hoseok's sunshine personality crashes against Yoongi's immovable hermit tendencies. It's kind of impressive, really.

"Fine," Hoseok sighs dramatically, pocketing his phone. "But when I become TikTok famous and people ask about my genius producer friend, I'm telling them you live in a cave and only communicate through carrier pigeon."

"Perfect," Yoongi says, completely unbothered. "Make sure to mention I also hate people and sunlight."

And just when you think you can have some peace and quiet…

The door swings open with a loud thunk, and you nearly spill your coffee all over the counter. What the fuck now? Why are there so many random people in your apartment today? And—wait. Why does this guy have a key?

"Taaaaeeee, you're late," Hoseok sing-songs, grinning like this is all perfectly normal. Like random strangers with keys just waltzing into your home is a totally acceptable thing that happens.

The new guy—tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating big I'd-rather-be-anywhere-else energy—glances around the room with a loud, resigned sigh. His hair's messy, like he's been running his hands through it in frustration, and he's wearing an oversized blazer that somehow makes him look both effortlessly stylish and deeply over this entire situation.

Great, you think, watching him scan the room like he's conducting a health inspection. One to add to the new 'mysteriously has our key' collection.

Jungkook barely looks up from where he's fetching the leftovers from his protein-heavy lunch, completely unfazed. "Want some?" he asks, gesturing to the extra plate of chicken and rice like this is some kind of impromptu restaurant.

The guy—Taehyung, apparently—barely spares the food a glance. "We should get going already."

"He's just moody because there was traffic," Hoseok says cheerfully, like that explains literally anything about this situation.

Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of... everything, you muse, taking another sip of your coffee. The guy's got the kind of face that belongs in magazines, which makes his perpetual scowl even more amusing. What a waste of good genetics.

"Taehyung," Jungkook says, his tone edging toward exasperation. "Why didn't you ring the bell? You can't just use the spare key like that—it's for emergencies."

Taehyung doesn't even bother replying. Instead, he pulls out his phone, scrolling through something with an expression that screams 'I don't have time for this shit.' Then his gaze flicks up—and lands on you.

His frown deepens immediately. "Who's this?"

Oh. Wow. Okay. Rude much? You blink at him, caught somewhere between confusion and offense because seriously? "Uh... I live here?"

"She's—" Jungkook starts to explain, but Yoongi cuts him off without missing a beat.

"Y/N," Yoongi says flatly, sipping his coffee like he's narrating a particularly boring nature documentary. "The third roommate."

Taehyung's frown doesn't budge as he looks you up and down like you're some kind of abstract art piece he can't decide if he hates or just strongly dislikes. "Since when?"

You take another slow sip of coffee, maintaining eye contact because hey, if he wants to have a staring contest at 1PM on a Saturday, you're game. "About a week ago."

There's a brief pause where Taehyung just...stares at you, like he's trying to decide if you're worth adding to his apparent list of life's disappointments. Then he turns back to Jungkook without another word.

Right. Because acknowledging your existence might strain something.

"Is there anyone else I should know about?" you ask no one in particular, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Any other random people with keys to my apartment? Barack Obama? The Pope?"

Hoseok snickers from the couch while Yoongi mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "I wish."

"We're heading out anyway," Jungkook says, grabbing the Tupperware and moving towards the fridge. "Taehyung's driving."

"He drives?" The question slips out before you can stop it, because honestly, the guy looks like he'd rather walk barefoot over legos than do anyone a favor.

"Yeah," Hoseok chimes in brightly as he stands up and stretches. "He's our chauffeur for today."

Taehyung finally looks up from his phone long enough to shoot Hoseok a glare. "I'm not a chauffeur."

"You kind of are," Jungkook says, closing the door of the fridge.

Taehyung sighs again—the kind of sigh that suggests he's mentally calculating how much bail money he'd need if he murdered everyone in the room—and pockets his phone. "Let's go."

Cheerful guy. Must be a riot at parties.

Hoseok claps Yoongi on the shoulder as they pass him on their way out. "Think about the TikTok!" he calls over his shoulder.

"No," Yoongi replies immediately, not even bothering to look up from his coffee.

And just like that, they're gone—leaving you standing in the kitchen with Yoongi and Griffin, who meows lazily from his perch on the windowsill like even he thinks this morning has been too much.

"So," you say after a moment, because someone has to address whatever the hell just happened. "That was..."

"Yeah," Yoongi cuts you off, already turning toward his room. "Taehyung is..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Just shrugs like that's supposed to explain everything, then stretches his arms over his head. "Gotta work. If you need me, don't knock."

Yeah, that tracks.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎7

"Rogue elements"

"It started with a thunderstorm and ended with surrender. And somewhere between the rain and his lips, you forgot why you were fighting this in the first place."

next | index | wc: 9.7k | explicit

↪︎author's note : Okay, yeah, I'm insane. I wrote 11k words of SpiderKook two days ago and posted it (didn't sleep, mind you, but I had to answer the call of MCU Marvel or something?? It was an emergency) and now here's like 10k-ish words of… two idiots fucking? Actually, it's more like 7k? The first 3k are them bantering, which is basically foreplay when they're involved… anyway, here you go ╰(´∀｀)╯ Also, btw, to that anon that called me out on tagging :) this one has smut in it! So the #jungkook smut tag? Yeah, I hope it doesn't bother you this time (｀∀´)Ψ In my defense, I was possessed by the writing gods or something. Or maybe it was just my ADHD hyperfixation hitting at 5 AM while I was mainlining coffee like it was the elixir of life. Either way, here's 3k words of sexual tension and 7k of them actually doing something about it. The thunderstorm was a metaphor, I swear. I didn't just write it because rainy Jungkook is hot. That would be ridiculous. (￣ω￣;) And yes, I know what I'm doing with the gaming references. Listen, if you think I haven't spent unholy amounts of time playing Cyberpunk 2077, you'd be wrong. The Rogue reference? Yeah, that was absolutely intentional. Sue me. (Actually please don't, I can't afford a lawyer) ヽ(￣▽￣)ﾉ Anyway, enjoy these two disaster humans finally doing something about all that tension! Though knowing them, they'll probably make it worse somehow. Because of course they will. They share one braincell and Griffin the cat has permanent custody of it (´∀｀)♡ …I should probably sleep now. (who am I kidding, I'm already writing the next chapter)

The problem with thunderstorms is that they don't drown out the sound of assholes.

You sink deeper into the puff chair by the window, your knees drawn up to your chest, the cool glass against your shoulder doing nothing to soothe the irritation gnawing at your chest. Griffin purrs lazily beside you, a perfect orange ball of indifference. 

You wish you could take notes from him, but no—of course not. Because peace isn’t on the menu tonight, not with the rat-tat-tat of virtual gunfire ripping through the apartment and Jungkook’s voice following like nails down a chalkboard.

“Yeah, that’s right! Hold that L, you camping little bitch!”

A groan escapes you before you can stop it.

He doesn’t hear, too busy shouting into his headset like a man possessed. 

"Where the fuck are you? No—DON’T PUSH—oh my God, you dipshit.” 

There’s a loud thunk, likely his controller slamming against the coffee table, and you really, really want to throw something at his head. Badly. 

Because, of course, Jungkook isn’t just playing video games. He’s playing loudly—his voice carrying over the rain in sharp bursts of frustration. The bastard’s lucky Yoongi isn’t home. That coffee table is sacred ground.

You glance at Griffin, who blinks slowly at you, as if to say you could end this.

And you could.

It’s been thirty minutes of this. Thirty minutes of him stomping around the living room, calling strangers on the internet the kind of names that would make even Yeji wince. He’s sprawled across the couch like he’s fucking Madonna or something—one leg dangling off the side, the other bent at the knee, his stupid socked foot pressed against the cushion you claimed as yours when you moved in.

And the worst part? It’s not even his console.

No, that sleek black PlayStation hooked up to the TV belongs to Yoongi, who made it very clear during the move-in period that it’s off-limits unless you ask first. But Jungkook? Jungkook doesn’t ask. Jungkook takes.

Jungkook is a bitch. 

Griffin stretches out a paw lazily, swiping at the air as you fight the urge to say something. Anything. Except you don’t. Because if you do, you know exactly how this will go.

You’ll point out, very calmly, that he’s breaking house rules. He’ll smirk, say something infuriating like “What are you gonna do about it, Phoenix?” and then you’ll spiral into one of those arguments where you end up hurling something solid and he ends up smirking like he won.

Not this time. You breathe in deeply through your nose, fingers curling into the hem of your sweater. Calm. Composure. You can survive this.

Until: “OH, GET FUCKED!”

That’s it.

You twist around in your seat, scowling. “Do you have to be this loud?”

Jungkook barely spares you a glance, his fingers flying over the controller. “What?”

“I said,” you grit out, enunciating each word carefully, “Do. You. Have. To. Be. This. Loud?”

“Yeah, probably.” His lips curl, a smirk creeping across his face as he scores another kill or capture or whatever the hell happens in Call of Duty. “It’s called strategy, Phoenix. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh, please.” You stand up now, Griffin leaping off the puff with an annoyed chirp. “What’s strategic about screaming at a screen like a toddler on Red Bull?”

“I’m communicating,” he shoots back, not missing a beat. “Teamwork makes the dream work, babe.”

He did not just call you babe. 

God, this fucking man. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re distracting me,” he says, still not looking at you, his thumbs mashing buttons like his life depends on it. “What, jealous you can’t play?”

“Jealous?” You scoff, crossing your arms. “I wouldn’t touch that thing if you paid me.”

“That’s a shame,” he says with a faux sigh, finally leaning back against the couch. He looks up at you, all dark eyes and devilish smirk, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I bet you’d suck at it anyway.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, your hands going to your hips as you glare at him. “What—because I’m a girl?”

Jungkook snorts, his smirk growing into something insufferable as he shakes his head. “Nope. It’s because you do nothing but scroll through TikTok and read all day.”

Your jaw drops, indignation flaring in your esophagus, burning and acidic. “I’ll have you know,” you start, voice sharp, “I don’t just scroll TikTok. I do plenty of other things.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head, mock curiosity painting his expression. “Like what? Enlighten me, Phoenix.”

You narrow your eyes, bristling at the stupid nickname. 

“Like… looking for a job. Studying. Having actual hobbies. Unlike you, who spends every waking moment yelling at teenage boys on the internet.”

“Teenagers who actually know how to play,” he fires back, shrugging like your insult doesn’t even register. “Unlike someone who probably can’t tell the difference between a joystick and a fucking D-pad.”

“Joystick?” you repeat. “What is this, 2005? God, no wonder you’re single.”

His smirk doesn’t falter, and somehow, that only pisses you off more. He leans forward now, almost like he’s trying to force himself into the game or something. 

“Who says I’m single?”

“You look like you’re single.” 

“And you look like you’re about to combust,” he drawls, grimace twisting his lips. “Maybe if you stopped trying to be quirky looking through the window, you wouldn’t feel the need to pick fights you can’t win.”

You scoff, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “I’m not picking a fight. I’m pointing out that you’re a hypocritical, overgrown man-child who thinks his shitty aim is a personality trait.”

“Shitty aim?” He leans back, mouth slightly ajar. “Wow, okay, now you’re just talking out of your ass.”

“You’re right,” you shoot back quickly. “It’s probably worse than shitty.”

He laughs at that—an infuriating, genuine laugh that you shouldn’t find hot but you kind of do and fuck if that doesn’t make you inwardly wince. 

“Cute,” he says, shaking his head as if you’re the one being ridiculous.

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, arms over your chest. 

“What? Cute?” His grin widens, dimples on full display as he sits up straighter, and it’s clear he’s loving how riled up you are.

“No,” you say, voice firm. “Phoenix.”

Jungkook tilts his head, considering for two beats of silence before he opens his mouth again. “Why not? It suits you. All fiery and ready to burst into flames every time someone says something you don’t like.”

“You’re so goddamn annoying,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Always poking, always pushing. It’s like you live for being a pain in everyone’s ass.”

“Nah,” his smirk deepens, and it’s unbearable. “Just yours, Phoenix. You make it fun.”

“Jesus Christ.” You throw your hands up, glaring at him like you’re trying to set him on fire with sheer willpower. “You’re such a rogue.”

The adjective leaves your lips without much thought. It’s not deliberate, really. But it fits, and if it cuts? Even better. Maybe it does, if the way Jungkook’s head jerks back is any indication. 

“Rogue?” he echoes, like you’ve just handed him a challenge. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“Yeah, well,” you snarl. “Fits your whole vibe. All selfish smirks and reckless bullshit. Like the rules don’t apply to you.”

Jungkook’s lips curl into a scornful smile, his thumbs flying over the controller as the sound of gunfire fills the room. 

“You know what? I’ll take it. Rogue from Cyberpunk 2077" He glances at you, smug as ever. “That’s sick, actually.”

Your eye twitches. “No, you dumb fuck. Not like her.”

He pauses just long enough to raise a brow at you, genuine surprise flickering across his face. 

“Wait, you know who Rogue is?”

“Yeah,” you respond. “What, you think I live under a rock?”

There’s a beat of silence before his mouth stretches into an absolutely shit-eating grin. 

“Okay, gamer girl,” he says mockingly, drawing out the syllables like he’s trying to rile you up. Spoiler alert: it’s working.

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“What?” He shrugs, that infuriating grin still plastered across his face. “I’m just surprised. You look more like you spend twelve hours a day watching cat videos and scrolling TikTok.”

“What, so only people with dicks can play video games, is that it?”

“No—” he cuts in quickly, lowering the controller just enough to give you a half-serious look. “That’s not what I meant. I know plenty of women play. It’s more that you don’t exactly scream gamer energy, Phoenix. Like, come on, tell me I’m wrong.”

“You are,” you shoot back immediately. “For your information, I’ve played Cyberpunk.”

Jungkook blinks, processing this, and then snorts. “You’ve played Cyberpunk?”

“What, you need me to name five characters and their last names to prove it or something?” You already anticipate whatever stupid comment he’s about to make.

He raises his eyebrows, and he leans back further into the couch. “Nah, I’ll take your word for it, gamer girl.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Not a chance.” He tilts his head toward the screen, his fingers returning to the controls as the grin returns to his face. “You probably play like… the easiest settings, huh?”

You scoff, because who does he think he is? All condescending and stupid smiles? “You’re such a dumbass.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice rising with the sound of an explosion on the screen, “I’m the dumbass who’s about to go crimson rank. Watch this.”

The next few seconds are a blur of gunfire and chaos, and, to your utter dismay, he somehow pulls off a ridiculous no-scope kill that even you have to admit is kind of impressive.

“Boom,” he says, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m the shit.”

You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Congratulations, you’re the king of the virtual world. Must be exhausting being this lame all the time.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Phoenix,” he says without missing a beat, his gaze flicking to you for half a second before he dives back into the game.

“Whatever, Rogue,” you mutter under your breath as he laughs softly, the sound irritatingly warm in the rain-filled room.

The silence is louder than the rain.  

You sit back in your chair, fingers twitching where they rest against your knees, Griffin’s soft purr barely registering as your mind spins. The words Emma threw at you earlier won’t leave you alone, circling like vultures over a carcass you’d rather not examine.  

“You’re already miserable. Might as well fuck the clit guy."

And worse, Jungkook’s low, almost careless suggestion from the bathroom keeps replaying in your head like a loop you can’t pause: “Maybe instead of fighting it… we just let it happen.”

The audacity of him. The sheer nerve. Except…  

Except you’ve thought about it. More than you’d like to admit.  

You bite the inside of your cheek, glaring out at the rain streaking down the window as if it can somehow distract you from the heat rising in your chest. The memory is hazy—foggy edges softened by alcohol and adrenaline and the bad lighting of Emma’s old apartment—but the details that do surface? They’re not helping.  

His hands. His mouth. The way he moved, like he knew exactly what to do without you needing to ask. And you remember the way he’d looked at you afterward—satisfied, like he’d known you’d replay it in your head for days after.  

God, you hate him.  

But the memory’s there anyway, sticky and undeniable, and now there’s this proposal hanging between you.  

Should you? Could you?  

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, your gaze catching on the long line of his legs sprawled out on the couch, the casual way his fingers flick the controller buttons. He’s not that focused on the game anymore—probably already won the ranked he was playing moments ago and now he’s just chilling.

Would it really be that bad? He’s already insufferable; it’s not like that would change. And the sex was good. From what you can recall, it was really good. Like, better than anything else good.  

God, what’s wrong with you? Why are you even entertaining this?  

Because you haven’t been touched in months? Because his voice gets under your skin in ways you hate but can’t ignore? Because deep down, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to fight him all the time anymore—at least, not like this?  

You let out a long sigh, frustration bubbling in your chest as you wrestle with yourself. You don’t even know what you’d say if you brought it up. What, just casually suggest fucking your roommate again, like it’s a normal thing people do? No big deal, Jungkook, just wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about it—

"Jungkook," you say before you can stop yourself, standing up.  

He doesn’t look up immediately, his attention still half on the game. "Mhm?"  

You hesitate, your pulse stuttering against your ribs. But then you force the words out, sharp and decisive. "I’ve thought about it."  

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.  

Slowly, he shifts, the tension in his posture breaking as he sets the controller down on the coffee table with an ease that feels calculated. Deliberate. He straightens, turning to look at you fully, and his gaze is heavy. Opaque. Cuts through the dim light into yours like a blade.  

"Yeah?" His voice is raspier now, lower than it was a second ago.  

You nod, throat dry.  

His eyes flicker over your face, reading you in that infuriating way he does, like he can see past everything you try to hide. He takes his time—of course he does—before he finally stands, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off whatever was left of his concentration on the game.  

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie, your brain registers now. And you hate how unfairly good he looks in it. Hate that you notice the way the fabric hangs on his frame, how it stretches across his chest, clings to his thighs.  

"Thought about it, huh?" he says, his tone softer now but no less teasing.  

You swallow hard, the air between you suddenly prickly. "Yeah."  

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment longer, and then—then—he smirks. That slow, maddening curl of his lips that has you holding back a stupid breath like he’s robbing all the oxygen in the room. 

His eyes are hooded now. Dark. Glinting with something promising and ominous at the same time. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth oozing off him. 

"And what," he murmurs,, "did you think about?"  

The weight of his attention lands squarely on you, and for some reason you don’t know how to act. Because it’s different. So different from your usual dynamics. 

"I…" You clear your throat, cursing yourself for the crack in your voice. "I don’t know."  

"You don’t know?" His brows raise, and he huffs out a soft, amused laugh. "Come on, Phoenix. You just said you’ve thought about it."  

He takes another step forward, and instinctively, you lean back, your shoulders hitting the cool glass of the window. Jungkook notices, smirk widening as he basically cages you in without even touching you.  

"Was it me?" he asks, voice dropping into something lower, rougher. "Did you think about me? Between your thighs again?"  

Your breath catches.  

There’s something so heavy in the way he looks at you, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway. Wants you to admit it.  

"I—" Your voice falters, pulse hammering in your ears. "I didn’t say that."  

"Didn’t have to," he drawls, leaning just a fraction closer, and his voice sounds and feels like velvet. "I can see it all over your face."  

"You’re so full of yourself," you manage, but it comes out weaker than you’d like.  

"Maybe," he says, his breath warm against your lips, "but I’m not wrong."  

Your heart is in your throat, your palms clammy where they’re pressed against the window behind you. And suddenly all of the warmth in the room feels tangible, like it’s pulling you into him. 

"Tell me, what were you thinking about, Phoenix?"  

You force yourself to meet his eyes, though it feels like stepping into a storm. 

“I… I don’t know.”

Jungkook’s head tilts. He observes you. Catalogues your microexpressions, your tiny tells.

“I think you do," he says. "Was it my fingers?"  

You avoid his gaze.  

"Or my mouth?" he’s relentless. "Did you think about the way I made you come, Phoenix? How good it felt?"  

"Jungkook," you warn, but there’s no weight to it, not really. Especially not when your thighs press together instinctively.

He notices, of course he does, and his smirk returns in full force. 

"Yeah," he breathes, his hand lifting now to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, barely grazing your skin as they trail down to your jaw. "You thought about it."  

Your eyes drop to his lips.

It’s not intentional. At least, not at first. But the way he’s looking at you—dark eyes loaded and heavy like they could swallow you whole—makes it impossible not to. The memory of his mouth on yours, of how it felt that night, crashes into you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re drowning in it.  

Yeah. Yeah, you’ve thought about it.  

You’ve thought about those lips on yours. On your skin. Thought about the way they felt that night—hot, urgent, consuming—and how they’d left you trembling, gasping for air and wanting more.

You remember. You remember perfectly. His mouth descending down your neck. His teeth grazing your collarbone. The way he’d whispered filth into your ears like it was a secret only you were allowed to know.

And now he’s here, close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek, warm and steady. Close enough that if you just leaned in—just a little—you could—

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

His eyes darken instantly, 

“Atta girl.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative or hesitant or any of the things it probably should be. It’s rough and savage and everything you remember from that night—and more.

His lips crash against yours with a hunger that steals your breath, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. The glass of the window is cold against your back, but all you can feel is him—his warmth, his strength, the way his body presses into yours like he can’t get close enough.

You gasp against his mouth as his hands slide up your sides, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He takes advantage of the sound, deepening the kiss with a low growl that makes your stomach flutter. 

It’s overwhelming—the taste of him, the heat of his skin, how much warmer his body seems to run—but you don’t pull away. You can’t. Not when his lips are moving against yours like this is something he’s been waiting for. Something he needs as much as you do.

Your hands find their way to his hoodie, clutching at the soft fabric as if it’ll keep you grounded. But it doesn’t. Nothing does. Not when his tongue brushes against yours in a way that makes your knees weak. Not when his teeth catch on your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp again.

He pulls back slightly then, just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, his lips swollen and slick from kissing you. And fuck if he doesn’t look even better like this—disheveled and desperate and entirely too smug.

“Still thinking about it?” 

You don’t answer—not with words anyway. Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie and pull him back down to you, crashing your lips against his in a kiss that’s just as messy and desperate as before.

Because yeah—you’ve thought about it.

And now? Now you’re done thinking.

Jesus fuck, kissing him is like getting swept up in a riptide—there's no stopping it, no controlling it. It's an unstoppable force crashing into you, dragging you under, and all you can do is give in or drown fighting it.  

Is that a bad metaphor? Probably. Look, you're not at your most poetic when Jungkook's tongue is in your mouth, okay? 

Point is, he kisses like he does everything else—intensely, greedily, like he'll die if he doesn't take exactly what he wants. And yeah, you know you should push him away, should stop this before it spirals even further out of control. But you don't. You can't. Not when he's pulling you in like this, one hand gripping your hip while the other creeps up your ribcage.

"Off," you gasp against his lips, tugging impatiently at his hoodie. "Take it off."

He huffs a laugh into your mouth, but complies, leaning back just enough to yank the sweatshirt over his head in one smooth motion. And of fucking course he's not wearing anything underneath, because why would he be?  

Jungkook tosses the hoodie aside carelessly, letting it land wherever as he crowds back into your space, all golden skin and inky patterns. 

"God," he breathes, pupils blown wide. "Been wanting to do this again since that night." 

Right. That night. January. The best fuck of your life that you've been trying and failing not to think about ever since.

A disbelieving little chuckle slips out of you. "Down bad, huh?"

"Like you haven't been." 

Well fuck, he's got you there. It's infuriating how easily he sees through your bullshit. Reads you like an open book he's already dog-eared to hell.

And then his hand is under your shirt, rough fingertips skimming over your stomach before cupping your breast through your bra. 

You swallow back a yelp at the suddenness of it, the drag of lace against nerve-laden skin. Fuck. Fuck. This is escalating way too fast, spinning out of control, but your body doesn't seem to care—it just arches into his touch, asks for more.

"See?" he purrs, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Knew it." 

Oh, screw him. Screw him and his stupid cockiness, his stupid hands, his stupid fucking abs. Fire unfurls in your chest, indignant and insistent, and before you can second-guess it, your palm is pressed against the front of his sweatpants.

His hips jerk forward at the contact and he hisses out a breath between his teeth, eyes flashing. Yeah. Not so smug now, is he?

You squeeze lightly, feeling him twitch against your hand, already half-hard and stretching the fabric. A little thrill zips down your spine at the proof of just how much he wants this, wants you, and your lips curve into a smirk of your own.

"You were saying?" you drawl.

His eyes narrow, but there's no anger behind it. If anything, he looks even more turned on, gaze heavy and half-lidded as it drags over you. 

"You," he says, voice low and gravelly, "are such a nasty little thing."

Your smirk sharpens. "Mhm? What you gonna do about it?"

He scoffs, a low, throaty sound that vibrates against your chest, and before you can blink, he's crowding you back against the window. 

"Gonna show you," he murmurs, voice rough and heated. "Make you take it like you did that night."  

And okay, yeah. Maybe that night flashes through your head at his words. Maybe you remember in vivid detail how he had you up against the wall, thigh between your legs as he marked up your neck. Maybe your clit throbs at the memory of how deep he fucked into you, how he growled in your ear that you were taking his cock so well...

Fuck. Focus.

Your head tilts back before you can stop it, baring your throat like some kind of offering, and Jungkook doesn't hesitate. He takes the bait—teeth grazing the delicate skin of your neck before biting down just hard enough to make your breath hitch.  

You bite your lip to keep the sound in, but he notices anyway. Of course he does. His fingers tighten on your nipple, rolling it between toughened pads until you're holding back a moan.  

"None of that," he mutters against your neck, his tongue flattening over the mark he just left. "Wanna hear you. Missed those pretty sounds."  

You want to tell him to fuck off—really, you do. Who the hell does he think he is? Magic Mike? But the words don't come because your brain is officially mush now, melted into a useless puddle under the weight of his mouth and hands and fuck.  

Instead, what comes out is a whimper. A pathetic little sound that makes heat crawl up your neck in embarrassment even as it escapes.  

And Jungkook? Oh, he fucking loves it. You can feel it in the way his smile curves against your skin, smug and satisfied and so goddamn infuriating you could scream if you weren't already gasping for air.  

His lips trail up toward your jaw, slow and sensual, leaving wet kisses in their wake until they find their way back to yours. He doesn't waste time—doesn't ask or hesitate or do anything remotely polite about it—just crashes into you like he's starving for it all over again.  

It's just like that night and nothing like it at all. There's the same ferocity, the same undiluted need. But there's familiarity now too. A sense of knowing each other's bodies, each other's reactions. He already knows how to angle his head to deepen the kiss, knows that dragging his teeth over your bottom lip makes you shudder, knows that you like just a hint of pain with your pleasure. 

It's dangerous, that knowing.

Then he's tugging at your sweater, impatient as always because God forbid Jungkook ever asks for anything like a normal person. No words—just rough fingers curling into the hem and yanking upward like it's somehow offended him by existing on your body for this long.  

You don't wait for him to figure it out either because honestly? You don't care right now—not with his hands branding heat into your skin and his mouth writing goddamn symphonies on every inch of you it can reach. You pull the sweater off yourself in one quick motion, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

The cool air hits your skin immediately, but any chill is obliterated by Jungkook's hands sliding up your sides again—warm and firm and so fucking sure of themselves it makes you dizzy. His thumbs brush just under the band of your bra as he pulls back slightly to look at you, dark eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin like he's trying to memorize it.

"Fuck," he breathes out finally, almost like an afterthought.

You should say something snarky—should call him out for being so cliché or make fun of how breathless he sounds—but all that comes out is another shaky exhale as his fingers dip under the lace.

Because yeah… You're gone now.

And judging by the way Jungkook's smirk returns in full force as his hands slide higher? He knows it too.

He gives your nipple a quick squeeze, his thumb brushing over the peak one last time before his hand slides around to your back. There's a pause—barely a second—but you know what's coming, and sure enough—with one swift movement, he unhooks your bra like it's child's play.  

And now… now your torso is completely bare.  

Before him.  

Jungkook.  

Your roommate. 

Your stupid, annoying roommate. The same guy you fucked back in January when you were both too drunk to realize what a horrible idea it was. The same guy who wrecked you so thoroughly your legs shook for hours after, who made you come on his cock so hard you saw stars, who somehow managed to ruin you for anyone else before you even knew his name.

Fuck. Why did you let yourself get into this position again?

But then his mouth is on you—no hesitation, no waiting around to admire or tease or whatever else guys like him usually do. He just dips down like he's been famished for this single breath of time, hot lips wrapping around your nipple as his tongue flicks over it in one smooth motion.  

Oh.  

Oh, that's why.  

Your fingers find his hair immediately, tangling into the soft strands without a second thought. You pull—not hard, just enough to get a reaction—and he rumbles against you in approval, the vibration shooting straight through your chest and landing somewhere between your thighs.  

It's almost too much already—the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth when he bites down just enough to make you gasp—but somehow not enough all at once. Your body curves toward him instinctively, chasing more, that feeling, that him. 

And it's then—right as he switches to your other breast without missing a beat—that you notice it.  

He smells like rain.  

It's faint at first, barely there under the heady mix of sweat and skin and whatever cologne he probably spritzed on this morning. But it lingers anyway, clinging to him like the thunderstorm raging outside has fused itself into his skin somehow—like it wants you to notice every little detail about him and commit it to memory for reasons you don't even want to think about right now.

Not that you could think if you tried—not with the way his tongue circles your nipple before sucking it back into his mouth like he's trying to ruin you from the inside out.  

"Fuck," you breathe out before you can stop yourself, your voice embarrassingly shaky as your nails scrape lightly against his scalp.

He hums again at that—low and satisfied—and pulls back just enough to glance up at you through dark lashes. His lips are slick now, swollen and glistening in the dim light filtering through the window behind you, and the sight of him like this? It's hot. Way more than it has any right to be.

"Feel good?" he asks, like he doesn't already know the answer. Like he can't feel the way your body responds to his every touch, every graze of teeth and flick of tongue.

You reach for words sharp enough to cut, to carve that arrogance clean off his face, but all that falls from your lips is a breath—fragile, trembling—as his hands drag down your sides, their warmth sinking into your skin like ink into paper.

"Thought so," he murmurs before dipping back down as if he's got all the time in the world to drive you completely insane.

And honestly? He might succeed.

He's fully hard now. You can feel it—how could you not? It's impossible to miss, thick and basically pulsing against your thigh like it's got its own goddamn heartbeat. And okay, yeah, maybe you're a little impressed (annoyingly so), but you're definitely not about to let him know that.  

Not when he's still ignoring it completely, like the fact that he's rock-hard and pressed up against you doesn't even register. No, he's too busy lavishing attention on your chest, his mouth still working over your nipple like it's his sole purpose in life.  

And maybe it is. Maybe that's what's getting him off right now—your pleasure, the way your body fuses into his like it's second nature, the soft noises slipping out of your throat no matter how hard you try to bite them back.  

It's… kind of hot, actually.  

Hot enough that you want to give something back.  

Your hand slides down without much thought, fingers curling around the outline of his clothed erection. The reaction is immediate—his mouth stutters against your bud for a split second, a quiet, throaty rumble that matches the instinctive movement of his hips. 

He looks up at you then, tongue peeking out to wet the corner of his mouth, and the sight alone snakes through you, sharp and molten.

"Take these off," you say, voice sharper than intended because Jesus Christ, how is he still wearing pants right now?  

His brows lift slightly, and then he grins—slow and smug and so fucking infuriating you almost regret touching him at all. 

"Already? My God, Nix, you're needy, huh?"  

Motherfucker. 

You glare at him, grip tightening just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. 

"No," you snap back, "it's just that your cock is literally beating against my leg and it's pissing me off."

That earns you a snort—a full-on laugh that makes his shoulders shake as he leans in closer, forehead nearly brushing yours. 

"Sure," he says, voice low and amused as hell. "That's what it is."  

Before you can fire back with something appropriately scathing, his hand disappears from your hip—and then reappears holding something small and square and very fucking familiar.

A condom.

From his sweatpants pocket.

You blink at it for a second—just one second—and then the realization hits like a tornado.

"You had a condom in your sweats?" Your voice pitches higher than you'd like, disbelief coloring every single word.

Jungkook shrugs like this is completely normal behavior and not absolutely unhinged. "Knew you'd come around eventually."

Oh. Oh, you want to strangle him. Right here, right now.

You blink at him, incredulous. "You're kidding."  

He shrugs one shoulder, still grinning like the absolute menace he is. "I mean… today was perfect." He pauses for effect, letting the words hang in the air before adding with a little more emphasis: "Is perfect."  

Your eye twitches. "What does that even mean?"  

"It means Yoongi's not gonna come home for another forty-five minutes," Jungkook explains easily, rolling the condom between his fingers like it's no big deal. "Knew we'd be home alone."  

Oh my god. He did plan this.

"I hate you," you exhale sharply, glaring at him with all the force you can muster while half-naked and pressed against a window with his dick still hard against your thigh.

He leans in closer then—close enough that his breath brushes against your lips as he smirks down at you with that same cocky glint in his eyes that drives you absolutely insane.

"Say that again when I'm inside you," he murmurs.

And yeah… You hate him.

But also? You really fucking don't.

Because the truth is, you've been thinking about him inside you since that first night. Craving the stretch, the fullness, the way he seems to know your body better than you do. It's infuriating and intoxicating in equal measure, and right now? With the scent of rain clinging to his skin and the taste of him still on your tongue?

You want him so badly it hurts.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down just enough to reveal the band of his briefs. Of course, of course the asshole wears Calvin Kleins. Because why wouldn't he? He looks like he could model for them—like he's about to step onto a black-and-white billboard in Times Square and ruin someone's day with that stupid, perfect body.  

But he doesn't take the pants off completely. Nope. That would be too simple, too straightforward for someone like Jungkook. Instead, he pulls himself out, his cock jutting forward like it's making some kind of grand entrance.  

And okay. You try not to choke on your own breath, but it's a struggle because… yeah. That's a nice cock. Thick, flushed at the tip, curving slightly upward like it's been sculpted by some pervy Greek god with way too much time on their hands.  

When did you ever think cocks were pretty? God, where the fuck is your mind right now?  

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease—too practiced, honestly—and then looks up at you, tilting his head like he's about to deliver some earth-shattering revelation instead of being the most irritating person alive.  

"You know," he says, tugging lightly at the waistband of your leggings, "you gotta take these off too for this to work, right?"  

How can someone be so fucking annoying and so fucking attractive at the same time? The contradiction that is Jungkook has your brain doing backflips, and all you can do is stare at him for a second, trying to figure out how you got here—how you're half-naked in front of your roommate while he's standing there looking like sin incarnate with his cock out.  

Your tongue pokes at the underside of your lip as you narrow your eyes at him. 

"You take them off."  

His brows lift slightly, and then that smirk—that smirk—is back in full force as he leans closer. 

"Me?"  

"Yeah," you snap, crossing your arms over your chest like it'll somehow make you feel less exposed. "You deaf? Yeah."  

He chuckles low in his throat, shaking his head like you've just told him something amusing instead of issuing a challenge. 

"Making me work for it, huh?"  

You don't answer—not verbally anyway—but the sharp raise of your brow says enough. If he wants this so bad, he can damn well put in some effort.  

Then his hands are on your hips again, sliding down to hook into the waistband of your leggings. His fingers brush against your skin as he tugs them down slowly—too slowly—and you swear he's doing it on purpose just to rile you up further.

And yeah… it's working.

You swat his hand away, glaring at him like he's the absolute bane of your existence. And honestly? He is.

“I'll do it myself," you snap, tugging your leggings down in one quick motion and kicking them off with more force than necessary.  

Because fuck him, honestly. Not in the current way. In the mean way. The you're insufferable and I hate you way.  

But Jungkook doesn't give you even a second to feel smug about reclaiming control. No, the second your leggings hit the floor, his hands are on you again—gripping your thighs and hooking them around his waist as he presses you back against the window with a force that knocks the breath out of you both.  

The cold glass bites into your skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of him—his chest against yours, his hands digging into your thighs like he's afraid you'll slip away. And then his mouth—his fucking sinful mouth—is back on your neck, hot and wet and relentless as he sucks and licks at the delicate skin there like he's trying to drown himself in it.  

"God," he groans against your throat, his voice low and wrecked in a way that unravels in a rush, seeping into your nerves. "You still smell like fuckin' vanilla. How's that shit—" He pauses just long enough to drag his tongue along the curve of your neck, slow and deliberate. "How's that still all over you?"  

Your teeth sink into your lower lip at his words, heat blossoming in your chest, because fuck, you didn't think he'd remember that. Didn't think he'd still associate that scent with you, with that night.

"Dunno," you manage to gasp out, hating how breathy you sound but unable to control it. "Maybe your nose... just wants to remember it."

He huffs against your skin, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Maybe I just wanna fuck the memory into you."

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers tighten in his hair involuntarily, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He retaliates by nipping at your throat, teeth grazing over your racing pulse.

"Gonna fuck you against the window," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave lower as his hips press forward just enough for you to feel him—hot and hard and perfectly lined up against you now. "Mhm? Ruin you for anyone else all over again. Want that?”  

You want to tell him no just out of spite, but then he rolls his hips again—slow and way too good—and whatever snarky retort you had dies on your tongue as a gasp escapes instead.

"Yeah," Jungkook breathes, grinning against your skin like he knows exactly what kind of effect he's having on you. "Knew you'd like that idea." His teeth graze your jaw now, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good, Nix. Gonna make you forget what year it is."  

Instinct guides your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to pull a rough groan from him—one that hums against your neck and tears through you like a strike of lightning.

"Bet you've been thinking about this," he continues, his voice jagged as he shifts slightly to line himself up properly. "Bet you've been lying awake at night wishing I'd fuck you like this again."  

"Shut up," you manage to snap back finally, though it lacks any fervor as your nails dig into his scalp. 

That smug laugh slips out, soft but cutting, and when he lifts his head, those dark eyes of his hook onto yours, daring, taunting.

 "Make me."  

And then he's pushing into you—slowly at first, letting you feel every inch of him stretch and fill you until there's no space left between your bodies. The comeback you had ready never makes it out, lost to the wreckage of a moan as pleasure breaks over you, raw and untamed, and leaving you utterly breathless.

Yeah… You're definitely not making him shut up anytime soon.

He stills inside you—thick and hot and good—letting you adjust as his chin drops to your shoulder. His breath comes out in short, heavy puffs against your skin, and for a second, just a second, it's almost perfect.

And then: "Fuck yeah, just like January."

Jesus fucking Christ. Can he shut up? Like, genuinely? Why does he sound like he's narrating a porno? You'd smack him if you weren't currently, you know, full of his dick.

Your head thunks back against the window as you try not to laugh—or cry, honestly both feel appropriate right now. Because of course this is how it's going. Of course Jungkook can't just fuck you without running his mouth.

"You're so—" you start, but then he shifts slightly, and whatever insult you had lined up dissolves into a sharp inhale.

"So what?" he mumbles against your neck, and you can feel him grinning like the smug bastard he is. "Amazing? Unforgettable? Best you've ever had?"

"Annoying," you manage to grit out, even as your thighs tighten around his waist. "You're so fucking annoying."

He laughs at that—an actual laugh that you feel more than hear—and pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His hair is a mess from your hands, pupils blown so wide there's barely any iris visible, and there's something so stupidly boyish about his expression that it tugs at your stomach in a way you stubbornly ignore. 

"Yeah?" His hips roll forward slightly—not quite thrusting, just testing—and your breath catches in your throat. "Still annoying?"

You want to say yes. You should say yes. But then he does it again, and all that comes out is a shaky exhale as your hands move to grip his shoulders.

His grin widens, eyes glinting with something like triumph. "That's what I thought."

Shut up, you want to say. Shut up shut up shut up.

But you don't. Because then he's moving—fingers digging in just enough to ground you before he pulls out completely—and then slides back in with one smooth thrust that has your breath catching in your throat. It's deep, but... careful? Like he's actually paying attention to how your body responds, waiting for you to properly mold around him instead of just slamming in like some kind of jackrabbit on speed.

It's annoying, honestly. How can someone so absolutely hateable have this much attention to detail? God really said "Here, enjoy the whiplash this dude's gonna give you" and called it a day. She's mean like that.

But then your trail of thought dissolves completely because his mouth is back on your neck, hot and wet and perfect, and your legs wrap tighter around him almost instinctively, pulling him deeper. 

"Fuck, forgot how good you feel," he pants against your neck, his voice strained like he's barely holding it together. "Could fuck this pussy all goddamn night. You want that, Phoenix? Want me to stay buried inside you 'til sunrise?"

You don’t answer his question. Don't have to. He can feel you clenching around him. He knows—he goddamn knows.

"Yeah, you do." It's not a question this time, just a breathy statement loaded with arrogance and dark satisfaction. "Gonna ruin this cunt tonight. Fucking mark you up, inside and out. Mngh... make you smell like me the way you made me smell like your fuckin' vanilla shit for days."

Vanilla again. Your body lotion, maybe. The one you definitely didn't buy because it was on sale and not at all because you remembered him complimenting that scent on you back on January. 

Nope. Pure coincidence.

Then his fingers find your clit and—yep. He still knows exactly where it is, like he's got some kind of built-in GPS for your pleasure spots. Fucking stupid ass perfect fucker. Why can’t the powers that may be let you hate him in peace? 

"Still sensitive here?" he asks, circling the bundle of nerves experimentally as his hips maintain that steady, deep rhythm. "Bet you are. Bet you've been thinking about my fingers."

You want to deny it, but then he applies just the right amount of pressure and your head lolls back. 

“Shut up," you manage to gasp out instead.

He grins against your collarbone—you can feel it, how the corners of his lips tug upwards—and picks up his pace slightly. 

"Make me, Phoenix. Come on my cock and maybe I will."

Your nails dig into his shoulders at that, probably leaving crescents, but he just groans like he loves it. Like he wants you to mark him up.

"That's it," he breathes, his thumb working faster now as his thrusts get deeper. "Fuck, you feel good. Wrapping around my cock like that.”

And really, who gave him the right to be this good at multitasking? It's unfair. It's criminal. It's—

"Oh fuck," you whimper as he hits just the right spot, your whole body tensing.

His answer is breathless and way too pleased with itself. "Yeah? Right there?"

Yeah, he's definitely got a mission now. That thing about you coming on his cock? Not just dirty talk—he's one hundred percent serious about it, if the way he's working your body is any indication. His thrusts get deeper, more purposeful, as his fingers work your clit in perfect sync like he's conducting some kind of fucked up orchestra.

And god, you wish he was bad at this. You really wish January had just been a lucky shot for him—some cosmic alignment that made him accidentally good at fucking. Then you could finish this, look him dead in the eye, and be like "yeah, you aren't all that" before breaking his ego and his skull and laughing about it later.

But no. No, because God and destiny are clearly besties or something and they've decided you're their favorite source of entertainment. So instead of being mediocre, Jungkook is—fuck—he's hitting that spot inside you with devastating accuracy while his thumb draws tight circles on your clit and his mouth leaves marks on your neck that you'll definitely hate him for tomorrow.

"Gonna come for me?" he pants against your skin, and the worst part is how fucking earnest he sounds about it. Like making you fall apart is his new favorite hobby. "Come on, Nix. Know you're close. Can feel you squeezing my cock."

Your response is a broken moan because yeah, you are close. Embarrassingly close. His cock is stretching you perfectly, his fingers are pure magic, and the way he's got you pinned against this window is doing things to your brain that you'll definitely need therapy for later.

"That's it," he urges, voice raw, like gravel over glass. "Fuckin' soak my cock, Phoenix."

And like the bastard has a direct line to your central nervous system, you do.

It consumes you whole and you don’t know if it’s his voice or the fucking nickname being moaned out like that. But then there’s pleasure crashing through you in waves as your body locks up around him. Your nails scratch down his back, probably drawing blood, but you're too far gone to care as you clench around his cock, trembling and gasping against his mouth.

"Fuck—oh fuck, fuck, fuck—" The words spill out of you like a confession, something raw and unbidden that you can't swallow back down. Your thighs tremble where they're wrapped around his waist, and you hate how obviously desperate you are for this—for him.

The rain doesn't stop. Of course it doesn't. It slips in through every crack in your defenses, cool and unrelenting, soaking through all your carefully constructed barriers. Just like him. Just like the way Jungkook's scent wraps around you—petrichor and coffee and something darker that makes your head spin.

And Jungkook? God, he doesn't stop either. His hips grind into you with a precision that makes you want to cry, every roll of his body deliberate, every push of his cock calculated to unravel another thread of your control. He drags you under like you're caught in a sudden summer downpour—the kind that leaves you gasping but feels too good to run from. You're drowning in it, in him, in the merciless rhythm of his fingers on your clit. Sharp, tormenting pulses that stretch your orgasm out until your muscles shake and tighten. 

"That's it," he groans, voice rough and low, the sound curling in your chest like smoke, settling warm in places you will discard and clean come morning. "Fucking take it, just like that—oh god—"

He's faltering now, his perfect rhythm stumbling like rain dripping off rooftops. Stuttering, spilling, losing the composure he loves to lord over you. His cock pulses deep inside you, and his breath comes jagged against your neck, cold and sweet like the first hint of rain on hot concrete.

You feel everything—his heat, his weight, the way his face presses into your shoulder as he finally lets go with a low groan that vibrates through your damp skin.

It's too much. It's not enough. It's everything, and nothing, and shit you swore you'd never feel again after January. 

But here you are, shivering and gasping as aftershocks roll through you, your thighs still locked around your insufferable, infuriating, insanely talented roommate.

Here you are, with the scent of rain and sex and vanilla all tangled together, the desperate drag of his lips against your neck painting a confession neither of you will acknowledge in the harsh light of day.

Here you are, thoroughly and irrevocably fucked. In every possible sense of the word.

Well, shit.

"Shit," he pants, his chest heaving against yours, his weight pinning you to the coldness of the wall behind you. You can feel his heart thundering against your skin, syncing with the mess he's made of you, with the rain still drumming against the window. 

Outside, the water droplets tap against the glass like they're keeping score. 

You try to catch your breath. Try to find your footing in the aftermath of whatever the fuck this was. It wasn't supposed to happen again. Not after January. Not now that you're roommates and everything's complicated enough without adding this mess back into the mix.

You try not to think about how this changes things, about how you'll have to face him across the breakfast table tomorrow, about how his coffee will still be too strong and his smirk will still make you want to either kiss him or kill him.

And then, because he's always unfailingly, infuriatingly him, his lips curve against your shoulder in that stupid smirk you can feel without seeing.

"So," he murmurs, still breathless but somehow maintaining that cocky edge that makes you want to shut him up all over again. "Round two?"

You smack the back of his head, but you're too boneless to put any real force behind it. "Shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

"I literally just did."

"Mm, true." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his stupid face is all flushed and satisfied. "But I bounce back quick."

Of course he does. Fucking energizer bunny with a perfect dick. The universe really has it out for you, huh?

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. "Get off me."

"That's not what you were saying two minutes ago."

"I'm going to murder you." And you mean it. You really, really do. Just as soon as your legs start working again and the pleasant ache between your thighs subsides.

His grin widens as he carefully sets you down, making sure your legs are steady before letting go. Like he's being considerate or some shit. "Kinky."

You want to strangle him. The urge is almost overwhelming. But your body feels like someone replaced your bones with jello, and your brain is still fuzzy from what was definitely, infuriatingly, the best fuck of your life (which you will take to your grave, thank you very much), so instead you just glare at him as he deals with the condom.

"You're the worst," you mutter, already scanning the room for your clothes. Your hoodie is... somewhere. You think you saw it fly over the bean bags earlier. Oops.

He glances at you over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his stupidly attractive face. "Yeah? Worst you ever had?"

"I hate you. Forever." The words don't have near enough venom when they're still shaky and fucked-out.

"Noted." He stretches, all casual and unbothered like he didn't just rail you senseless against a window. Like his skin isn't still flushed and marked up from your nails. "Shower?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Separately."

"Where's the fun in that?" His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and you hate how it makes heat pool low in your stomach again. Stupid sexy bastard.

"Jungkook."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are still dancing with amusement. The prick. "Fine, fine. Ladies first."

You flip him off as you gather your clothes, trying to ignore the way your legs still feel like they're made of rubber. "What a gentleman."

"Always am, Phoenix," he says, and it's so smug, so him, that you can't help yourself.

"Whatever, Rogue." You snatch up your sweater with a bit more force than necessary.

He pauses mid-stretch, looking at you with one eyebrow raised. "That's sticking now?"

You blink at him, caught off guard. "What?"

"The nickname," he clarifies, eyebrows still quirked. "Rogue. That's sticking?"

Right. The nickname. The one you threw at him earlier in a fit of pique when he was being his usual insufferable self, poking and prodding and generally just getting under your skin in a way no one else can. 

It had slipped out without much thought. A jab at his whole selfish, reckless, fuck-the-rules vibe. You didn't think he'd actually latch onto it.

"Oh, uh..." Quick, think of something witty. Something casual. Something that doesn't scream 'I'm overthinking the implications of giving you a pointed nickname.' "I mean, yeah. If the shoe fits, Rogue."

Nailed it.

Jungkook smirks like he can read your inner spiral—which, honestly, he probably can because your poker face is absolute shit right now—and leans back against the window all casual, arms crossed over his unfairly toned chest. "I'm down for this sticking too, you know."

You pause, pulse tripping a bit. Because he isn't talking about the nickname anymore, is he? No, he's talking about this. You and him. Fucking on any available surface like a pair of teenagers who just discovered what their junk is for. 

He's talking about doing this again. Often, from the sounds of it. And that...

Well.

It makes sense, doesn't it? Strictly from like, a logistical standpoint. You're both busy, stressed-out college kids. Having a reliable hookup on call who already knows exactly how to make your toes curl? That's just... smart. Efficient. Mutually beneficial.

It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just sex.

Really, really good sex.

"Yeah," you say, ignoring the unwise way your heart kicks at the idea. "Okay. Sure."

Both his eyebrows raise at that, surprise flickering across his face, and the rare sight makes something in your chest swell with misplaced pride. Wasn't expecting that, was he?

"Yeah?" he double checks, like he's wary of spooking you. Like you'll change your mind if he makes any sudden movements.

You roll your eyes. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

He watches you for a moment longer, trying to gauge if you're serious or just fucking with him, then grins. That boyish, shit-eating grin that makes you want to do all kinds of inadvisable things. "Alright then."

"But," you add quickly, before he can say something to ruin this perfectly practical arrangement. "We need ground rules. Like, bathroom's off limits. And no morning sex. I'm not trying to be late to class because you couldn't keep it in your pants."

"I didn't hear you complaining about my lack of pants control a few minutes ago," he points out, shit-eating grin still firmly in place.

"I'm serious, Jungkook."

"Okay, okay. I got it. No bathroom banging, no morning nookie. Anything else, your majesty?" 

You flip him off with all the dignity you can muster while standing there in no bra and sex hair. Which is, admittedly, not much. "I'll let you know."

"I wait with bated breath," he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. But there's something else there too. Something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction. 

You're definitely going to regret this, aren't you?

But as you head towards the bathroom, sore in all the right places, skin still tingling from his touch, regret feels like a problem for future you. 

Present you? She's got a date with a steaming hot shower and the goal of scrubbing the lingering scent of rain off her skin.

(You're not thinking about why your vanilla body wash suddenly smells like a promise. You're not.)

⋆｡°✩ bonus ✩°｡⋆

i did a sketch thingy of the window scene! enjoy :)

also remember it’s a reader insert, so her hair color is not canon. you can imagine her however you want. i just chose pink because it fit the color palette!!!

⋆｡°✩taglist ✩°｡⋆ @cannotalwaysbenight

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟔

“trouble & temptation”

"Maybe instead of fighting it… we just let it happen." And there it was—the line they'd been dancing around, finally drawn in the sand. The question was: who would cross it first?

next | index | wc: 4.6k

↪︎author's note : hello my beautiful disaster bi's and non-bi's! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ your resident trash author is back with another chapter of this mess™️ first of all: thank you SO MUCH for all the comments and kudos!!! like seriously, my therapist is concerned about how much serotonin i get from them but whatever mom, let me have this. you're all literally keeping me alive (along with concerning amounts of energy drinks but we don't talk about that). also shoutout to the anon who made fun of jungkook on the previous chapter for tryna play it off, how he noticed her change in cologne 😭. you're so real for that. as his creator, yes he’s stupid like that. unfortunately he keeps escaping the timeout corner and doing whatever the fuck he wants. the audacity of this man, i swear. speaking of audacity... this chapter. THIS CHAPTER. i wrote most of it at 3am while my roommate was threatening to hide my laptop because "normal people sleep at night kiki" but jokes on her, i am fueled by spite and insomnia ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ fair warning: the sexual tension in this one might actually set your phone on fire. i'd apologize but like... we all know what we signed up for here. blame jungkook, he's the one who doesn't know how to act. also yes, the book club group chat was 100% inspired by my own chaotic friends who keep adding me to group chats with increasingly unhinged names. yeji is basically a self-insert at this point and i refuse to be ashamed of it. as always, comments feed my soul and might actually convince me to maintain a semi-regular posting schedule (no promises though, adhd brain goes brrr). next chapter is... well. let's just say y'all might need to keep some ice water handy (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄) - kiki p.s. yes, i did have to rewrite half this chapter because i forgot to save. no, i have not learned my lesson. yes, my laptop is held together with spite and prayer at this point.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"Great. Just fucking great."

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the dark, sticky stain below your chin. The smell is horribly obnoxious and sweet as it clings to the fabric of your shirt—and it somehow manages to make the whole situation worse.

"Yeah, well, next time don't throw your drink like you're auditioning for The Real Housewives," Jungkook mutters, tugging at the waistband of his stained sweatpants.

You glare at him, not even bothering to hide your disgust. "Next time, don't steal my fries."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes like you're the unreasonable one here. "You're so fucking dramatic."

"And you're so fucking annoying," you snap, crossing your arms. But the sticky fabric presses against your skin, and you wince, instantly regretting the movement.

Jungkook notices, and he smiles, for good measure. "What's wrong, Phoenix? Soda shirt ruining your day?"

You resist the urge to throw the nearby apple into his face. Instead, you sigh sharply, looking to the side. "I need to change."

"Good idea," he drawls, glancing pointedly at your ruined top. "Because honestly? You look like a walking commercial for bad decisions."

"Like you're one to talk," you shoot back, gesturing to the dark mistake spreading across his gray sweats. "You're one step away from being a Tide commercial."

He looks down, frowning slightly before shrugging it off. "At least I still look good."

Your mouth opens to argue, but then—because the universe is a bitch like that—Yoongi's bedroom door creaks open.

He steps out of his room with the energy of a man who's seen far too much in one night. His gaze flicks between you and Jungkook, narrowing slightly.

"Are you two seriously still at it?"

You bite back a retort, but Jungkook? Of course, he has to push it.

"She's mad because she doesn't know how to hold a drink."

Yoongi raises a brow, clearly unimpressed. "I don't care. Just clean yourselves up and keep it down."

And then, before either of you can reply, he gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. "Figure it out. Preferably without killing each other."

The door to his room shuts with a resounding click, leaving you and Jungkook alone in silence.

"Great," you mutter, brushing past him. "I'll go first."

But Jungkook steps in front of you, his shoulders broad and unmovable as a wall. "Uh, no. I'm going first."

"You've got to be kidding me," you scoff, glaring up at him.

He crosses his arms, looking down at you like he thinks he's super cool or something. "What, you think I'm just gonna sit around in sticky sweatpants while you take your sweet time?"

"Yes," you deadpan, pushing past him.

But he sidesteps, blocking you again. "Nope. Not happening, Phoenix."

"Jungkook," you hiss, your tone low and dangerous. "Move."

"Make me," he challenges, leaning down just enough to be obnoxious.

God, what a way to be annoying.

"You're impossible."

"And you're slow."

And just like that, the fucker is already moving toward the bathroom door. Before you can stop yourself, you grab his wrist. He freezes, his eyes darting down to where your fingers wrap around skin. For a second—a single, breathless second—neither of you moves.

"Jungkook," you say, your voice quieter now, though no less pissy. "Just let me go first. It'll take two minutes."

He regards you for a hot second, gaze flicking up to meet yours. Yeah, he's not backing out. How can someone be so insufferable?

"You're not going first," he says, voice tight. "Not after you started this mess."

"Oh, so it's my fault now?"

"Obviously."

You see how the door looms behind him, bathroom practically glowing like a promised land. But there's no way he's going to move.

"Fine," you snap, throwing your hands up in frustration. "We'll both go."

His brows shoot up. "What?"

"You heard me," you say, already stepping forward. "You want to be stubborn? Fine. We'll share the stupid bathroom."

He stares at you like you've lost your mind, and maybe you have. But fuck him and his childish antics, honestly.

"You're serious," he says, his tone disbelieving.

"Dead serious," you reply, brushing past him to open the door.

The interior of the bathroom is... small. Much smaller than you had expected, actually. The vanity and sink are immediately visible upon entry. To the right at the back, there's a shower just big enough for one. And right next to the door... the toilet.

Perfect. Because this couldn't possibly get any worse.

"Move. You're blocking the way."

And you do move, but not because he said so. Because he's obnoxious and you really don't want to spend one more second in his proximity than absolutely necessary. The further away, the better.

You head for the sink, grabbing one of the scrub brushes from the shelf. Jungkook grabs the other. You glare at his reflection, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this more than he should.

God, this is going to be a nightmare.

You begin scrubbing the sticky stain off your shirt, the soda obnoxiously rooted to the piece of clothing like it's been fused there by some petty god. You glance back at the mirror, biting back a groan when you realize the mess has only gotten worse.

"Fucking useless," you mutter, tossing the tool into the sink.

Behind you, Jungkook shifts, the sound of fabric rustling drawing your attention. Your glance moves over your shoulder, only to freeze mid-motion. His hands are at the waistband of his sweatpants. The absolute bastard.

"What the actual fuck are you doing?!" You'd like to say it came out calm, but really it was more of a shriek.

"Taking my pants off, what's it look like?"

"I can see that, the question is why—"

"Because I'm not about to scrub my dick with a brush, Jesus." He makes a face. "Gotta take 'em off to scrub 'em, don't I?"

He yanks the waistband down, his movements unbothered and far too casual for what's happening right now.

Your jaw drops as his sweatpants slide down his legs, pooling around his ankles. He kicks them off with a casual flick of his foot, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that cling to him in a way that should probably be illegal.

"What the fuck?" you hiss, snapping your gaze away and throwing a hand up to shield your face like that'll somehow erase what you've just seen.

"What?" Jungkook says, and his voice is so nonchalant it makes you want to strangle him.

"Jesus Christ, you could've warned me!"

He snorts, leaning down to grab the sweats like he doesn't have an inch of shame to his name. "Warn you for what? It's not like I'm naked."

"You're close enough!" you shoot back, your voice rising indignantly.

"Relax," he drawls, grabbing the brush he'd left on the counter and running it under the faucet. "You're acting like you've never seen a guy in his underwear before."

"Not one I have to live with," you snap, keeping your gaze firmly on the tiles beneath your feet. The grout is chipped in places, the white faded to gray, and oh my god, why are you noticing this?

"You're being ridiculous," he says, tone amused as he starts scrubbing at the stain on his sweatpants. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—" You whip around, fully prepared to unload on him, only to instantly regret it when your gaze lands on his stupidly muscular thighs.

What the hell does this guy do, squat furniture?

"Phoenix," he says, and the smug lilt in his voice grates against your nerves. "If you're gonna keep staring, at least be useful and hand me the soap."

Your cheeks burn as you snatch the soap off the counter and slam it down next to him.

"Here. Happy?"

"Very," he says with a grin, and the way his dimples pop out makes you want to scream.

You turn back to the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink as you try to focus on literally anything other than the half-naked man behind you. But of course, the cramped space makes it impossible to ignore him—the rustling of fabric, the quiet muttering under his breath as he scrubs at his sweats, the occasional brush of his arm against yours when he moves.

"God," you mutter, scrubbing at the damn thing on your shirt with renewed vigor. "I hate this apartment."

"Sure you do," Jungkook says, clearly disbelieving.

You glare at him in the mirror, but he's too busy wringing out the wet fabric to notice. His biceps flex with the motion, and you instantly regret looking.

This is hell.

Your gaze flickers back to yourself in the mirror, grimacing at the dark spot that's spreading like a bad decision across the front of your shirt. He keeps at it, and you really can't help but briefly notice the sight of his broad back, those stupidly toned shoulders, and—ugh—those thighs you're actively trying not to think about.

But then you catch his eyes in the mirror.

He's not focused on his sweatpants anymore.

He's looking at you.

Specifically, at your shirt.

Your movements falter, and you huff, "What?"

Jungkook meets your gaze in the mirror, completely unfazed. "You're making a mess."

You scowl, turning back to the stubborn stain as you scrub harder. "Do I look like I give a fuck about your opinion?"

He shrugs, still annoyingly calm. "Clearly not. But if you want to be smart, you should take your shirt off and clean it properly."

The words hit you like a truck. You stop moving, your hand hovering mid-air as your brain screeches to a halt.

"Excuse me?"

"Like I'm doing," he adds, gesturing vaguely to the sweatpants on the sink.

You blink once.

Twice.

And then you whirl around to face him fully.

"You really expect me to undress in front of you?"

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, stopping his motions. "It was just a suggestion. And I meant your top, not, like, getting fucking naked. God."

"Thanks for the clarification," you deadpan, tone infused with sarcasm. "Still not happening."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs again, turning back to his sweatpants as if he literally hadn't proposed the stupidest idea ever.

Hold on that thought.

You cross your arms over your chest, wet shirt making you internally cringe at the sensation.

"I'd rather die than be naked in front of you."

The silence that follows is sharp, cutting through the cramped bathroom like a knife.

One beat.

Two.

And then Jungkook looks up, meeting your gaze with a smirk that makes your stomach flip—and not in a good way.

"But you've been naked in front of me before," he says, voice low, smirk widening as the words settle in the air.

Fucking—

"What?" you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You heard me." His tone is maddeningly casual, like he's talking about the weather and not that night.

Your cheeks burn, and you suddenly can't decide if you want to strangle him or crawl into a hole and never come out. Probably both.

"That was—" you start, but your voice catches, and you curse yourself for how flustered you sound.

"That was what?" Jungkook prompts with that stupid, smug look still plastered across his face.

You glare at him, biting the inside of your cheek. "That was a mistake."

His smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it grows.

"A mistake, huh?"

"Yes. A one-time mistake."

Jungkook's eyes flick down to your shirt—just for a second, but it's enough to send your blood pressure skyrocketing—before he looks back up, tilting his head.

"Okay, Phoenix," he says, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly low tone. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

And fuck, if you don't want to throw the damp brush at his stupid, smirking face.

"You're impossible, you know that?" you quip, throwing the brush down onto the sink in frustration.

"And you're dramatic," Jungkook fires back and shifts his weight, his arms crossing over his bare chest. "Just take it off already. You're making it worse."

"Stop saying that," you hiss.

"Why? Am I wrong?" He gestures at your shirt, the stain still glaringly obvious despite your furious attempts.

"Yes, you're wrong," you say through gritted teeth. "Because I'm not taking it off."

Jungkook's eyebrow quirks. "Why not? Embarrassed?"

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Then prove it." His voice dips lower, teasing, goading.

Your temper snaps. Without thinking, you grab the damn scrubber and hurl it at him with as much force as you can muster. But Jungkook? Bastard catches it effortlessly, reflexes sharp, expression amused.

"Wow. That was mature," he drawls, eyebrow quirked.

"Shut up."

He doesn't shut up, though. Of course, he doesn't. Instead, he steps closer, the brush still in his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping," he says simply, his gaze dropping to the stain on your shirt.

You try to move back, but the edge of the sink digs into your lower back, caging you in place. Jungkook stops in front of you, and now he's close, way too close for comfort.

His eyes flicker up to yours briefly before he raises the damn thing, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he presses it lightly against the stained fabric.

You freeze.

His movements are slow as he begins rubbing. The bristles brush against your skin through the fabric, cool and rough, but it's the weight of his gaze that keeps you rooted in place.

You look down, watching his hand move in small, careful circles. It feels suffocating. He feels suffocating. Hell, the air feels suffocating, pressing down on your chest as your breath catches.

When you finally look up, he's already staring at you.

And God. His eyes are black.

"You're not even scrubbing properly," you say, but your voice wavers.

He doesn't respond. Instead, his free hand grazes against your hip, the touch so light it almost feels accidental.

Almost.

Your heart stutters, your pulse thrumming loudly in your ears. You glance down again, and your breath hitches when you see his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.

"Jungkook," you warn, shakier than you'd like.

He doesn't back off. If anything, he leans in closer, his head dipping slightly as his fingers tug softly at the fabric. His breath ghosts over your cheek, warm and unsteady, and when he speaks, his voice is like gravel.

"Take it off," he whispers.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"No."

The word comes out weaker than intended, lacking the conviction you desperately need right now. And of course, that makes his lips curve into that infuriating smile again—the one that makes you want to commit several felonies. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip, and you hate that your eyes track the movement.

One eyebrow arches up, perfect and precise, and he looks amused. Like he's analyzing you, your reactions.

"Is it because you want me to take it off for you, Phee?" His voice drops lower. "You know... like last time?"

Last time.

Last time, when his hands were sliding under your dress, peeling it off slowly, teasingly. Fingers tracing your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Fuck you," you snap, trying to push the image away.

His smirk widens. "You already did."

Heat floods your cheeks. You shove at his chest, but he barely moves, solid and warm under your palms. Shit. Touching him was definitely a mistake because now you can feel his skin, smooth and far too hot beneath your hands.

"Why, you offering again?" he teases, and god, you want to slap that smug look right off his face.

"In your dreams," you bite back, but your hands are still on his chest, and you can feel his heart beating steady and strong beneath your fingers.

"Yeah," he agrees easily, voice dropping to a whisper. "Plenty of times."

Your stomach flips. But your body won’t listen.

"Move."

"I will." His fingers ghost along the hem of your shirt again, sending shivers up your spine. "As soon as you admit it."

"Admit what?" But you already know. Of course you know.

"That you wanna do it again." His thumb manages to brush against the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans, and you hate how your body reacts immediately.

"I don't."

You can hear your own brain. It's calling you a big fat liar.

"Come on..." He steps closer, if that's even possible in this tiny bathroom, and the heat from his body seems to seep into yours. "It doesn't have to be that complicated, Phoenix."

You don’t mean to stammer, but maybe you do. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying we've already crossed the line, Phoenix." His voice is quiet, but every word lands heavy, like he's dropping stones into the pit of your stomach. "Maybe instead of fighting it..."

He pauses, his fingers lightly skimming their way upwards.

"...we just let it happen."

Your heart stops.

For a second, you think you've misheard him. That maybe the pounding in your ears has drowned out the real meaning of his words. But the look on his face—the calm, collected confidence in his dark eyes—says otherwise.

"You're insane," you say, but it sounds weak and stupid.

Jungkook shrugs, his smirk creeping back. "Maybe. But you're thinking about it, aren't you?"

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. Goddamn him, he's right.

He takes a small step back, finally giving you room to breathe. But the distance doesn’t help. If anything, it only makes the weight of his words settle deeper in your chest.

"Think about it," he says softly, his tone lighter now but still cutting. "Could save us both a lot of trouble."

You don't move, rooted to the spot as he reaches for the towel hanging on the rack and tosses it onto the counter.

"Shirt's still a mess, by the way," he adds casually, nodding toward you before turning to leave.

You wait until the door shuts behind him before letting out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The bathroom feels absurdly quiet now, as if his absence has left a strange kind of void. You stare at your reflection in the mirror—at the stain still clinging stubbornly to your shirt—and scowl.

Idiot, you mutter under your breath, though you're not entirely sure who you mean.

Because no matter how much you want to forget the way his words linger—soft, suggestive, impossible to ignore—you know you won't.

Not tonight.

Not for a while.

You're sprawled out on your bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like a turtle, when your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you. The screen lights up with Emma's name, and you swipe it open without a second thought.

Emma: 𝚠𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚞𝚙

You: 𝚗𝚖. 𝟹 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚐 Emma: 😶 𝚙𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚃𝚒𝚔𝚃𝚘𝚔. You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 Emma:  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝙿𝚂. 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚙 You: 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢

There's a pause. Then:

Emma: 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙰𝙻𝙻. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 Emma: 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍, 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 You: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎... Emma: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙, 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚟𝚢 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔

You snort, setting the phone on your chest for a second before picking it back up. She's always like this—carefree, sharp, and, on occasion, insufferably confident. Columbia's her whole personality these days, right alongside her obsession with leaving New York for Seattle the second she graduates.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, and before you can overthink it, you type:

You: 𝚜𝚘 𝚞𝚑𝚖 You: 𝚍𝚘 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎

The typing bubble appears and disappears twice before her reply pops up.

Emma: 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 😭 You: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚊𝚗? Emma: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑?? You: 𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 & 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 You: "𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎" Emma: 𝚘𝚖𝚐 𝚆𝙰𝙸𝚃. Emma: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢?? Emma: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 "𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍" 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜???

Your cheeks heat instantly. Why the hell did you tell her that? Oh, right. Because you'd been a little drunk and way too flustered to keep your mouth shut.

You: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚑𝚒𝚖. Emma: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖? You: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 Emma: ???? Emma: ????!?!?? Emma: 𝙷𝙴𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙴???

You drop your phone on your chest for a second, cursing yourself before picking it back up.

You: 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. Emma: 𝚋𝚏𝚏𝚛. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃. You: 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿. Emma: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖???? You: 𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 You: 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 You: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

The typing bubble appears immediately, and you can almost see her losing her mind on the other end.

Emma:: 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚛

Emma: 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗

You: 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

Emma: 𝚞𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑.

Emma: 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

Your jaw drops, and you fire back without thinking.

You: 𝙴𝙼𝙼𝙰. Emma: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could just tell her the truth, spill everything about the moment (it wasn't a moment, you tell yourself), the ways his hand had brushed against your skin earlier, the way his stupid smirk still haunts you.

But instead:

You: 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒'𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜. Emma: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎

You groan, tossing your phone aside as her messages keep coming.

Emma: 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎. Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞.

You grab the phone again, glaring at the screen.

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚛 𝚞 𝚘𝚗 Emma: 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚟

The typing bubble pops up again before her next message lands with the subtlety of a hammer.

Emma: 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

You sit up straighter, the sheer audacity of her words hitting you like a slap in the face. 

You: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. Emma: 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕. You: 𝚗𝚘. Emma: 𝙶𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸𝙸𝚁𝙻. You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 Emma: 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚖 𝚒.

You make a noise, already feeling yourself lose this battle. 

You: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. Emma: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖?? You: 😭😭😭  You: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 Emma: 𝚋𝚌 𝚒'𝚖 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝

You try to come up with an argument that doesn't immediately make you sound like a liar. 

You: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 Emma: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖??? 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 You: 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛?? 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛

But Emma is like a dog with a bone, and she won't drop it. 

Emma: 𝚕𝚖𝚏𝚊𝚘 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 Emma: 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 Emma: "𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜"??? You: 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿.

You throw your phone onto the bed and scream into your hands, but it only buzzes again, pulling you back in. 

Emma: 𝚗 𝚒 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? You: ... Emma: 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃. You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

Her next text doesn't come right away, and you start to think maybe—maybe—she's dropped it. 

Until: 

Emma:𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗. You: 𝚗𝚘. Emma: 𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖. You: 𝚖𝚑𝚖𝚑𝚖𝚑𝚖. Emma: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘. 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘??? 𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. Emma: 𝚒𝚏 𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚍, 𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝙱𝚄𝚃. Emma: 𝚒𝚏 𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍... 👀👀👀

Your eyes widen, disbelief and deep  frustration settling in your chest. 

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊. Emma: 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕. You: 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻 𝙽𝙾. Emma: 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻 𝚈𝙴𝚂. Emma: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢??

You exhale sharply, rubbing your temple because you already know what's coming. 

You: ????? 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. Emma: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝... 𝚍𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘. You: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚛𝚗

Emma, of course, takes this as an opportunity to keep pushing. 

Emma: 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 Emma: 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 Emma: 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢 You: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 Emma: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝?? 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 You: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 Emma: ????? Emma: 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎????

You freeze, the memory of Jungkook's voice from earlier—the way it had dipped just enough to make goosebumps flourish under your skin—breezing through your mind.  

"Maybe instead of fighting it... we just let it happen."  

You swallow thickly, cursing yourself for how hot and bothered that makes you feel. 

You: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 Emma: 𝚘𝚑, 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢? Emma: 𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? Emma: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎. 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜.

You groan, flopping back onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. Emma isn't wrong. She's annoying, but she's not wrong.

Still.

You: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝. Emma: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚂.

You shut your phone off entirely this time, because if you read one more of her messages, you might actually lose your mind. 

But as you sink back into your pillows, you can't stop her words—or his—from bouncing around in your head. 

"Could save us both a lot of trouble."

No. No, absolutely not. 

Right?

But then your phone buzzes again, this time with a notification that makes you snort out loud. Yeji has created a new group chat, the name blazing across your screen in all its glory: 'Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club 📚'.

Great. Perfect. Because clearly what you need right now, while questioning your life choices and definitely not thinking about Jungkook's suggestion, is Yeji's chaos.

You watch as the messages start flooding in:

Fuck The Patriarchy Book Club 📚

Yeji🖤: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 +1 (917) XXX-XXXX: 𝚘𝚖𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚓𝚒 🥺 +1 (212) XXX-XXXX: 𝙰𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝. Yeji🖤: 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜 +1 (212) XXX-XXXX: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐. Yeji🖤: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 +1 (212) XXX-XXXX: 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎.

+1 (212) XXX-XXXX left the group Yeji🖤 added +1 (212) XXX-XXXX to the group

+1 (917) XXX-XXXX:  𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚜 🥺

You can't help but grin, picturing Jin's face right now. He's probably glaring at his phone with that same long-suffering expression he wore at the coffee shop.

You added +1 (917) XXX-XXXX as "Irya🌸" You added +1 (212) XXX-XXXX as "Jin☕️"

Yeji🖤: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 Yeji🖤: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 Jin☕️: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 Yeji🖤: 𝚊𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 Irya🌸:𝙸 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑? 🥺 Yeji🖤: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝙾𝙽𝙴 (𝟷) 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 Jin☕️: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎. You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 Yeji🖤: 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 Yeji🖤: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚎 Jin☕️: 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 Irya🌸: 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋! 📚✨

The randomness of it all makes you grin despite yourself. Trust Yeji to create a group chat solely for chaos and then pretend there's some grand purpose behind it.

Yeji🖤: 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚋𝚒𝚎 Yeji🖤: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 Yeji🖤:  𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? 👀

Your fingers rest above the keyboard. You consider lying—saying everything's fine and you're totally thriving—but what's the point? Yeji seems to be the type to catch lies right away. 

You: 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚜 Yeji🖤: 𝚑𝚘𝚝 Jin☕️: 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚖 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜? Yeji🖤: 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 Irya🌸: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍? 🥺 You: 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜.

You pause, debating how much to share. Because really, how do you explain that your annoying roommate is also the guy who gave you the best orgasm of your life, and now he's suggesting you do it again?

Yeji🖤: 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚜 You: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚊 Yeji🖤: 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 Yeji🖤: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 Irya🌸: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖? 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚎𝚢! ✨ You: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚗𝚘. 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

You bite the inside of your cheek as you type that, because talking is definitely not what Jungkook had in mind earlier. And it's definitely not what you're thinking about now. Nope. Not at all.

The conversation continues, but your mind keeps drifting back to the bathroom. To his words. To the way his fingers felt against your skin.

Maybe instead of fighting it...

No. You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus on the group chat. On anything else.

You: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝? Yeji🖤: 𝚘𝚖𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 Jin☕️: 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎. Irya🌸: 𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 & 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎! 📖✨ Yeji🖤: 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 Yeji🖤: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚢

Of course, she'd say that.

Jin☕️: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

Jin☕️ left the group. Yeji🖤 added Jin☕️ to the group.

You laugh out loud this time, shaking your head at their antics. It's ridiculous—and exactly what you needed right now. A distraction from everything else swirling around in your head.

Even if it's temporary. Even if you can still hear Jungkook's voice in your head, low and tempting:

"Could save us both a lot of trouble."

next | index

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟓

“sticky situations”

"It's in the little things—the way his eyes linger, the way his voice drops, the way he notices what you wear. And maybe that's more dangerous than any fight you could pick with him."

next | index | wc: 6.4k

↪︎author's note : Hi, my loves ('｡• ᵕ •｡') ♡ This chapter feels like a bit of chaos wrapped in tension—a mix of sharp words, petty battles, and something just below the surface that neither of them is ready to admit. Writing Y/N and Jungkook's dynamic here was like threading a needle during a thunderstorm—messy, unpredictable, but so worth it when it lands! There's something about the humor in their bickering, how it's loud and ridiculous, but then… those quiet moments. (God, those moments!) The way something almost shifts, softens, then slips away again before either of them can grab hold of it. And Yoongi? My tired, endlessly patient middleman. He's the glue keeping their world from imploding. Kind of. ('-ω-｀) Let's be honest—he's just trying not to lose his sanity in the crossfire. I hope you feel the layers in this one: the humor, the tension, and the moments where things almost—almost—break. Let me know what sticks with you. Is it the comedy of it all? Or maybe the parts they won't let themselves say out loud yet? Thank you for being here with me. Your kindness, your patience, it means everything. ⭑ With love, Kiki (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

You almost laugh out loud at how serious they look.

The door creaks as you step inside, the weight of the day still dragging at your shoulders. Your backpack slides off onto the floor with an unceremonious thud, and you kick off your shoes, the relief of bare feet on cool hardwood almost divine.

The apartment is dimly lit, save for the flickering glow of the TV in the living room. You hear it before you see it—commentators shouting something about a penalty, the crowd roaring in the background. Football. Of course.

You glance toward the couch, where Yoongi and Jungkook are perched like two overgrown kids at an arcade machine. Yoongi is slouched low, one hand on his knee, the other holding a beer bottle, his expression carrying that focused intensity that makes you wonder if he's actually enjoying himself or plotting murder. Jungkook, on the other hand, is leaning forward like his life depends on it, elbows on his thighs, jaw tight, eyes glued to the screen.

It's 2-2. Whatever that means.

You sigh, stepping further into the apartment, your gaze wandering. The silence in your head feels too loud after a day of constant noise—lectures, study groups, that one guy who wouldn't shut up about his crypto investments. You need a distraction.

Jungkook's door is half-open, and out of pure boredom, your eyes flick to the room. Black, red, and white dominate the space. A few posters cling to the walls, barely visible from where you stand. And there, propped against the far corner of the room, is an electric guitar.

Oh, fantastic. Of course, he's edgy. The universe really said, Here's your new roommate—a walking cliché with a cat.

Your lips twitch, a snort threatening to escape, but you stifle it.

You turn back to the living room, and the sight makes you pause. Yoongi and Jungkook are frozen in the exact same pose, heads tilting slightly as they track the ball across the screen. They look ridiculous, like synchronized statues, and you're tempted to snap a photo just for the sheer comedy of it.

And finally, there's Griffin. The orange ball of fur is sprawled lazily on the armchair, his tail swishing idly against the armrest like he's completely unbothered by the chaos of the game.

You decide to join him. After all, if you're going to be trapped in this testosterone-fueled sports shrine, you might as well have good company.

Stepping forward, you don't bother avoiding the TV. Why would you? It's not like you give two shits about football. Besides, maybe if you're annoying enough, they'll turn it off and you can finally have some peace.

"Hey! What the fuck?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the room as you walk directly in front of the screen.

"Move!" Yoongi barks, his tone clipped, eyes still locked on the game. You catch the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around his beer bottle.

You ignore them both, making your way to the armchair and plucking Griffin up from his spot. He lets out a disgruntled little chirp but doesn't protest as you settle into the seat, placing him on your lap. You run your fingers through his fur, his purring rumbling softly beneath your touch.

At least someone in this apartment has their priorities straight.

"Are you serious right now?" Jungkook growls, finally tearing his gaze away from the screen to glare at you. And you can't help but notice the vein in his neck is practically throbbing—kind of impressive, really.

"What?" you reply innocently, not bothering to look at him. Your fingers continue their gentle strokes through Griffin's fur, each touch deliberate and slow, because you know it's driving him crazy.

"You just walked right in front of the TV!"

"And?" You glance up at him, raising a brow.

"And—" he sputters, gesturing wildly at the screen. "It's a fucking corner! Do you have any idea—"

"Nope." You cut him off, your voice flat, turning your attention back to Griffin. "Don't know. Don't care. Move on."

Silence. One beat. Two. Yoongi doesn't even say anything, just exhales loudly. And honestly, that says enough.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jungkook mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Unbelievable."

"Unbelievable is you getting this worked up over men kicking a ball around," you shoot back, scratching behind Griffin's ears. The cat purrs louder, as if endorsing your sass.

"Men kicking a—" He stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening as he takes a deep breath. "This isn't just men kicking a ball around. It's Liverpool. It's the Premier League. It's—"

"Boring," you finish for him, your tone sugary sweet. The word drops like honey-coated poison, and you can practically see it hit its mark as his eye twitches.

Yoongi’s got that look. You know the one—where he’s trying really hard not to lose his shit while you and Jungkook are at each other’s throats. His fingers tap-tap-tap against his knee, not even bothering with a real rhythm anymore, just pure irritation seeking an outlet. And fuck, you can practically see his patience crumbling with every word you and Jungkook throw at each other.

"Can you two shut up for five minutes?" he says, his voice carrying an edge that wasn’t there before. "They’re about to take the corner."

Jungkook whirls on him, his irritation now split between you and Yoongi. "Did you see what she just—"

"Corner, Jungkook," Yoongi interrupts, his voice sharp. "Shut. Up."

Silence drops like a lead weight. Heavy. Suffocating. And okay, maybe you shouldn’t find it so satisfying, but the way Jungkook’s shoulders tense up—like he’s physically biting back whatever bullshit he wants to spew—is kind of hilarious. He throws himself back against the couch with all the grace of a toddler denied candy, arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes flick to you again, narrowing.

"Why are you even sitting there?" he finally says.

"Because Griffin’s here," you reply simply, gesturing to the cat now curled up on your lap. "And unlike you, he’s actually pleasant company."

Jungkook scoffs, turning back to the TV. "Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. That’s my chair."

"Oh, is it?" You feign surprise, leaning back and sinking further into the cushion. The fabric is warm where Griffin was lying, and you make a show of settling in deeper. "Huh. Feels like mine now."

His head snaps toward you again, eyes blazing. "You can’t just—"

"Can. Did." You smirk, patting Griffin’s head. "Thanks for warming it up for me, though."

You can see the moment his blood pressure spikes. It’s written all over his face—in the clench of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers grip the armrest like he’s trying to strangle it.

But before he can say whatever bullshit he’s cooking up, Yoongi lets out this long-suffering exhale that honestly deserves an Oscar. You both turn to look at him, and holy shit—the sheer done-with-this-shit radiating off him could probably stop a freight train. Like, if exhaustion had a face, it’d be Yoongi right now, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to physically hold back a stroke.

"I swear to God, if you two don’t shut the fuck up—"

"Tell her that!" Jungkook protests, pointing an accusatory finger in your direction.

"Tell him that," you counter, mimicking his tone perfectly.

Yoongi is actually about to lose his shit, you can tell. He’s giving you both this look that could probably melt concrete. Like, you can physically feel his patience evaporating into the air.

"Both of you. Quiet. Now."

You bite back a grin, turning your attention back to Griffin. Jungkook mutters something under his breath, probably cursing you out, but you’re too busy enjoying your victory to care. The commentators on the TV are shouting again, something about a header, and Yoongi leans forward, his focus snapping back to the game.

Jungkook’s glare burns into the side of your face, but you don’t acknowledge it. Because, honestly? You’re having too much fun pissing him off.

Griffin’s warmth seeps into your lap, his purring the only thing making this testosterone-fest slightly bearable. Like, seriously? The apartment’s basically turned into a shrine to Liverpool FC at this point, and you’re about ready to lose it.

God, you’re so fucking bored. The kind of bored where counting ceiling tiles starts to sound like a fun weekend activity. Maybe you should start a podcast about paint drying—bet it’d be more entertaining than watching these two lose their minds over men in shorts.

TikTok’s not even helping anymore. You’ve scrolled through enough thirst traps, "day in my life" vlogs, and that one guy who’s somehow universally decided to be everyone’s internet boyfriend. Your thumb’s on autopilot through the For You page while Griffin’s tail lazily swishes under your elbow, and the boredom’s really settled in now, making itself at home like that relative who doesn’t get the hint to leave.

It’s getting late, your throat’s dry, and your stomach’s ready to start a riot. But these two idiots? They’re not moving. Like, at all. Their dedication to this game is borderline cultish—you could probably commit arson and they’d just ask you to keep the flames away from the TV.

So you do the only logical thing left: open Uber Eats.

The app loads, and you scroll through options with the precision of a surgeon. Pizza? Too heavy. Sushi? Too expensive. Tacos? Perfect. You’re punching in your order when a loud cheer erupts from the couch, the sudden noise making Griffin’s ears twitch.

Jungkook throws his fists into the air, his voice cracking as he yells, "YES! YES! GET IN!"

You glance up just in time to see Yoongi give a small fist bump, his version of enthusiasm, while Jungkook is practically vibrating off the couch. It’s honestly comical, the contrast between their reactions—like watching a hurricane next to a gentle breeze.

"Did they score or something?" you ask flatly, thumb hovering over the confirm order button.

"Or something," Jungkook snaps without even looking at you,

And maybe there’s a breathless quality to his voice, and maybe it’s a bit hot. But you’re not going to think about that, because really, brains get weird when they’re hungry.

"Cool," you deadpan, hitting confirm. The action feels satisfyingly final, like putting a period at the end of a particularly annoying sentence.

The next fifteen minutes are a study in how two grown men can literally forget to blink while staring at a TV screen. You’ve been scrolling mindlessly through your phone, half-listening to the commentators lose their shit over what sounds like absolutely nothing, when Griffin decides to flip onto his back like he’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Cat. And honestly? Work it, king.

Then the doorbell rings.

The sound cuts through the commentary like a gunshot, making both guys flinch so hard you’d think someone tasered them. The way they jump in perfect sync would be comedy gold if it wasn’t so sad.

You carefully deposit Griffin back on the armchair with a whispered, "Don’t get too comfortable," and head for the door.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Jungkook suddenly says, his voice sharp with panic.

You glance back and see both him and Yoongi standing now, frozen mid-motion in front of the TV, their bodies angled toward the screen like it’s actually about to vanish. The intensity in their expressions makes you wonder if they realize how ridiculous they look—like someone hit pause on a particularly dramatic scene in a B-grade sports movie.

"What now?" you ask, already annoyed. The smell of your food is wafting through the door, and your stomach growls in response.

"It’s a corner," Yoongi mutters, as if that explains anything. It doesn’t. But his eyes are fixed on the screen with an almost religious devotion, and you swear you can see his left eye twitching.

"Oh my God," you sigh, opening the door. The delivery guy stands there, holding a bag of tacos that smells like salvation. You grab it, handing him a couple of crumpled dollar bills from your pocket.

"Thanks," you say, stepping back inside and shutting the door with your foot. The sound is somewhat loud, but neither of your roommates even flinches.

As soon as you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of Jungkook and Yoongi still glued to the screen. They’re both standing now, leaning slightly forward, as if their collective focus can somehow will a goal into existence. And honestly? The TV light hitting their faces makes them look even more unhinged than usual—if that’s even possible.

You shake your head, walking past them to plop back down on the armchair. Griffin immediately claims your lap again, his tail curling around your arm as you set the food on the coffee table. Thank god for this cat—at least one being of the male species in this apartment still has his sanity intact.

Unwrapping your drink, you take a long sip, savoring the sugary coldness. It’s good. The perfect counterbalance to whatever is happening on the screen—which basically is a bunch of grown men chasing a ball while your roommates act like it’s the literal apocalypse.

Yoongi mutters something under his breath, and Jungkook groans loudly, throwing his head back in frustration. Man’s really overdoing it, the sound almost pornographic in its intensity. You nearly choke on your drink.

"Relax," you say, tearing open a taco wrapper. "It’s just a game."

The words hang there for a second, and holy shit—you swear the room actually gets colder. Jungkook whips his head around so fast you’re half expecting his neck to snap. And the look he’s giving you? Pure horror. Like you just told him you kick puppies for fun or actually enjoy Nickelback.

"Just a game?" The way he says it is... different. Low and rough, like he’s physically holding back from losing his shit. And okay, maybe it makes your skin do this weird tingly thing, but that’s probably just your fight-or-flight response kicking in.

You glance up, chewing slowly, and give him your best unimpressed look. "Yeah. Just a game."

His nostrils flare, and you watch with mild fascination as a muscle in his jaw jumps. "You wouldn’t get it."

"Oh no," you say, mockingly wide-eyed. "You’re right. I don’t understand the deep emotional complexities of men running after a ball."

You layer the sarcasm on thick, letting it drip off your words like the sweetest kind of venom. And yep—there it is. His eyes narrow, that little twitch of annoyance you’ve gotten way too good at triggering. Honestly? Kind of satisfying.

"Okay, you need to stop talking," Jungkook snaps, his attention flicking back to the screen. But there’s a tension in his shoulders now that wasn’t there before, and you know you’ve successfully gotten under his skin.

"Gladly," you mutter, taking another bite. The taco is perfect—just the right amount of spice to match the heat of your satisfaction at pissing him off.

Yoongi doesn’t even glance at you, his eyes still glued to the game. But his voice is tired, worn thin like an old rubber band. "Can you two not? It’s literally the last 10 minutes."

"Tell him that," you say around a mouthful of taco, gesturing toward Jungkook with all the grace of someone who’s actively trying to be annoying.

"Tell her that," Jungkook shoots back without missing a beat, and the childish mimicry makes you want to throw something at his head.

Yoongi exhales heavily, and he looks like he’s two seconds away from strangling you both. "I am so close to kicking both of you out."

"Good luck with that," you mutter, leaning back against the armchair with Griffin nestled on your lap as you sip at your drink.

And you know what? It’s okay, because the tacos are still warm, the fries perfectly salted, and you’re just starting to feel the kind of smug satisfaction that only good food and pissing off Jungkook can provide.

Or you were—right up until you see it.

The audacity. The sheer fucking gall.

Jungkook’s hand is halfway into your fry box, his fingers curling around the golden, crispy treasures like he’s the main character in some heist movie. Except, spoiler alert: he’s not slick. And you’re not about to let this slide.

Your eyes zero in on his hand like a heat-seeking missile. Time seems to slow down, each second stretching like molasses as you watch his fingers close around your fries. The absolute nerve of this man. The unmitigated audacity. The colonial-level entitlement.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" you snap, your voice cutting through the sound of the TV like a whip.

Jungkook freezes, his hand still in the fry box, and for a moment, he just stares at you like you’re the one who’s out of line. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls his hand back—with the fries still in it.

You take it back. Everything is not okay.

"What? They’re just fries," he says, popping one into his mouth like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The way his lips curl around the word ‘just’ makes you want to commit several felonies.

"Not your fries," you bite out, snatching the box away from him and cradling it protectively like it’s a newborn baby.

"Christ, you’re so fucking dramatic," he mutters, leaning back on the couch with that cocky little smirk plastered across his face.

"Dramatic?" You glare at him, your grip tightening on the box. "Says the guy who threw a goddamn tantrum over a missed goal ten minutes ago."

"That wasn’t a tantrum," he retorts, his tone sharp. "It was a valid reaction to bullshit officiating."

"Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were the fucking expert on what’s valid," you shoot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Okay, you need to calm the fuck down," he snaps, his smirk giving way to an irritated scowl. The transition happens so fast it’s almost beautiful—like watching a storm roll in over calm waters.

"Don’t tell me to calm down when you’re the one stealing my food, you asshole!"

"Asshole?" he repeats, leaning forward like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "You’re calling me an asshole over a few fries?"

"Yes, because you are one! Who does that? Who just reaches over and takes someone else’s shit without asking?"

"It’s not that deep, Phoenix," he sneers, using one of your damn fries to point at you.

And yeah, he’s still using that fucking stupid-ass nickname, and you don’t know if it’s the way it rolls off his tongue like he owns it or the fact that he keeps using it when you’ve told him to stop. But something hot and angry coils in your chest.

That’s it. You’re done.

"You fucking—" You lunge forward, aiming to grab the fry he’s holding just to prove a point, but the motion jostles your drink.

The cup tilts too far, the lid popping off as the cold liquid spills out in a torrent of sticky soda. The dark liquid arches through the air, and you swear it happens in slow motion. It’s tragic.

"Fuck!" you shout, jerking back as the drink splashes across your lap, soaking into your shirt and dripping onto the floor. The cold seeps through the fabric immediately, making you gasp.

"What the fuck, Phoenix?!" Jungkook yells, jumping up as the soda splashes onto his sweatpants, the dark stain spreading across the fabric.

"You’re fucking kidding me!" you bark, holding up your now-empty cup as if to accuse him of some unforgivable crime.

"I’m kidding? You’re the one who flipped your shit over fucking fries!"

"Because you stole them!"

"Oh my fucking God, you’re insane," he snaps, his voice rising. The vein in his neck is pulsing now, and you hate that you notice it.

"You’re a fucking thief!" you counter, standing, and god does murder sound good right now.

"Are you hearing yourself right now? It’s fucking food!"

"Exactly! My food! The one I paid for!"

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "You’re literally overreacting."

"Yeah? Maybe I wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a colossal dick!"

"Me? A dick? You’re the one who—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Holy shit. You actually jump, because what the fuck? Yoongi? Quiet, mind-his-own-business Yoongi just went full drill sergeant on your asses. Like, you’ve lived here three days, and you’ve barely heard him speak above a whisper.

You both whip around to stare at him. He’s still sprawled on the couch, beer in one hand while the other’s gripping his neck like he’s physically holding back a stroke. And the way he’s looking between you and Jungkook? If looks could kill, your bodies would already be decomposing.

"It is the 91st minute, and I swear to fucking God, if you two don’t sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, I will throw you both out the goddamn window."

Then it's just... silence.

Because, really, what are you supposed to say—to do—after that? Your tongue aches from biting back the words you really want to say, the ones that would definitely make things worse. The heat climbing up your neck feels suffocating, your glare burning holes into Jungkook’s stupid, smug face.

And of course—because why wouldn’t he?—the asshole just stares back at you like this entire mess is a joke he's already won.

No, scratch that. He doesn’t just look unbothered. He looks fucking delighted with himself. Like he's cracked some inside joke you’ll never be in on. It’s the specific brand of smugness that makes you want to introduce his head to the nearest wall. Repeatedly.

And then, as if to crown himself King of Petty, he chews. Obnoxiously.

His jaw works in slow, exaggerated movements, lips parting just enough for you to see every agonizingly deliberate crunch. It’s so performative, so fucking calculated, it’s clear he’s doing it just to piss you off. The wet, smacking sound is a declaration of war, echoing like he’s trying to summon Satan himself to test your patience.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" you hiss, nails digging into the fabric of the armrest like that's going to hold back your rage.

He doesn't reply. Oh no. He just keeps chewing, loud and messy, his gaze locked on yours with the kind of shit-eating grin that makes you want to grab the nearest object and hurl it directly at his stupid face.

And then, because he's the walking, talking embodiment of fuck around and find out, he flips you off.

A slow, deliberate middle finger. Right in your face. The gesture is almost elegant in its pure, distilled disrespect.

You don't even think. Your hand shoots up, flipping him off right back, practically jamming your middle finger into his line of sight. Childish? Yeah. Whatever. You're too far gone to care.

Jungkook snorts, a low, mocking laugh that bubbles up from his chest as he leans back against the couch. He waves you off like you're a mildly annoying fly buzzing around his head, his attention already drifting back to the TV.

"You're so fucking immature," you mutter, crossing your arms and sinking deeper into the armchair, Griffin's soft fur brushing against your elbow as he adjusts on your lap.

"Yeah?" Jungkook murmurs without looking at you, grabbing another fry and tossing it into his mouth. "Takes one to know one, Phoenix."

Your eye twitches. You're about to fire back, but then he suddenly leans forward, his entire body snapping to attention as the commentators' voices rise in unison.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—"

His eyes are glued to the screen, his hand hovering mid-air with another fry poised between his fingers. He's perched on the edge of the couch now, his back arched like it physically pains him not to throw himself into the TV.

"What?" you ask, your tone flat, though you're already bracing yourself for whatever nonsense is about to pop off.

"They're gonna fucking score," he breathes, his voice hushed like he's witnessing the second coming of Christ. The intensity in his expression would be almost impressive if it wasn't so ridiculous.

Yoongi stands up too, his arms crossing over his chest, his entire posture radiating tension. "Don't jinx it," he mutters, but there's a glint of hope in his eyes, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

You glance between the two of them, utterly baffled by their synchronized intensity. It's like watching two grown men about to faint over a goddamn soap opera, except the soap opera is just sweaty dudes kicking a ball.

And then, because karma apparently has a sense of humor, Jungkook chokes on the fry in his mouth.

He lurches forward, coughing violently as one hand slaps against his chest and the other flies up to clutch his temples. His eyes are wide, face turning red as he wheezes like he's about to die.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, leaning away from the armchair as he stumbles to his feet. The spectacle is both concerning and somewhat satisfying—karma really is that bitch.

Yoongi's reaction is immediate, his hands flying to his hips as he barks, "Fucking chew your food, Jungkook!"

"I—fuck—" Jungkook sputters, pounding his chest with his fist as he finally manages to swallow. He's still hunched over, his palms pressed against his temples like he's trying to physically hold his brain together.

And then it happens.

The ball hits the back of the net, and the TV erupts with the sound of the crowd screaming.

"YES! FUCKING YES!" Jungkook shouts, his fists pumping into the air as he jumps up and down like an overgrown toddler. The transition from choking to celebrating is honestly fucking stupid. He's fucking stupid.

"FUCKING BEAUTIFUL!" Yoongi yells, his grin wide as he claps his hands together, his beer sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the bottle. Okay he's stupid too. Maybe a bit less.

They're both screaming, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mess of guttural sounds and incoherent words. Literally two fucking neanderthals discovering fire for the first time.

Griffin bolts.

Because that's what terrified animals do with sudden noises, and so you can't really blame him when he launches himself off your lap with a panicked yowl. But his claws dig into your thigh as he leaps, and it stings, and these two are still being stupid—

"Shit!" you hiss, flinching as you grab at your leg. Griffin darts under the coffee table, his orange fur puffed up like a spooked Halloween decoration.

You glare at the two idiots still celebrating like they've personally won the goddamn match. Jungkook is now pacing in circles, his hands in his hair, while Yoongi is standing with his arms wide, shouting something about "top fucking class."

God, you're so done with this shit. Like, completely done. The cushion's right there. And honestly? Fuck it. You grab it and chuck it as hard as you can, letting all that built-up frustration fly with it.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" you yell as it flies across the room.

"What the fuck?!" Jungkook barks, turning to face you, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"That's for scaring Griffin, you loud-ass caveman!" you snap, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

"It's not my fault he's a fucking coward!" Jungkook shoots back, his voice still loud with leftover adrenaline.

"Oh, fuck you! You're the one who practically screamed his ears off!"

"Both of you," Yoongi repeats, his voice colder than the soda still soaking into your shirt, "shut the fuck up. And clean the damn soda you spilled before it stains. Jesus Christ."

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer dad energy radiating off him. He's standing there, arms crossed, a scowl carving deep lines into his face as he looks between you and Jungkook like you're the absolute bane of his existence.

Jungkook, unbothered as always, sinks back down onto the couch with one arm draped lazily over the backrest. The victory has left him loose-limbed and smug, which somehow makes him even more insufferable.

"It's not my mess," he mutters, grabbing another fucking fry and chewing it like he's auditioning for some slow-motion chewing gum commercial.

You whip your head toward him so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. "Not your mess? Are you fucking kidding me? You're the reason it happened!"

"Oh, right, because you weren't the one flailing around like a lunatic over a box of fries," he retorts.

"Because you stole them!" you snap back, your voice climbing with every word. The sticky fabric of your shirt clings to your skin, reminding you of just how much this night has gone to shit. "If you'd just kept your greasy little fingers to yourself—"

"That's rich coming from someone who eats like a fucking raccoon," Jungkook cuts you off, gesturing vaguely at the taco sauce staining your shirt.

"Raccoon?!"

"Enough!" Yoongi barks, the sheer volume of his voice making both of you flinch. His patience, which has been stretching thinner than cheap plastic wrap all evening, finally snaps. He immediately rubs circles on his temples, muttering something about "fucking children" under his breath before leveling you both with a glare that could bring armies to their knees.

"Clean. The. Fucking. Soda," he says, enunciating each word like he's explaining quantum physics to toddlers. "And you better pray the stains come off, or I'm taking both your shares of the deposit to cover the damages."

Your jaw drops. "My share? Why the fuck would you take my share? I wasn't the one who—"

"You were both involved," Yoongi interjects, his tone final. "I don't give a shit who spilled what. Just clean it. Now."

Jungkook groans, dragging his hands down his face like he's the one suffering here. "Fine. Whatever."

"Fine," you echo, shooting him a glare before standing up, your socks squelching against the sticky floor.

The sound alone makes you cringe, your mood souring further as you glance at the dark stain spreading across the hardwood. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Of course, the soda couldn't spill on the rug that no one gives a shit about. No, it had to seep into the one part of the apartment that actually matters.

You sigh sharply, stomping toward the sink area, your own patience dangling by a thread now. Crouching down, you yank open the small cupboard beneath it, the hinges creaking like even they're also exhausted by tonight's bullshit. The smell of damp wood wafts out, mixing with the faint scent of dish soap as you start rummaging through the cluttered abyss of cleaning supplies.

Dish sponges. A half-empty bottle of something that might've been Windex in a past life. A sad-looking scrub brush that's definitely seen better days. You shove things aside with a little too much force, the sharp clang of plastic bottles echoing in the too-quiet apartment.

Too quiet because he's still there.

And you can feel him.

Jungkook's leaning against the kitchen table behind you, his presence there and annoyingly impossible to miss. You don't even have to turn around to know his expression is that perfect mix of stupid and annoyed—a look he's perfected just for you, really.

"Could you not hover?" you snap without looking up, your hand blindly searching for something—anything—useful in this pit of despair.

"I'm not hovering," he says, his voice flat. "I'm waiting. Because you're taking for-fucking-ever."

You roll your eyes so hard you're surprised they don't roll out of your head. "Maybe if you actually helped instead of standing there like a useless prick—"

"For fuck's sake," he cuts you off, his socks scuffing against the floor as he pushes off the table. "Let me look."

You twist your neck just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. "Shut the fuck up and find a rag or something to clean with, genius."

His mouth twitches, a flicker of amusement breaking through the irritation, and you hate how your stomach twists at the sight of it. Without another word, he leans forward to the sink, reaching over you like you're not even there.

He yanks a rag from the basin, holding it up triumphantly. "Already got one, genius."

You scoff, your fingers finally wrapping around the spray bottle you've been searching for. "Well, I already found the spray, genius." You stand up with it, mimicking his tone in the most childish way possible, your nose wrinkling for added effect.

He snorts as he leans back against the table, the rag dangling from his hand. The tension in the room is thick, and you half-expect him to start another argument, but instead, the sound of a door clicking shut catches both your attention.

Yoongi.

The poor bastard has officially retreated to his room, leaving the two of you to destroy what's left of his sanity in peace.

"Great," you mutter under your breath, turning on your heel and heading back to the soda-stained floor.

Yeah. The sticky mess is still very much present, very much there; dark and spreading like some kind of metaphor for how this whole night has gone.

Jungkook follows, because of course he does, trailing behind you like some kind of annoying shadow. You crouch down near the stain, gripping the spray bottle tightly as he plops down beside you, rag in hand.

"I spray, you clean," you declare, already aiming the nozzle at the sticky mess. The sooner this is over, the sooner you can pretend this whole night never happened.

He freezes, his brows shooting up as he looks at you like you've just suggested committing arson. "What the fuck? That's so much more effort for me."

"Yeah, well, I found the spray, so I make the rules," you counter, trying to channel some authority into your voice. The fluorescent kitchen light catches on his silver ring as he adjusts his grip on the rag, and you force yourself to look away.

"That's the dumbest logic I've ever heard," he mutters, shaking his head. "I spray, you clean."

"Nuh-uh," you shoot back. "I found the fucking spray. You just grabbed a damn rag. Know your place."

His jaw tightens, and for a second, you think he's going to argue further. But then he throws his hands up in exasperation, the rag flopping limply in his grip.

"Fucking fine. Whatever, man."

You finally start spraying haphazardly, the cleaning solution pooling on the hardwood. Jungkook leans forward, scrubbing at the edges of the mess with the rag, his brows furrowed in concentration.

And then he stills.

It's subtle at first, more of a hesitation than an actual stop. You barely notice it, focused on your task, but then his movements falter entirely. The rag hangs limply in his hand, his shoulders stiffening as he shifts slightly in place.

You glance over, just enough to see his head tilt the tiniest fraction.

"What?" you ask, your voice sharper than intended, because what the hell is this fucker doing?

He doesn't answer immediately. His gaze flicks toward you, his lips parting like he's about to say something, but no words come out. Instead, his eyes narrow slightly, his focus dipping—lower.

You blink, caught off guard, and follow his gaze.

It's not your shirt, thank God, though the lingering soda stain clinging to the fabric is mortifying enough. No, he's looking... somewhere else. Just below your chin, maybe, but not in a way that feels lecherous. It's—what the fuck is happening right now?

"What?" you repeat, louder this time, your fingers tightening on the spray bottle.

His jaw shifts, his tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips. The motion is quick, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. Of course you do, because your brain feels like it's operating on high alert for some goddamn reason.

"You're not wearing your usual cologne," he says, his voice lower than it was five seconds ago. Rougher.

The words hit you like a slap, leaving you momentarily stunned.

"...What?"

He doesn't look at you right away. His eyes linger for a beat too long on—what? Your collarbone? The curve of your neck? He's too fucking close for you to figure it out, and it's making your skin crawl, but not in the way you'd prefer.

"It's different," he says finally, sitting back on his heels, his gaze flicking to yours.

A pause. He glances down. Back up. Back down.

"It's not what you normally wear," he adds, his voice quieter now, almost an afterthought.

"Why the fuck would you notice that?"

The question comes out harsher than you mean it to, but you don't take it back. You can't. You're too busy trying to figure out why this—of all things—has got him acting like a fucking weirdo.

He doesn't answer. His gaze flicks down briefly—again—jaw clenching as his thumb rubs over the edge of the rag in his hand. You'd think it was a nervous gesture, but this is Jungkook you're talking about. And Jungkook? He doesn't do nervous.

"No reason," he mutters, and you don't miss how his voice has dipped into something quieter. Thicker.

But the way his jaw tightens? The way his throat bobs when he swallows? It tells you there's a reason.

A fucking big one.

next | index

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟒

espresso and new connections

"Sometimes the best escapes come with free coffee and questionable company. And sometimes the people who annoy you most are exactly the ones you need in your corner."

next | index | wc: 4k

↪︎author's note : Hi, lovely readers ♡ Introducing jin here has been such a joy—he's always been such a fascinating character to me, and i wanted to give him more presence. I feel like he's often sidecasted in fanfics, which makes me sad because he's so wonderfully dynamic. Yeji's brother will be showing up soon ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) and i'm so excited for you to meet him! Also, Irya! She's such a gentle and sweet energy—I've loved weaving in her relationship with yeji. And jimin… Oh, my heart. I really wanted to introduce someone who embodies quiet warmth, and he fit that role so beautifully. This chapter is just the beginning of the little threads i'm weaving together, and i hope you enjoy following them as they connect. Gentle wishes, Kiki (∩ˊᵕˋ∩)♡

"Get out of here, Yeji."

You've barely made it inside the cute but painfully mainstream coffee shop behind her when the comment hits the air. It's loud enough to cut through the cheery hum of soft pop music and the low chatter of patrons.

Your eyes instinctively flick toward the counter, and sure enough, a guy—broad-shouldered, tall, and exuding an aura of long-suffering patience—stands there. His apron says Barista, but the name tag pinned over it reads Jin.

"Glad to see you too, Jinjin," Yeji retorts with a smirk.

She struts in with a kind of skippy, deliberate confidence that only she can pull off. Her combat boots clunk against the tiled floor like a rebellious drumbeat. She throws a glance over her shoulder at you, her sharp green eyes giving you a playful 'you coming?' look before jerking her head toward the counter.

You follow, albeit hesitantly. Yeji, meanwhile, is already heading straight for the counter, completely unbothered by the pointed glare being thrown her way.

"You skipping class again?" Jin drawls, his tone so flat it’s almost an art form.

He hasn’t stopped cleaning the same mug since you walked in, but his narrowed eyes are locked on Yeji like she’s some kind of regular pest.

"Define skipping," she replies, leaning casually against the counter as if they’re old friends—or old enemies who can’t help but tolerate each other.

"Not going to it."

"Then yes," she says breezily, brushing a strand of black hair away from her face. "But don’t act like you’re so shocked. You knew I wasn’t making it through that lecture."

Jin sighs, long and exaggerated, finally setting down the mug. "It’s literally the first week. Can’t you at least pretend you’re trying?"

"Why should I?" Yeji counters, cocking her head. "It’s not like the first week actually matters. It’s all intro slides and professors making bad jokes about their course load."

"You say that like you’ve ever stayed long enough to find out."

Yeji gasps, mock-offended. "I’m hurt, Jinjin. Deeply hurt."

"Good," he deadpans. "Maybe that’ll motivate you to leave and stop scaring off my customers."

She rolls her eyes, glancing at the minimal crowd around the shop. A couple of students hunched over laptops. Someone reading a book in the corner. Hardly bustling.

"Yeah, because this place is thriving without me," she quips, turning to look at you. "This guy has the bedside manner of a brick, by the way."

"Not true," Jin cuts in. "Bricks are useful."

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, and Jin’s gaze flicks to you for the first time. His expression softens, if only slightly, as if he’s re-evaluating why you’re even here.

"You brought backup?" Jin asks Yeji, raising an eyebrow.

"She’s not backup," Yeji says, sliding onto one of the stools. "She’s my… what’s the word… sidekick?"

"I’m not your sidekick," you protest instinctively, but your voice gets drowned out by Jin’s dry response:

"Condolences," he mutters, grabbing a clean mug from the rack.

Yeji grins, unbothered. "Anyway, we’re here for coffee. Two iced lattes, Jinjin. And none of that watered-down crap you made me last time."

"First of all," Jin says, pointing a finger at her, "if you ever call me Jinjin again, you’ll be banned for life. Second of all, I didn’t water it down; you just don’t know what real coffee tastes like."

"And third?" Yeji prompts, resting her chin in her palm.

"Third," Jin continues with an exasperated sigh, "you can pay, or you can leave."

Yeji leans back dramatically. "Wow. Capitalism has truly ruined you."

"And you’re about to ruin my afternoon," Jin shoots back, moving toward the espresso machine.

You glance between the two of them, mildly entertained but still unsure how this turned into a sparring match. Before you can decide whether to intervene or just let them go at it, Jin slides a look in your direction, his voice a fraction less hostile.

"You want anything other than the headache she just ordered?"

You open your mouth to answer, but Yeji interrupts. "She’s fine. Trust me, we’re both having lattes. Make them good."

Jin glares at her one more time but reluctantly gets to work, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like Why do I put up with her?

You’re not sure if you should be amused or concerned by their dynamic, but Yeji catches your expression and grins. "See? Told you I know people."

"Do all the people you know hate you this much?" you ask, earning another smirk.

"Only the fun ones."

And for some reason, you don’t doubt that for a second.

The coffee machine whirs to life as Jin pulls a shot of espresso with practiced ease, his sharp gaze cutting toward Yeji. His expression is pure skepticism, the kind that suggests he’s already predicting her next ten excuses.

"This time," he says, dragging the words out as he places a cup under the milk frother, "you’re actually going to pay me. Right?"

Yeji tilts her head, a picture of faux innocence. "Nope. But next time for sure."

Jin freezes, slowly turning to face her, steam hissing from the machine like it’s mirroring his frustration. "That’s what you said last time."

"Yeah, but last time didn’t count," Yeji replies smoothly, propping her chin in her hand. "We were still in the setup phase of our friendship. You can’t start charging me during the beta test."

"I’ve known you since you were in braces. We’re well past beta testing."

"And yet, you still let me in here," she retorts, her smirk as unshakable as ever. "Almost like you like having me around, Jinjin."

The exaggerated groan Jin lets out is practically a language of its own. "You’re lucky your brother’s my best friend," he mutters, pouring milk into a shiny silver pitcher. "Otherwise, I’d be asking myself why I haven’t changed the locks yet."

Yeji leans back, completely unfazed, and crosses her arms. "Keep that employee discount running, Jin. I didn’t set up your amp for free, remember?"

The words are casual, but something in them pulls at your attention. "Wait," you interrupt, glancing between them. "He’s the one with the employee discount you were just telling me about?"

Both Jin and Yeji look at you. One confused, the other vaguely amused. Jin, for his part, doesn’t miss a beat, turning back to the frothing milk with a scoff.

"That’s how you introduce me? Not, 'This is my super talented friend Jin who has the patience of a saint,' but, 'Oh yeah, he’s the discount guy?' Wow."

"You really are talented," Yeji says, grinning now. "At making coffee for free. Which is a gift I think you should keep giving."

Jin points a measuring spoon at her, his glare narrowing. "Say one more word, Yeji. I dare you."

You press your lips together to stifle a laugh, watching as the two of them slip into what feels like a well-practiced routine of bickering. There’s no real venom behind it, though—more like the kind of comfortable, teasing back-and-forth you’d expect from people who’ve known each other forever.

Yeji leans toward you, stage-whispering loud enough for Jin to hear, "See? Like I said, all the fun people I know hate me."

"You’re not wrong," Jin mutters, tapping the milk pitcher against the counter with finality.

"Okay, but hold on." You turn back to Yeji, furrowing your brow. "Didn’t you say the discount was because you helped some guy set up his amp? That’s Jin?"

Yeji grins unabashedly. "That’s what I just said, isn’t it?"

"Barely," Jin interrupts, placing two cups on the counter. "She’s acting like she wired my entire sound system when all she did was untangle two cords and plug one in."

"Wow," Yeji scoffs, clutching her chest like she’s been wounded. "You mean my contributions to your mediocre cover band don’t count for anything? I bled for that amp, Jin."

"Bled?" Jin repeats, rolling his eyes. "You stubbed your toe on the edge of the stage, and I gave you a Band-Aid."

"Exactly." She leans forward again, whispering to you. "Can you believe this ingratitude? It’s tragic, really."

"Tragic," Jin mimics, shooting her a look. Then he sighs, grabbing the two cups and beginning to fill them with ice. "I don’t know why I even put up with you."

"You love putting up with me," Yeji says confidently, leaning back on the stool. "Admit it."

Jin doesn’t dignify her with a response, instead gesturing toward you with the cups. "You still good with that iced latte? Or are you also going to start demanding free labor?"

"Hey, I didn’t demand anything," you say quickly, raising your hands in mock defense. "I’m just here to witness... whatever this is."

"This," Jin says pointedly, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "is me being the kind and patient soul who tolerates Yeji’s nonsense so no one else has to."

"Generosity like that doesn’t go unnoticed," Yeji says, smirking as she stretches her legs out in front of her.

You watch them, unsure whether to laugh or try to mediate, and ultimately settle on leaning against the counter, shaking your head. "You two are like an old married couple."

Jin freezes mid-pour, a look of horror crossing his face. "Take that back."

Yeji grimaces. "I would never marry you, Jinjin. Don’t flatter yourself."

Jin mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like thank God, and Yeji’s smirk only widens as she kicks her boots up onto the metal rung of the stool, entirely too pleased with herself.

"Just for that," Jin announces, sliding the finished lattes onto the counter with a flourish, "you’re both paying full price today."

"Bold of you to assume I’ll pay at all," Yeji quips, pulling one of the cups toward her.

"Bold of you to assume I won’t spit in the next one," Jin fires back without missing a beat, turning toward the espresso machine like he’s already regretting this entire interaction.

Jin glances over your shoulder, his gaze sharpening. His whole demeanor shifts in an instant from sarcastic barista to mildly professional—though still annoyed.

"Alright," he says, waving a hand as if shooing you out of his immediate vicinity. "Table. Now. I’ve got paying customers to deal with."

You’re about to protest—mostly on principle—but Yeji is already hopping off the stool, clearly unbothered. She jerks her head toward a corner of the café, her expression a mix of smug and satisfied. "Come on, newbie. Let’s leave him to ruin someone else’s day."

Jin mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, You do that just fine on your own, but he’s already turning to greet the person who’s just walked in. You follow Yeji across the small coffee shop, weaving between a couple of mismatched tables until she drops into a seat with all the grace of a cat deciding a counter is her throne.

Except, no cat sprawls quite like Yeji. She kicks out one leg, lets the other fold under her, and leans so far back in the chair you wonder if it’s going to tip. The smirk she throws your way makes it clear she knows exactly what she’s doing.

"Let me guess," you say, sliding into the chair across from her. "You only put up with Jin for the coffee?"

"Obviously." She picks up one of the little sugar packets from the table, fiddling with it. "You think I’d willingly hang out with someone who nags that much? Please."

You tilt your head, skeptical. "You seem to have put up with him for a pretty long time, though."

Yeji stops, the edge of her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. She flicks the sugar packet between her fingers, glancing toward the counter where Jin is now giving another customer the same unimpressed expression he greeted you with.

"Eh," she says finally, shrugging. "He’s my brother’s burden. And by extension, mine."

"Brother?"

"Yeah," she says, waving the sugar packet dismissively before tossing it back onto the table. "You’d never guess it, but Jin’s been lurking around my family for years. My brother’s best friend. Practically part of the furniture at this point."

"And you’re still friends?"

Her grin returns, sharp and teasing. "Friend is a strong word. I’d call him a very persistent houseplant with too many opinions."

You laugh, but there’s something about her tone—light, sure, but with a sliver of honesty just underneath. Like she’s been carrying this particular joke around for years.

"So, what’s your brother like?" you ask. "Is he a houseplant too?"

Yeji’s eyes narrow, her smirk deepening. "Oh, he’s... different. Very unlike me." She crosses her arms, tilting her chair back dangerously far before letting it drop forward with a thunk. "I’m, like, the black sheep of the family. Someone had to be the cool one."

The casual confidence in her voice makes you laugh, but there’s no denying she means it. You can almost picture her as a teenager, stomping through the house in combat boots while everyone else tried to play it safe.

"And let me guess," you say, leaning forward with mock seriousness, "your brother’s the golden child."

She snorts. "Obviously. Overachiever. Always doing the ‘right’ thing. Meanwhile, I’m over here breaking curfew, blasting music, and giving my parents gray hair." She grins at the memory, and there’s something oddly warm in her expression. "But hey, someone had to keep things interesting."

You shake your head, smiling. "So, what you’re saying is, you’ve been a menace your entire life."

"And proud of it," she says, leaning back again, her arms spreading out in mock celebration. "Black sheep and damn good at it. Honestly, I should get a plaque or something."

"Maybe Jin can make you one," you suggest, grinning. "In exchange for all the coffee you owe him."

Yeji’s laugh is sharp, cutting through the low hum of the café. "You think Jin’s that generous? Please. He’ll hold this over my head till I’m ninety."

Something tells you she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yeji drums her fingers against the table, her earlier bravado settling into something quieter. "But enough about me," she says, her voice lighter now, almost forcefully so. "This is getting depressing, and starting college is already enough of a buzzkill. What about you, then? What’s your deal?"

You blink at the sudden turn, caught off guard. "My deal?"

"Yeah, newbie. Your life. Your drama. Spill it." She leans forward, propping her chin on her palm, green eyes sharp with curiosity. "What brings you to the big, bad city?"

You hesitate for a second, unsure how much to share. But there’s something about Yeji’s energy—her casual, no-pressure vibe—that makes it easier to talk. Like she’s not asking for a confession, just a story.

"Well," you start, picking at the edge of your coffee cup, "I basically escaped my parents’ place. Figured it was time to get out, try something new. New York seemed as good a place as any."

Yeji raises an eyebrow. "Escape, huh? That sounds... dramatic."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Not really. Just your typical overprotective parents who think college should be within a ten-mile radius of home. Moving here felt like the first real shot at, I dunno, doing my own thing."

"New life, new you?" she teases, her smirk returning.

"Something like that," you admit, rolling your eyes. "But now I’m just... here. Trying to figure it out."

Yeji takes a sip of her latte, studying you over the rim of the cup. "And you’re living... where, exactly? Please tell me it’s not one of those sketchy Craigslist situations where your landlord is also your next-door neighbor and possibly a serial killer."

You snort. "Not quite. I’m in an apartment with a couple of guys. It’s... fine. For now."

Her eyes light up, sharp with interest. "A couple of guys? Bold move. What’s the catch?"

"One of them’s fine," you say, shrugging. "Quiet. Keeps to himself. The other one..." You pause, exhaling through your nose. "He’s... annoying."

Yeji grins like she’s just hit the jackpot. "Annoying how? Like, leaves his socks everywhere annoying, or ‘thinks he’s God’s gift to women’ annoying?"

"Honestly? Both," you say, leaning back in your chair. "He’s just... everywhere. Always has something to say, always pushing my buttons. It’s like he’s made it his personal mission to get under my skin."

Yeji’s grin widens, and she taps her temple knowingly. "Ah, the classic ‘obnoxious roommate’ trope. Bet he thinks he’s hilarious, too."

"Unfortunately," you mutter, taking a long sip of your coffee. "I’ve only been there three days, and I’m already over it."

"Three days?" Yeji repeats, her eyebrows shooting up. "Damn, you’re in for a ride."

"Tell me about it," you say, shaking your head. "I’m just trying to survive without murdering him."

"Sounds like a sitcom waiting to happen," Yeji says, leaning back in her chair with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You should start keeping a tally. Number of days without a homicide. Could be fun."

You laugh despite yourself, and Yeji raises her cup in a mock toast. "To new lives, annoying roommates, and overpriced coffee."

"Cheers," you say, clinking your cup against hers with a small smile. Maybe this whole ‘new life’ thing won’t be so bad after all.

The walk back to campus with Yeji is surprisingly... nice. She’s mid-way through telling you an anecdote about how she once got banned from a school field trip for sneaking in fireworks—because of course she did.

"So there I was," she says, gesturing wildly with one hand, her iced latte sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup, "standing in the middle of the science teacher’s office, trying to convince her that Roman candles were an educational experience. Like, ma’am, it’s physics. Obviously."

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. "Let me guess. She didn’t buy it?"

Yeji snorts. "Oh, she definitely didn’t. She called my parents and wrote me up for ‘reckless endangerment.’ Which, like, fair. But still."

You’re about to ask what she even needed the fireworks for when Yeji suddenly stops in her tracks, her whole body going still.

"What—?"

"Shh," she hisses, eyes narrowing as she peers over the crowd.

You follow her gaze, trying to see what caught her attention, but all you spot are clusters of students scattered across the quad. A guy on a skateboard nearly wipes out, a group of girls laugh too loudly by the fountain, and someone’s carrying a coffee tray like their life depends on it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Yeji’s lips twitch into a grin, and she glances at you with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Follow me."

"What?" you ask, already regretting letting her drag you into whatever this is.

"Just—trust me," she says, her voice low but brimming with mischief. She presses a finger to her lips in a silent "shh" motion before weaving into the crowd.

You hesitate for half a second before sighing and following her. Because of course you do. She’s Yeji—chaotic, unpredictable, and somehow magnetic in a way that makes saying no feel like the lamest option.

It takes a moment to figure out where she’s leading you. At first, you think she’s just wandering aimlessly, but then you spot them. A girl in pastel pink, her back to you, standing next to a guy in a soft sweater that matches her vibe a little too perfectly.

Before you can process what’s happening, Yeji’s already closing in. In one swift, smooth motion, she throws an arm around the girl’s shoulders, leaning in with a playful lilt to her voice.

"Hey, pretty girl," Yeji says, loud enough to make the girl jump. "You lost around here?"

Your heart nearly stops. Mortification floods your system as you gape at the scene unfolding in front of you. What is she doing?

The girl spins around, her expression startled for half a second before it melts into something bright and familiar. "Yeji!"

And then—you’re not imagining this, right?—she leans in and gives Yeji a quick peck on the lips, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Yeji grins, all smug and proud, her arm still draped casually over the girl’s shoulders. "Hey, babe. Miss me already?"

Meanwhile, you’re standing there like an idiot, trying to process the fact that Yeji just kissed someone in broad daylight and acted like it was no big deal.

The guy next to her—pastel sweater and all—looks about as confused as you feel. His wide eyes dart between the two of them, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of reality he just walked into.

Yeji glances back at you and gestures lazily. "Come on, don’t just stand there. You should probably meet the love of my life."

The girl—bubbly, glowing, and somehow radiating sunshine in that pastel outfit—turns her attention to you, her smile warm and welcoming.

"Hi!" she says, her voice soft but cheerful. "I’m Irya."

You blink, scrambling to remember how words work. "Uh, hi. I’m Y/N—"

"My new sidekick," Yeji interrupts, smirking as she jerks her thumb toward you.

"Not her sidekick," you mutter, shooting her a look.

Irya giggles, the sound light and infectious. "It’s nice to meet you. Yeji’s been texting me about her first day, and I think she mentioned someone new tagging along."

Texting her? When did she even have time?

Before you can respond, the guy beside Irya clears his throat softly, drawing everyone’s attention. He looks a little out of place, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

"Oh!" Irya says, her eyes lighting up. "This is Jimin. We just met earlier today."

"Hi," he says, his voice gentle, almost shy. He offers a small smile that makes him seem even softer than his sweater.

You nod, feeling slightly less out of place now that someone else looks a little unsure of what’s happening. "Nice to meet you, Jimin."

"Likewise," he says, his smile growing a fraction more confident.

Yeji, of course, doesn’t let the moment settle for too long. "So, what’s the story here?" she asks, looking between Irya and Jimin. "You two bonding over your shared love of pastel?"

Irya laughs, shaking her head. "No, we ran into each other near the library. He was nice enough to help me find my way to the art building."

Jimin shrugs modestly, his ears turning slightly pink. "It wasn’t a big deal. The signs here are kind of confusing."

"See?" Irya says, beaming. "Nice people still exist."

Yeji hums, clearly unimpressed. "I guess. But don’t get used to it. This city eats nice people alive."

"Yeji," Irya scolds lightly, nudging her with her elbow.

"What? It’s true," Yeji says, unfazed. Then she turns to you, smirking. "But don’t worry. I’ll toughen you up, newbie."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Because as chaotic as Yeji is, there’s something weirdly reassuring about having her around. Even if it’s mostly to keep you on your toes.

next | index

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟑

bad mornings and new beginnings

"There's something about the way he says 'Phoenix'—like he knows exactly how much it burns under your skin. And maybe that's the point. Maybe he just likes watching you catch fire."

next | index | wc: 3.8k

↪︎author's note : The dialogue finally clicked in this one! That enemies-with-chemistry vibe? Yeah, we're hitting it hard. And can we talk about Yeji? Because she's been living rent-free in my head and I'm so excited for you to meet her properly. There's something so important about having those ride-or-die friendships when everything else feels unstable. ♡ I've really put my heart into making these characters feel real—their banter, their conflicts, even their morning cereal debates (looking at you, Jungkook). Hope you enjoy watching them come alive as much as I enjoy writing them! Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Until next time! Kiki ✿

You knew it was going to be a shitty day the moment you saw Jungkook's face.

He's sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, shoulders slack as he leans back, a bowl of cereal in front of him. The guy's got bedhead, dark hair sticking up in random tufts, and he's staring at his phone like it holds the meaning of life. The soft sounds of crunching echo through the small kitchen, and the sight of him there—so casual, so completely at ease—makes something itch beneath your skin.

"Morning, Phoenix," he drawls, not bothering to glance up from his phone. You hate the way the nickname rolls off his tongue. You hate it because he's using it to get a rise out of you, and you hate it more because it works.

"Don't call me that," you mutter, heading for the fridge.

"Alright, Nix," he replies quickly—far too quickly. Like he's been thinking about the million ways he can circumvent around the nickname to still call you that.

You yank the door open, peering inside at the groceries you picked up yesterday. Bread, eggs, milk—actual food that didn’t involve a takeaway box. You grab a bottle of water and an apple, shutting the door with more force than necessary, the dull thud echoing through the kitchen. You hear a soft snort behind you, and you grit your teeth, refusing to look at Jungkook.

"Bad morning?" he asks, voice dripping with amusement. He knows exactly how to needle you, like poking at a bruise just because it makes you wince.

"Literally leave me alone," you say, twisting the cap off your water.

"Cute." His voice is lazy, the kind of unaffected tone that somehow makes it worse.

It's like he doesn’t even have to try to be a pain in your ass. You hate how easy it comes to him. How he seems to be in control when all you want is to make that stupid smirk slip off his face.

You turn to face him, leaning against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest. "Is this your thing? Waking up and deciding to be an asshole first thing in the morning?"

He finally looks up, eyes meeting yours. There's a glint of something there, something sharp. It makes you want to stick your tongue out at him.

"Maybe," he says, shrugging, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You make it easy, Phoenix."

You scowl. "Fucking unbelievable."

"Yeah?" He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, giving you that infuriating smile. "What's unbelievable is that you're still upset about that candle. You know, you're the one who almost burned down the apartment, not me."

You feel your face heat, memories of that stupid scene flashing in your mind. The match, the flames, Jungkook's stupid face bursting through the door just in time to make you look like an idiot.

"I was trying to make this place smell less like a college frat house," you snap. "But you just had to barge in like some unhinged maniac."

He raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, you're welcome for saving your ass, by the way. But sure, let's keep focusing on how I 'barged in'."

"Yeah, you did it so heroically. If only I could repay you," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You can't stand how he's looking at you, like this whole thing is just some game he's winning.

He laughs, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin prickle. "Keep your gratitude, Nix. I think we're even."

Even. You hate that word. Because nothing about this feels even. He's been in your head since that night, that one stupid night that was supposed to be just a distraction. A fling. But now he's here, living in your space, knowing exactly which buttons to push to make you react.

If you could just put a fist through that irritating, self-assured smile of his, maybe you'd finally feel some peace.

Jungkook leans back, his eyes still on you, and you wish you could just walk away. You're not interested in this stupid back and forth, this daily reminder of why you dislike him so much. The worst part is, he seems to be enjoying every second of it. It's not complicated to him—he's just here to annoy the fuck out of you, and he's doing a goddamn good job.

“Got class today?” he asks, finally breaking the silence. His voice is casual, like he didn’t just spend the last five minutes getting under your skin.

You roll your eyes, pushing off the counter. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah. I do.”

“NYU, right?” He tilts his head, watching you with those dark eyes, like he’s trying to figure you out.

“Yeah, NYU. You want to quiz me on my major next?” you snap, hoping the bite in your voice will make him back off.

“Nah, I don’t really care.” He shrugs, looking back down at his phone. “Just trying to make conversation, Phoenix.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” you mutter, turning away from him. You hear him chuckle behind you, and it makes your teeth grind together, like you need to get out of this room, out of this apartment before you lose it completely.

“Hey,” he calls after you, just as you’re about to leave. You pause, glancing back at him, your hand on the doorframe. He’s still leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on you. “Nickname piss you off that much?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, you’re not sure what to say. It’s not just the nickname—it’s the way he uses it, the way it feels like he’s seeing right through you. The way it reminds you of how you’ve been crashing and burning since you moved into this place, since you started sharing space with him.

But you’re not about to tell him any of that. So instead, you give him a tight smile, shaking your head. “Nah. You’re just slightly less insufferable when you shut the fuck up.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or the tiniest bit of irritation. You know he’s about to retort with his usual snark, when suddenly Yoongi makes his appearance.

He’s stumbling out of his room, looking like he’s been dragged through hell and back. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are barely open. But what catches your attention is the orange ball of fur tucked under his arm.

“Can somebody,” Yoongi grumbles, his voice thick with sleep, “tell me why this sack of fat was in my bed?”

You blink, momentarily forgetting your irritation with Jungkook. Griffin dangles from Yoongi’s grip, looking utterly unbothered by the whole situation. The cat’s eyes are half-closed, tail swishing lazily, as if being carried around like a football is a perfectly normal way to start the day.

Jungkook glances up, almost disbelieving, setting down his phone. “So that’s where he went last night? Griff, you traitor.”

“At least the cat has decent taste, escaping you,” you mutter under your breath, unable to resist.

“I guess so, seeing he didn’t sleep on your bed either.”

Yoongi sighs, giving Jungkook a flat look, like he’s far too used to these antics. “Jungkook. Why is your cat in my room?”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Uh, because he lives here now? Thought that was obvious.”

“In the apartment, sure. But in my bed?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “What, did you tell him my room has the best feng shui for naps or something?”

You snort softly at that, earning another glare from Jungkook.

“Look, he probably just got confused, alright?” Jungkook says, his tone slightly defensive. “New place and all. He’ll figure out where he’s supposed to sleep.”

“He better,” Yoongi grumbles, gently depositing the cat on the floor. Griffin lands gracefully, shooting Yoongi what you swear is an affronted look before sauntering over to wind around Jungkook’s legs.

“See? He knows where he belongs,” Jungkook says smugly, reaching down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

You roll your eyes, switching weight on your other foot. “Yeah, with the other pain in the ass. You two deserve each other,” you mumble.

Jungkook’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” you reply airily, moving to grab your bag from the couch. “Just that you both have a talent for making yourself at home where you’re not wanted.”

Jungkook scoffs, the sound harsh in the small kitchen. “Excuse me for existing in my own damn apartment.”

“Will you both shut the fuck up,” Yoongi mutters, rubbing his eyes.

“Tell that to Mr. Asshole here,” you say, gesturing vaguely at Jungkook.

Jungkook shoots you a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. Instead, he turns to Yoongi, his expression suddenly petulant.

“Speaking of assholes,” he says, “why didn’t you tell me you were getting a new roommate? I thought we were supposed to make these decisions together.”

Yoongi blinks slowly, looking at Jungkook with the most insufferable expression he can muster at this hour.

“What the fuck are you on about?” he asks, his voice still rough with sleep. “You didn’t even check the contract when you signed. You were all ‘whatever, whatever’ about it.”

“That’s not the point,” Jungkook argues, the jerk. “You should’ve asked me first.”

“Wooow, okay,” you scoff, unable to keep quiet. “I didn’t realize I needed your royal approval to live here.”

Jungkook’s head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “Nobody asked you, Phoenix.”

“Well,” you say with your own brand of sarcasm, “if it’s such a big deal, Jungkook, why don’t you just die and save us all the trouble?”

Yoongi snorts at that, clearly amused by your suggestion. Jungkook’s grimace is a sight to behold, irritation sharpening his features.

“Very funny,” he mutters, raising an eyebrow. “You got jokes for days.”

“Call me comedic genius.”

Yoongi watches the exchange with mild interest, like he’s stumbled into an unexpected episode of reality TV.

“Okay, what the hell is going on with you two?” he asks finally, glancing between you and Jungkook. “You’ve known each other for what, a day? And you’re already at each other’s throats?”

You and Jungkook exchange a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between you. There’s no way in hell you’re telling Yoongi about your... previous encounter.

“Just a clash of personalities,” you mutter, looking away.

“Yeah,” Jungkook adds, his voice tight. “Nothing to worry about.”

Yoongi doesn’t look convinced, but he’s also too tired to push it. He shuffles over to the kitchen, grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee.

“Well, figure it out,” he says, taking a long sip. “I’m not dealing with this shit every morning.”

You snort, grabbing your bag from the counter. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Got class to get to.”

As you head for the door, Jungkook calls out, “Try not to set anything on fire on your way out, Phoenix.”

You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to turn around and tell him exactly where he can shove his snarky comments. Instead, you take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm.

“Fuck off, Jungkook,” you say, your voice deceptively sweet. And with that, you’re out the door, slamming it behind you with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

It’s going to be a long day, you think, as you make your way down the stairs. But at least you’re not stuck in that apartment with Jungkook.

And for now, that’s enough of a win.

The campus is bigger than you expected. Way bigger.

You’ve been walking for what feels like ages, clutching your schedule in one hand and trying not to look like a complete lost cause. But let’s be real—you probably do. The map on your phone isn’t doing anything except reminding you how bad you are at directions. You’re pretty sure you’ve passed the same group of freshmen three times already, which either means you’re stuck in some kind of campus purgatory or you’re just plain directionally challenged.

Either way, this is not how you imagined your first day at NYU.

You stop for a second, glancing around at the sea of students bustling past you. Some are chatting with friends, looking like they’ve been here for years. Others—like you—are clearly just trying to figure out where the hell they’re supposed to be. The buildings all look the same, and you’re half-convinced this is some cruel labyrinth designed to break first-years before they even get to class.

You’re just about to give up and find a corner to sit in and sulk when you hear a voice behind you.

“Let me guess. Lost as hell?”

You turn around, and—wow.

Standing there is a girl dressed in black from head to toe: combat boots, leather jacket, the whole look. Her black hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she’s giving you a kind of look—half amused, half pity—that somehow doesn’t make you want to crawl into a hole. It’s like she’s seen this before.

“Uh, yeah,” you admit, holding up your schedule like it’s evidence. “I think I’ve circled this building twice.”

Her lips curve into a smirk. “Yeah, this place is a joke. They send us this shitty map, and then expect us to magically know where everything is.” She rolls her eyes, glancing at your schedule. “Let me see that.”

You hand it to her, watching as she scans it, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh, you’re in the same class as me. History of Modern Art, right?”

You blink, a little surprised. “Yeah, how’d you—?”

She waves the schedule in front of you. “Same time, same room number. Trust me, I’ve been trying to find this place for the last ten minutes. We’re basically in the same sinking ship.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Great. So, we’re both doomed.”

“Pretty much.” She hands your schedule back and jerks her chin toward a building across the quad. “I think it’s that one. Wanna risk it?”

You shrug. “Got nothing to lose.”

She falls into step beside you, and even though you’re both clearly lost, she walks like she knows exactly where she’s going. It’s comforting, in a way. You, on the other hand, feel like you’re on the edge of panic—like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a maze with zero clues.

“First day and I’m already done,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “These professors better not expect me to care about anything before noon.”

You try to suppress a grin. “Not a morning person?”

She gives you a look. “Is anyone actually a morning person? If they are, they’re probably psychopaths. Like, sorry, I don’t trust you if you’re happy at 8 a.m.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Fair point.”

She pauses, then glances at you again, like she’s sizing you up. “I’m Yeji, by the way.”

“Y/N.”

“Cool.” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, looking back at the building in front of you. “So let’s make a deal. If this class sucks—” she glances at you, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “—we bail and go find somewhere to get coffee. Sound good?”

You blink at her. “But it’s the first day.”

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And? You really think they’re gonna teach us anything important today? It’s all syllabus crap. Trust me, you’ll be asleep within ten minutes.”

You hesitate for a second, but then you realize—you kind of love her energy. She’s blunt, no-nonsense, and completely over it. And honestly? Maybe that’s exactly what you need right now.

“Alright, fine. Deal.”

Yeji grins, and for the first time, you feel a little less like you’re drowning in this new place. At least you’ve found someone who gets it—who gets that this whole university thing is overwhelming and messy and, frankly, kind of bullshit. And somehow, that makes it all feel a little more manageable.

“By the way, if we do end up bailing, I know a place that makes killer iced coffee. Trust me, you’ll need it to survive this place.”

You laugh, feeling some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She smirks, pushing open the door. “You better.”

You both make your way to the entrance of the building, which, thankfully, looks like the right one this time. Yeji walks ahead, pushing open the door, and you both step inside. The hallway is packed with students, everyone trying to figure out which classroom is theirs. You weave your way through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone, and eventually, you spot the right room number.

“There,” Yeji says, nodding toward a door. You slip inside after her, the two of you grabbing seats near the back.

The classroom is chaotic. People are either on their phones or pretending to care about their notebooks, and the professor hasn’t even shown up yet. You take a deep breath, finally sitting down, and pull your own notebook out, though you already know you probably won’t need it today. Yeji, meanwhile, just slouches back in her seat, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

She turns her head slightly toward you. “If they make us do one of those stupid ‘introduce yourself’ activities, I’m out. Just saying.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t wanna share three fun facts about yourself with strangers?”

“Not unless ‘I’m dead inside’ counts as a fun fact,” she says, smirking. You stifle a laugh, and she catches your expression, giving you a knowing look.

The door opens, and the professor—a middle-aged woman who looks like she’s already tired—walks in, dragging a large stack of papers. She starts fiddling with the projector, clearly struggling, and you hear Yeji sigh dramatically next to you.

You glance at her, and she meets your eyes, her expression deadpan. “Five bucks says she doesn’t get that thing working.”

You grin. “I don’t have five bucks to lose.”

“Smart,” she says, leaning back further in her chair, her boots crossing at the ankles. “You’re gonna need it for coffee later.”

You don’t know when you stopped caring about the awkwardness of being the new kid today, but somewhere between getting hopelessly lost and meeting Yeji, it’s faded a little. You’re still not entirely comfortable—this whole college thing is still a bit terrifying—but at least you’re not alone in it. You’ve got Yeji, who is weirdly reassuring despite her total disdain for, well, everything. And that’s something.

The professor finally gets the projector to work, and there’s a collective sigh of relief from the room. She starts in on the syllabus, her voice droning, and you zone out almost immediately. You sneak a glance at Yeji, who’s already looking at you, one eyebrow raised.

“Two minutes,” she mouths.

You shake your head but smile. “No way.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a grin there, too. You both settle in, pretending to pay attention for a little longer, but you know you’re not gonna make it through this entire class. Not today.

Yeji leans over after a while, her voice barely a whisper. “You ready to get out of here yet?”

You hesitate, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s only been twenty minutes, and you know you probably should stay. It’s the responsible thing to do. But then Yeji nudges you, her grin widening, and you know you’re not staying. Not with her making this so damn tempting.

“Alright,” you whisper back. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t waste a second. She grabs her bag, moves with this easy confidence that makes you wonder if she’s done this a thousand times before. You follow her out of the row, careful not to draw too much attention, and then you’re out in the hallway again, the door clicking shut behind you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and Yeji glances at you, looking far too pleased with herself. “Told you.”

“You’re trouble,” you huff, but you can’t stop smiling.

She just shrugs, a hint of something softer behind her smirk. “Life’s too short to sit through bad lectures.”

The two of you make your way out of the building, the buzz of campus life hitting you as soon as you step outside. Yeji leads the way across the quad, her pace relaxed, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“So, where’s this magical coffee place?” you ask.

“It’s not magical. It’s just got caffeine, which is all we need,” Yeji says, turning her head slightly to look at you. “Plus, it’s not too crowded, and the guy who works there gives me an employee discount sometimes because I helped him set up his amp once.”

You blink. “Set up his amp?”

She nods, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah, he’s in a band. Needed help, and I figured, why not?”

You can’t help but smile. “So you’re, what, a campus hero?”

“Hardly,” she says, shaking her head, though there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. “But it helps to know people. Especially people with coffee.”

You walk alongside her, the conversation easy, and the campus that felt so overwhelming a while ago doesn’t seem quite so bad now. It still feels huge, and maybe a little intimidating, but with Yeji beside you, it also feels like a place you could get used to. Like a place where, maybe, you belong.

And honestly? That’s more than you were hoping for today.

next | index

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟐

“phoenix”

"Of all the apartments in all of New York City, you had to walk into his. And now he's calling you Phoenix—like you're something that rises from ashes, when really, you just want to set him on fire."

next | index | wc: 5k

↪︎author's note : So… remember when I said 3k per chapter? Yeah, the muses had other plans. Blame it on sudden inspiration at 3am - or maybe blame Jungkook for being too fun to write. (∩˃o˂∩)♡ I'm really excited about this chapter because we FINALLY get to see these two interact! And yes, I know Jungkook's coming off as an asshole right now, but trust me - there are layers here. Also, Griffin? Best cat ever. Fight me. ( ˘ ³˘)♥ That nickname "Phoenix" just… happened. It felt right, you know? More organic than Y/N, especially given how they meet (again). There's something about using nicknames that can eventually evolve into something more… 🖤 Speaking of Griffin (our resident fuzzy chaos agent 🐾), I'm so excited to show you how he fits into everything. He's like this quiet observer of all the mess these two are about to create. Plus, who doesn't love a cat in the narrative when everything else is going up in flames? (Literally, in this case!) (⌒‿⌒) See you in the comments! Let me know what you think about our disaster duo's first real interaction! (ﾉ'ヮ')ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

You almost kill a cat.

Not exactly how you planned to start your Wednesday, but here you are, hovering over the couch, heart racing. The yawn you'd been holding dies in your throat as you stare down at the small, fuzzy creature you nearly flattened with your ass. A tiny orange tabby, eyes half-open and mildly affronted, peering up at you like you're the intruder here.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, taking a step back, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your mug. You blink at the cat, and it blinks back, as if to say, Well? You done?

You take a breath, steadying yourself, trying to piece together why there's a cat in your apartment. A cat that wasn't here yesterday. Yoongi's door is open, his room empty—so he's not home to explain. And last you checked, there weren't any pets on the lease. Definitely no mention of a cat in the weirdly vague texts you got from the landlord about rules. No parties, no pets, pay on time. The holy trinity of renting.

So whose cat is this?

You set your coffee down on the table—carefully this time, so as not to spill any near the fluffy invader—and crouch down to get a better look at it. It's somewhat big, definitely not a kitten, with a tiny white patch on its chest and paws that look too small for the rest of its body. It just... sits there, staring back at you like this is perfectly normal, like it's been waiting for you to make yourself useful.

"Where did you even come from?" you ask, voice low, as if talking too loud might break some kind of spell. The cat blinks slowly, its gaze languid, then lets out a tiny yawn, exposing needle-thin teeth.

"Okay, then," you say, standing back up. You rub a hand over your face, trying to shake off the leftover grogginess. You check the time—almost eleven. Classes don't start until next week, and you'd given yourself permission to sleep in. Apparently, though, the universe has other plans.

You hear the faint hum of the fridge behind you, and the smell of coffee still lingers in the air. Yoongi must've brewed it before leaving—an unexpectedly considerate move, given his general vibe of not giving a shit about anything. You take another sip, savoring the bitterness, and glance around. The apartment is still. Quiet. Too quiet, for a place that's supposed to have three people living in it.

Your eyes drift back to the cat. It has now settled in, fully sprawled across the couch cushion, as if it owns the place. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. You've always had a soft spot for cats—independent, aloof creatures that somehow still manage to be comforting. You reach out tentatively, giving it a gentle scratch behind the ear, and it purrs, the low rumble vibrating under your fingers.

"Yeah, okay. You're cute. I'll give you that," you murmur, watching as it nudges against your hand, eyes fluttering shut.

You feel the tiniest bit of warmth bloom in your chest, a sense of something softening there. It's silly, but the presence of this tiny creature somehow makes the apartment feel less strange, less empty.

But then again. The lease. The no-pets clause that had been one of the only real conditions, written in bold and everything if you recall correctly. As if to make a point. As if to say, "You better not bring any animals in my property, you filthy youngsters." Yeah, the landlord hadn't exactly screamed ball of sunshine.

The thought sobers you a bit. The thing is, you do love pets—heck, you still remember crying to your mom at the sweet age of five to get a fish (to no avail, shall you say). But going against the rules, possibly getting kicked out? After everything you went through to get out of the house and into the city?

Yeah, no.

You pull your hand away from the cat, sighing.

"So who the hell do you belong to, huh?" you ask, your voice tinged with resignation. The cat just looks up at you, eyes lazy, almost like it's mocking you for even bothering to ask. You shake your head, standing up, and look toward the door.

If it's not Yoongi's cat—and it doesn't seem like something he'd have, considering his minimalist approach to everything—then it has to belong to Jungkook. The mysterious third roommate. Maybe he dropped it off this morning, figuring it'd be fine to leave a cat in a place where he doesn't even live yet.

It's annoyance, what flickers through you now—because who just drops off a cat without warning? Doesn't make sense; but well, you don't know him. Maybe he's the kind of person who does things like that—someone who makes messes and leaves them for others to figure out.

You sigh again, running a hand through your hair. You suppose you could call Yoongi, ask if he knows anything about it. But would he even pick up? You can almost vividly picture him seeing your name on the screen and ignoring it. Honestly, that seems like a very Yoongi thing to do, considering what you know about him—which is close to nothing, but still.

You decide against it, grab your coffee again, taking a long sip, and head toward the kitchen.

The cat watches you go, eyes half-lidded, its body sinking into the couch like it's the most comfortable place in the world. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips again, despite the confusion still swirling in your head.

"Alright, little dude," you call over your shoulder, "guess we're roommates now."

The cat doesn't respond, of course, just closes its eyes completely, its purring filling the room. You can't deny it—it's kind of nice, having it here. A small, warm presence in this otherwise sterile apartment. Maybe things aren't so bad.

Maybe Jungkook's chaos isn't all terrible.

You're halfway through your coffee when you hear the door creak open. You glance up, only to find Yoongi, stepping inside with a small paper bag tucked under one arm. His eyes are lidded, tired, like he hasn't quite woken up fully despite being out and about. He toes off his shoes, glancing toward the couch, where the cat is still sprawled out, entirely unbothered.

"Well," Yoongi says, voice dry as always, "seems like you've met Griffin."

"Griffin?" you repeat, barely keeping your expression straight.

Your lips twitch, and a small huff of disbelief slips out before you can stop it. Who names their cat Griffin? You glance at the orange tabby—Griffin—sleeping soundly on the cushion. It somehow seems like an absurd name for such a chonky thing.

"Yeah." Yoongi shrugs, walking over to set the bag down on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "Jungkook's cat."

"Of course," you mutter, more to yourself than to Yoongi.

You take a step closer to the couch, eyeing the kitten. Jungkook's cat. So the mystery roommate had, in fact, just dropped his pet here and vanished. You shoot a glance toward Yoongi, trying to gauge his reaction, but he seems completely unfazed, rummaging through the bag for whatever he picked up from the pharmacy.

You tilt your head, confused. "So... Jungkook just left him here?"

"Mmhm," Yoongi hums, not bothering to look up. He pulls out a bottle of painkillers, pops it open, and downs two with a swig of water.

There's no sign of surprise, no irritation—nothing that indicates Yoongi finds this even remotely weird. You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to make sense of it. If you had to suddenly accommodate an unexpected cat, you'd at least be a little thrown off. But Yoongi? He just stands there, casual as ever, like cats showing up out of nowhere is completely normal.

"So he just, what, dropped Griffin off this morning?" you press, keeping your voice light, trying not to sound as thrown off as you feel.

Yoongi finally looks up, his gaze flicking to the cat and then back to you. He nods, taking another sip of water. "Yeah. Just until he gets his stuff sorted."

His answer is vague—intentionally so, you think—and there's something in his tone that tells you not to push it. Gets his stuff sorted. You don't know what that means, and do you really, when it comes to him? Clearly not.

You glance back at Griffin, who's now stretched out, paw dangling off the edge of the couch. The cat seems entirely at home, no sign of the upheaval you're picking up on beneath Yoongi's words. You wonder what sorting his stuff actually means for this other man—whether it's just moving logistics or something heavier, something that might explain why he's left his cat in an apartment he hasn't even officially moved into yet.

But you don't ask. Yoongi doesn't seem like the type to appreciate questions, especially about things that clearly aren't yours to pry into.

"Right," you say, leaning against the kitchen counter. "So this is just... a thing that's happening now? We have a cat?"

Yoongi smirks, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. "Guess so. Not a fan?"

"No, I mean—" You gesture vaguely at Griffin, who twitches an ear, utterly uninterested in the conversation. "He's cute. I just... wasn't expecting to almost sit on a cat this morning. And I thought the lease said no pets."

Yoongi gives another shrug, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, well. Lease says a lot of things." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. "You gonna snitch to the landlord?"

"Please, the more I can avoid conversations with him, the better." You roll your eyes, a half-smile tugging at your lips despite the situation. "Just... would've been nice to get a heads-up, is all."

Yoongi nods, as if considering that, but he doesn't say anything else. He seems comfortable letting the conversation hang in the air, the silence settling back in like it never left. You watch him for a moment longer, trying to read him, trying to understand how he can be so unbothered by all this. But Yoongi's like a closed book, his calm demeanor giving nothing away.

You take another sip of your coffee, glancing back at Griffin. "Well, I guess Griffin and I will become besties soon," you say, a mix of resignation and amusement in your voice.

Yoongi lets out a soft chuckle. "Yeah. Just wait till Jungkook moves in. He's got a lot more energy than that one." He nods toward Griffin, who, as if on cue, lets out a tiny sigh, settling deeper into the couch cushions.

"More energy?" You raise an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity you can't quite hide. "What do you mean?"

Yoongi just smiles, that lazy, almost knowing smile that makes it seem like he's got a hundred things he's not saying. "Depends. You like surprises?"

You give him a skeptical look, trying to gauge if he's messing with you. But as usual, Yoongi's got a poker face, all mild amusement and no real answers. You get the sense that there's a lot more going on beneath the surface, more than he's letting on about Jungkook, about everything. But whatever it is, Yoongi's not about to share it with you, not yet.

"Well," you mutter, setting your coffee mug down with a soft clink. "As long as he doesn't make his problems mine."

Yoongi snorts, pushing away from the counter and heading toward his room. "Relax. Griffin's a good cat. And Jungkook's... alright."

There it is again, that vague, noncommittal alright. You watch Yoongi disappear into his room, the door clicking softly shut behind him. You look back at Griffin, who's now blinking up at you, almost expectantly.

"Well, Griffin," you sigh, crossing the room to flop down on the opposite end of the couch, careful not to disturb him. "Looks like we're both stuck here, huh?"

The cat lets out a tiny, contented purr, his eyes drifting shut again, as if to say, Could be worse. And honestly, looking at the soft rise and fall of his tiny body, the warmth of him filling up the empty space beside you, you start to think maybe he's right. Maybe it's not so bad.

Even if nothing here quite makes sense yet.

You’re at the grocery store, squinting against the glare of the stupid lights, pushing your cart down the aisle with a sigh.

You'd put it off as long as possible, subsisting on takeout and whatever snacks Yoongi had lying around. But surviving on convenience store ramen and stale chips hadn’t exactly sounded appealing. Plus, you figured if you were going to be an actual adult in New York City, you should probably learn how to stock a fridge with something other than beer and expired milk.

The cart's already half-full of essentials—bread, eggs, some sad-looking vegetables that you're determined to actually eat this time. You pause in front of the pasta section, debating between spaghetti and penne, when a familiar scent catches your attention.

Vanilla.

Your head snaps up, eyes searching for the source. There, at the end of the aisle: candles. A whole display of them, colorful jars promising various scents and moods. Before you know it, you're standing in front of them, fingertips tracing over smooth glass surfaces.

You've always had a thing for candles. Back home, your room was filled with them—little flames flickering in the dark, chasing away the silence with their warm glow. You'd light them when you studied, when you wrote, when you just needed a moment of peace. Here, in this new place that still doesn't quite feel like yours, the idea of having that small comfort is... tempting.

You pick up a jar, unscrewing the lid to inhale deeply. Vanilla and something else—maybe sandalwood? It's rich, comforting. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent wash over you. When you open them again, you're already reaching for a second jar.

Fuck it, you think. If you're going to pretend to be an adult, might as well splurge a little.

Twenty minutes and far too much money later, you're lugging your groceries and a small bag of candles up the stairs to your apartment. The plastic handles dig into your palms, and you silently curse yourself for buying so much at once. But the thought of your new candles, waiting to be lit, keeps you going.

You fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and stumble inside. The apartment is quiet, save for the soft purring coming from the couch. Griffin lifts his head as you enter, giving you a lazy blink before settling back down.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, dropping the bags on the kitchen counter with a relieved sigh. You stretch, feeling your shoulders pop, and take a moment to breathe.

The apartment still smells faintly of must and old paint, that lingering scent of a place that's been lived in for too long by too many people. You wrinkle your nose, eyeing the bag of candles. Time to change that.

You put away the groceries first, because you're trying to be responsible or whatever. Fruits and veggies in the crisper (where they'll probably rot, let's be real), milk and eggs on the top shelf, bread tucked away in the cabinet. It's a small thing, but seeing the fridge actually full makes you feel... accomplished. Like maybe you're not completely failing at this whole adult thing.

Finally, you turn to the candles. You pull them out one by one, arranging them on the coffee table. The vanilla one you'd first picked up, a citrusy one that promises to "energize your space," and a woodsy scent that reminds you of fall back home.

You grab the vanilla one first, unscrewing the lid and inhaling deeply. Yeah, this was definitely worth the splurge. You set it on top of the TV stand, right in the center where its warm glow will fill the room. Now for the tricky part: finding something to light it with.

You rummage through drawers, searching for matches or a lighter. Nothing. Of course not. Why would two guys who probably don't even cook keep matches around? You're about to give up when you spot a small box tucked away in the back of a kitchen drawer.

"Aha!" you exclaim, pulling out the matches triumphantly. You head back to the candle, place it on the TV furniture and strike a match against the box. The flame flickers to life, and you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. It's silly, maybe, but this tiny fire feels like the first step in making this place feel like home.

You lean in, ready to light the wick, when suddenly—

The front door slams open.

The noise startles you, and your hand jerks. The match slips from your fingers, falling onto the TV stand. For a split second, everything freezes. Then, with a soft whoosh, the small flame catches on a bit of fabric hanging off the edge of the stand.

"Shit!" you screech, stumbling back. The fire's small, barely more than a flicker, but it's growing fast. Panic rises in your throat as you watch it spread, eating away at the fabric.

Footsteps thunder toward you, and suddenly there's a blur of movement. A figure rushes past, grabbing a throw pillow from the couch. With quick, efficient movements, they smother the flames, pressing down hard until the last ember dies out.

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you stare at the charred remnants of what was probably a nice decorative runner. The smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the scent of vanilla from the still-unlit candle.

Slowly, you lift your gaze to the person who just saved you from burning down the entire building. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that falls into his eyes. Eyes that are currently fixed on you, a mix of irritation and disbelief swirling in their depths.

And then it hits you.

You know those eyes.

Recognition slams into you like a freight train, your breath catching in your throat. It's him. The guy from that night. The one who—

No. No fucking way.

"What the fuck," he says, his voice low and rough, "were you thinking?"

But you barely hear him. Because this isn't just some random guy. This is the man who gave you the most mind-blowing sex of your life. The one who fucked you so thoroughly you couldn't walk straight for days. The one whose name you never bothered to ask.

And now he's standing in your living room, having just saved you from burning the place down.

You blink, your brain still trying to catch up. "I—I was just trying to light a candle," you stammer, gesturing weakly at the jar still sitting innocently on the stand.

He looks at the candle, then back at you, his expression morphing into something you can’t quite read. And then, you see it. The moment he realizes who you are.

You.

His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of... something passing over his face before it settles back into a mask of annoyance. He grunts. Runs a hand through his hair. Then speaks.

"A candle," he repeats, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You almost burned down our apartment for a fucking candle?"

There's an edge to his voice that grates on your nerves, a hint of condescension that makes you want to bristle. But you're too caught up in the surreality of the situation to form a proper retort.

"Jungkook," you breathe, the name feeling foreign on your tongue. So that’s his name.

"Yeah, me," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you are?"

You narrow your eyes, clearly displeased with the lack of warmth in his words; but nevertheless, you tell him your name. Because if you're going to cohabit with this dude, that’s something he should at least know. If he’s even bothered to check the lease.

"Right," he says finally, his tone clipped. "Roomie with a death wish, love that for me."

You feel a flicker of annoyance at that, your embarrassment quickly giving way to defensiveness. "It was an accident," you snap. "I didn’t mean to—"

"To what?" Jungkook cuts you off, gesturing at the charred fabric. "Set the place on fire?"

Before you can retort, however, his eyes land on something behind you. His expression shifts, softening just a fraction.

"Griffin," he says, and you turn to see the cat perched on the arm of the couch, watching the scene with mild interest.

Jungkook moves past you, reaching out to scratch behind Griffin's ears. The cat leans into his touch, purring loudly, and you can’t help but notice the way Jungkook's shoulders relax slightly.

"So," you say, clearing your throat. "You’re Griffin’s owner."

Jungkook glances back at you, his hand still absently petting the cat. "Yeah," he replies, his tone neutral. "That a problem?"

You shake your head, mildly annoyed now. "No, no problem. At least he is cute."

Jungkook snorts, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Cute, huh? That why you decided to try and roast him alive?"

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "I told you, it was an accident. And I wouldn’t have dropped the match if you hadn’t burst in here like—"

"Like what?" Jungkook interrupts, turning to face you fully. "Like I live here? Because I do, in case you forgot."

"Okay?" You frown. "I live here too, doesn’t mean I get to just bust the door open out of nowhere."

"Have you even tried to open the damn door? The lock is like a hundred years old," he replies.

“There’s a trick to it, you know? I thought Yoongi would’ve told you that much."

"You clearly don’t know Yoongi."

"Still, who just fucking tries to force themselves inside—"

"I was trying to open the goddamn door, alright—"

"—are you a fucking gorilla?"

"—but it wouldn’t twist properly."

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the irritation bubbling in your chest. "Look," you say, "I’m sorry about the... fire thing. It won’t happen again."

Jungkook regards you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he lets out what you think is a disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, it better not. I’m not always gonna be around to save your ass, Phoenix."

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift in his tone. "Phoenix?"

He shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Seems fitting, don’t you think? Girl who likes to play with fire?"

"Don’t call me that."

"Too late."

There’s something in the way he says it—a hint of teasing, maybe even flirtation?—that makes your cheeks warm. You open your mouth to retort, but he quickly straightens up, heading toward what you assume is his room.

"Word of advice, Phoenix," he calls over his shoulder, "next time you want to light up the place? Try using a lighter. Less chance of burning us all to a crisp."

With that, he disappears toward the entrance—where his room is—leaving you standing there, speechless. You hear a door click shut, and then silence falls over the apartment once again.

You look down at Griffin, who's still perched on the couch, watching you with those lazy eyes.

"You should’ve told me," you mutter, sinking down onto the cushion next to him. "That your owner is a fucking jerk."

Griffin lets out a soft meow, as if saying, Your words, not mine. You reach out to pet him, your fingers sinking into his soft fur.

You glance at the candle, still unlit on the TV stand. Vanilla and sandalwood. The scent lingers faintly, mixing with the acrid smell of smoke.

Phoenix, he'd called you. Mockingly. Condescendingly. As if you're some reckless idiot who can't handle a simple task without fucking it up.

Anger flares in your chest, hot and sharp. Who the hell does he think he is? Barging in here like he owns the place, acting like you’re the one inconveniencing him.

Never mind that he’s the one who startled you. Never mind that you wouldn’t have dropped the match if he hadn’t slammed the door open like a fucking lunatic.

No, of course it’s your fault. You’re the one who almost burned the place down. You’re the one who needs to be more careful, more responsible.

Because apparently, Jungkook is the epitome of responsibility. Mister Perfect Roommate who can do no wrong.

Bullshit.

You clench your jaw, glaring at the closed door of his room. Part of you wants to march over there, pound on the door, and give him a piece of your mind. Tell him exactly where he can shove his condescending attitude and his stupid nickname.

But you don’t. Because as much as he irritates you, as much as you want to wipe that smug look off his face, you know it won’t do any good. It’ll just make things worse, make living here even more unbearable than it already is.

So instead, you take a deep breath. Unclench your fists. Try to let the anger drain out of you, even as it simmers just beneath the surface.

You’ll play nice. For now. But you’ll be damned if you let Jungkook think he can walk all over you.

This is your home too, and you’re not going to let some arrogant prick with a savior complex make you feel like you don’t belong here.

Even if that arrogant prick is the same guy who gave you the best sex of your life. Even if the memory of that night still makes your skin flush and your pulse race.

That was then. This is now. And right now, all you want is to light your fucking candle in peace.

You grab the lighter from the kitchen drawer, flicking it open with a satisfying snick. The flame dances, small but steady, and you hold it to the wick until it catches.

The candle flares to life, the warm glow filling the room. Vanilla and sandalwood, rich and soothing. You breathe it in, letting it calm your frayed nerves.

Fuck Jungkook. Fuck his attitude and his assumptions and his stupid, perfect face.

You’re not going to let him get to you. You’re not going to let him ruin this for you.

This is your fresh start, your chance to build a life in the city you’ve always dreamed of. And you’ll be damned if you let anyone, least of all him, take that away from you.

So you sit there, watching the candle flicker, the scent wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. And you make a silent promise to yourself.

You’re going to make this work. No matter what it takes. No matter who tries to stand in your way.

Even if that someone is Jeon Jungkook.

next | index

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝟎𝟏

“fresh start, same weight”

"Not everything that breaks you has to be traumatic. Sometimes it's as simple as a guy with a crooked smile who ruins you so quietly, you don't even notice until it's too late."

next | index | wc: 2.8k

↪︎author's note : fun fact: initially split between fandoms, but hey - good writing is good writing, right? so here we are, back with this story that wouldn't leave me alone. this started as my "simple" project while working on something more complex… but we all know how that usually goes. (;'༎ຶٹ༎ຶ') aiming for around 3k per chapter because honestly? quality over quantity. and yeah, maybe it'll end up more complicated than planned (because apparently i can't write anything without psychological depth) but that's half the fun, isn't it?

ps: prepare for emotions. all of them. you've been warned.

Moving sucks.

The boxes are heavier than you'd like to admit, the weight of them making your arms burn, but you keep going. Because that's what you do. You push through, even when you're dead tired or half pissed off at yourself for not hiring movers.

The gritty heat of New York City in August sticks to your skin as you lug the last of your stuff up the stairs to your new apartment. Cheap rent means broken elevator. Cheap rent means you're sweating through your shirt before you even knock on the door.

When it swings open, you're met with the sight of your new roommate. Or one of them, at least.

He's standing there, lean, loose-limbed, wearing a dark hoodie despite the oppressive summer heat. His bleached hair looks almost white in the dim light of the hallway. The first thing you notice is how still he is. Like, eerily still. He blinks at you, slow and deliberate, like you've interrupted something—though it's clear he doesn't care enough to be irritated by it.

"Y/N?" he asks, voice as lazy as his posture. You nod, and he steps back, wordlessly letting you inside.

"Yoongi," he says, half a nod in your direction as he glances down at your box. You can't tell if he's sizing it up or just wondering what the hell you're doing carrying it on your own.

"You need help with that?" His voice doesn't sound particularly invested, but you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Politeness? Obligation? You can't tell.

"I got it," you say, even though your arms are screaming for a break.

Of course, it would be nice to hand off some of the work, but you've always hated asking for help. And especially not from some guy you don't know, who already looks like he'd rather be doing anything else.

"Alright," he replies with a shrug, and that's it.

He moves away, padding back inside, his socks soft against the hardwood. You blink, standing there for a second longer than necessary, then shake it off. You're here now, in this cramped, dingy apartment, where the walls are scuffed and the kitchen light flickers every other second. Home sweet home.

Yoongi disappears down the short hallway to the left, leaving you alone in the cluttered living room. You notice the secondhand couch, positioned in the middle of the room but pressed against a long, narrow kitchen table—the kind meant for stools rather than chairs. It serves as a makeshift divider between the living area and the open kitchen. The coffee table, cluttered with empty takeout containers and a couple of forgotten textbooks, sits in front of the couch. The faint smell of something you can't quite place—cigarettes, maybe?—lingers in the air.

You exhale, setting the box down with a thud. The place has character, you tell yourself. That's what people say when things are a little run-down, right? Character.

A few minutes later, Yoongi reappears. He's changed into an oversized t-shirt, the hoodie abandoned somewhere.

"I can get the rest of your boxes," he says, like it's an afterthought. He doesn't look at you when he says it, just past you, like helping was always the plan and you're the one who's being weird about it.

"You sure?" you ask, more out of reflex than actual concern. Your arms aren't exactly in the mood to carry another load.

Yoongi nods, already moving toward the door without waiting for a response.

You follow him back down to the street, watching as he picks up two of your boxes like it's nothing. You wonder, briefly, how many times he's had to help new people move in, how many strangers he's let into this apartment. Maybe he's used to it by now. Maybe that's why he's so... indifferent.

As you walk back upstairs, you steal a glance at him. There's something unsettling about how calm he is, how little he seems to care about this whole process. But at the same time, you kind of appreciate it. No small talk, no unnecessary questions about your major or why you're moving here. Just... silence.

When you get back inside, he drops the boxes next to the others and turns to you.

"There's beer in the fridge if you want."

His voice is still that same low monotone, like everything he says is just a suggestion.

You raise an eyebrow. "At noon?"

Yoongi shrugs. "Helps with unpacking."

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. Great, you think. Your first roommate is either a functioning alcoholic or just really good at pretending nothing matters.

"Maybe later," you say, and Yoongi nods, walking towards what you assume is his room. The door clicks shut behind him, and just like that, you're alone again.

You take a deep breath, scanning the space. It's not ideal—none of this is, really—but it's better than your parents' house. And rent in New York is a joke, so random roommates are just part of the deal. You remind yourself that you're here for school, for a fresh start. Not to make friends.

Still, there's something about the stillness Yoongi leaves behind that lingers in the room. Like the apartment isn't quite empty even when you're the only one in it.

You drop onto the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling. The cushions are lumpy, smelling faintly of something—cigarettes again, or maybe weed. It's hard to tell, and you're too tired to care. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, made worse by the fact that you're nowhere near done unpacking.

But at least the hard part is over, right? You're in. You're here. You're out of your parents' house, away from the small town you'd spent years clawing to escape. New York, with all its chaos, grime, and ridiculous rent, feels like some kind of warped freedom.

You force yourself to get up, pushing off the couch, and start tugging at the tape on one of the boxes. It's the one marked essentials—a sarcastic lie considering it's filled with clothes you'll probably never wear and random knick-knacks you didn’t have the heart to throw away. One of those just in case boxes. You grimace as you pull out a sweater. Like you'll need that anytime soon, with the way the city is baking in the August heat.

The door creaks open, and you look up to see Yoongi again, standing in the doorway of his room, his head tilted as he watches you rummage through your box.

"You're unpacking already?" he asks, sounding vaguely surprised. You're starting to pick up on the fact that Yoongi doesn’t seem to do anything quickly—not talking, not moving, not even blinking.

"I figured if I leave it for later, it'll just sit here for weeks," you say, pulling out another sweater and cramming it back into the box. "Might as well get it over with."

He hums in response, leaning against the doorframe like he's waiting for something. You glance up at him, and for a second, the silence feels a little too heavy. Like he's observing you, trying to figure something out without asking. It makes your skin prickle.

"Do you work or something?" you ask, half to break the quiet, half out of genuine curiosity. You still don’t know much about him, just that he lives here and seems unnervingly calm about everything.

"Yeah. Music," he says, scratching the back of his neck, but he doesn’t elaborate. Of course he doesn’t.

You nod, chewing on your lip. A musician, huh? Makes sense. He has that broody, artsy vibe—probably spends most of his time in his room working on beats or whatever people like him do. You resist the urge to ask him more, reminding yourself that you didn’t come here to make friends, or get involved in whatever’s going on in your roommates’ lives. You just need a place to crash while you figure out how the hell you’re going to survive college in this overpriced city.

"Cool," you mutter instead, shoving another sweater—how did you even pack this many?—back into the box.

Yoongi lingers for a moment longer, then nods toward the kitchen. "Like I said, beer’s in the fridge if you want it."

This time, you don’t argue. "Yeah, alright," you reply, finally giving in. Maybe unpacking will be a little less miserable if you're buzzed.

You follow him into the kitchen, which is slightly less depressing than the living room, if you ignore the flickering light and the fact that there’s no real counter space. Yoongi reaches into the fridge and hands you a bottle. You take it, twisting off the cap and leaning back against the sink, while he props himself against the counter, sipping his own drink.

There’s a quiet comfort in the lack of conversation. Yoongi doesn’t fill the space with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. It’s not awkward, just... easy. He’s detached, sure, but not in a way that makes you feel weird. It’s almost like he exists on a different frequency—one you haven’t quite tuned into yet.

"You here for school?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Yeah. NYU," you answer, taking a long swig of the beer. It’s cheap and warm, but you barely notice.

Yoongi just nods, like he expected that. "Jungkook goes there too," he adds, his tone casual but the mention of the name makes your ears perk up.

Right. The other roommate. The one who hasn’t shown up yet. You’d almost forgotten about him in all the moving chaos. You remember seeing the name on the lease—Jeon Jungkook—but you don’t know anything about him beyond that.

"Is he... around?" you ask, though the answer is obvious. The apartment’s been dead quiet since you arrived, and something tells you you’d know if someone else was here.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Not right now. Probably with his friends."

You take another sip of beer, mulling that over. So, a musician and a social butterfly. This should be interesting.

"Anything I should know about him?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light, though you’re genuinely curious. You’ve already gotten the sense that Yoongi’s easy to live with—quiet, unobtrusive—but there’s no telling what kind of chaos the third roommate might bring.

Yoongi glances at you, his expression unreadable, then shrugs. "Jungkook’s... alright."

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you pause, like there’s a story behind those words that you’re not being told. But before you can ask more, Yoongi sets his beer down and stretches, like the conversation’s over.

"I’ll be in my room if you need anything," he says, already turning to leave.

You watch him go, feeling that same stillness creep back into the room as the door clicks shut behind him.

Jungkook’s alright.

The words bounce around your head as you finish off your beer, trying to figure out what the hell they’re supposed to mean. You’re not sure if Yoongi’s being cryptic, or if that’s just how he talks about everything.

Either way, you guess you’ll find out soon enough.

You’re left with Yoongi’s parting words and the faint clink of his door closing, the sound reverberating through the thin walls. Jungkook’s alright. A statement that could mean anything—or nothing at all.

The silence settles in thick around you, as if the apartment’s absorbing it. With Yoongi gone, the place feels even smaller, the air heavier, as if it’s been lived in for too long by people who don’t talk much. The kind of place where secrets get stuck in corners, gathering dust.

You sip the last of your beer, leaning against the sink, the sharp metallic taste mixing with the stale warmth of the room. The thought of Jungkook lingers, though you quickly push it away. No point trying to decode a guy you haven’t even met yet.

You glance at the boxes still stacked near the door, the last hurdle before you can call this place yours. The thought of unpacking exhausts you, but sitting in this half-done space makes your skin crawl. You decide to tackle the basics—at least enough to make it feel like you didn’t just get here on a whim.

Back in the living room, you pull open a box labeled Books + Misc, and a stack of novels topples out onto the floor with a muted thud. You stare at them for a second, wondering why the hell you thought you’d need all this when you haven’t even figured out how to feed yourself in this city yet. A couple textbooks, sure, but the rest? The stack of poetry collections you brought from home seems laughably out of place here, like a relic from some other life you’re trying to leave behind.

You set them on the coffee table, a half-hearted attempt to make this place feel like it belongs to you. The couch creaks under your weight as you sit, staring at the peeling paint on the walls, the faint water stain near the ceiling, the sound of traffic bleeding through the cracked window.

The room feels heavy in a way you didn’t expect, as if there’s something pressing in from all sides, a presence that you can’t quite shake. You shake your head, trying to laugh at yourself. You’ve always been like this—getting weird in unfamiliar spaces, as if your brain’s determined to find something wrong even when everything’s perfectly fine. It’s just an apartment, just four walls and two random roommates. No ghosts here.

Probably.

You stand, deciding to push through and finish unpacking your clothes. The small bedroom that’s now yours is still a maze of half-open boxes and crumpled bags, but at least it’s your mess. The single window lets in just enough light to make the room look less depressing, though you can’t help but notice the faint smell of old paint, that same mustiness that lingers in old buildings like this. You wrinkle your nose, already making a mental note to grab some candles or something to mask the scent.

After a while, the rhythmic task of hanging up clothes becomes automatic. Shirts, jeans, the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school—things that remind you, even in this weirdly suffocating city, of who you are. Or, at least, who you were. The space around you starts to take shape, but it still doesn’t feel like you yet. Maybe that’s just New York, though. The city’s too loud, too indifferent to care who you are or where you’ve come from. You’re just another body in its endless sprawl.

Eventually, you sink down onto the bed, more tired than you’d like to admit. The mattress feels stiff, not yet broken in, but it’s better than nothing. You lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling. There’s a hum in the distance—cars, people shouting, music drifting from an apartment below. It’s a far cry from the suffocating quiet of your old bedroom back home.

Your phone buzzes from where you left it on the floor. You reach for it lazily, already knowing what’s waiting for you: texts from your parents. You wish the thought didn’t make you internally recoil as much as it does.

𝙼𝚘𝚖: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚝?

You stare at the screen, debating if you even want to respond. There’s a part of you that feels guilty for how you left things back home—leaving them behind without much of a plan, just the vague idea of getting out. But you’d never have made it here if you’d let yourself get tangled in their worries, their expectations.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before you type out a quick, noncommittal response.

𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐.

You toss the phone back onto the floor, not waiting for a reply. You almost feel guilty for the way your brain immediately wants to run away from the conversation. To escape. Like you always do.

Your thoughts drift back to Yoongi. His quiet presence still feels strange, like a puzzle you’re not sure you want to solve yet. He seems content to exist without explanation, floating through the apartment with the kind of calm that makes you wonder if anything fazes him at all.

And then there’s Jungkook. The mystery roommate who’s apparently “alright.” You scoff softly at the thought. It’s almost laughable how little you know about him—just a name and the fact that he goes to NYU, like you. You’re not expecting much. People always disappoint, especially when you’re crammed into tiny spaces with them. But something about the way Yoongi said his name keeps nagging at you.

Before you know it, the room is starting to blur, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your vision. You’re too tired to overthink anymore. Your eyes flutter shut, the city outside fading into the background as you drift off. You’ll deal with everything—school, Jungkook, this weird, cramped apartment—later.

For now, sleep.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 33

pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 13,2k | warnings: here genre: roommates/e2l, fwb, fuck buddies, emotional slow burn, smut

“trapped”

"You’re baked, bleeding, tipsy, and doing a terrible job pretending Jason’s words didn’t land exactly where your mother left the bruise. Downstairs, Jungkook is discovering that noticing too much is only useful until it makes you want to commit a felony in a Ghostface robe."

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↪︎author's note : Okay, hello everyone! Welp. Long time no see, right? 

I told you I was taking a little hiatus, and apparently I was not joking. Character development for me, honestly. Usually when I say ‘little hiatus,’ I mean ‘I will disappear for three business days, reappear at 4 a.m. with 12k words, and act like that was normal behavior.’ This time? No. June grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me through administrative hell.

I already mentioned this in the last chapter of OFL, but for those of you who only read FMU, (obsessed losers. i love you<3) I am extremely overworked this month and basically MIA. Like, spiritually unavailable. Physically present, barely. So, very gently, very lovingly, very ‘I am kissing your forehead while holding a spray bottle’: 

Please don’t ask me for updates.

I know it comes from a place of love. I know you guys are obsessed with this story, these characters, and my writing, and I could not be more grateful that you enjoy these two forks being stupid so much. Truly. I would put you all in my pocket and feed you little crumbs if I could. But I am really, really stressed out this month, and I can’t deal with the pressure right now. I’ve cried three times this week over paperwork and stress, and I simply cannot add writing expectations to the pile. So please. I’ll kiss all of you on the lips for loving my writing, but do not ask me when the next chapter is dropping. I genuinely don’t know. Let’s stay civil, yeah? Mama will be back. Mama is just currently fighting for her life in the paperwork trenches because she has very busy next two years ahead and is working hard for that dream promotion.

In the meantime, I really suggest checking out the rest of my writing if you haven’t already! I have a bunch of different stories that share similar DNA with FMU, just in different fonts.

If you’re looking for the same cozy, domestic, slice-of-life vibe as FMU, WGU is childhood best friends to lovers with Hoseok as an ADHD golden retriever overachiever.

If you want spicy, witty banter, 5STF is a rivals-to-lovers street-racing AU set in Tokyo, with Latino Jimin being obsessed with Y/N in a way that is deeply unwell and deeply correct.

If you want contemporary AU plus spicy banter, OFL is enemies to lovers with arrogant soccer player Taehyung, a man who has never been told no in his life, becoming fixated on the one girl who insists on treating him like furniture.

If you want my writing but in a shiny new sci-fi flavor, there’s 25H, a cyberpunk/superpowers AU where Yoongi controls time and you’ve lost your memory seventeen times. Casual. Normal couple stuff.

There’s also C:E, set in a dystopian alien semi-military heat-cycle world, with Commander Kim Namjoon being a 100% match to his nemesis. Because why be normal when we can add alien biology and emotional repression to the grocery list?

If you want stalker pathetic subby Taehyung x ballerina flirty dommy Y/N, we have ASW, which is for the mentally ill girlies who looked at ‘obsession’ and said, ‘but make it poetic.’

And if you haven’t read my finished stories yet, KGP and OL are right there waiting for you. Go take a look while I’m gone. Wander around the Kiki cinematic universe. Touch grass only metaphorically. Enjoy!

Now. As for this chapter.

The first scene comes in strong because Y/N is already in several states that make her extra sensitive. She’s on her period. She’s baked. She’s tipsy. She’s overstimulated. She’s already emotionally tangled from everything that happened before Jason even opens his mouth. So the word that detonates her is not only the word itself, but everything around it. Please keep that in mind before saying it’s stupid or dramatic, because I promise you it’s not. I have not been building this scene for twenty chapters for you gremlins to gloss over it and go ‘damn, all that over one word?’ I will appear in your room like sleep paralysis with a tax book and throw it at your head.

Scene two is also extremely important to me because we are seeing Jungkook’s attention to detail. And, as my beloved mod Flo would say, if I hear any of you reducing this to ‘omg he has romantic feelings,’ I will smite you with my powerful writing quill. Or my nails. My nails work too. I don’t actually own a writing quill. Point is, yes, Jungkook is protective of Y/N. Yes, there is development. Obviously. I am not writing thirty-three chapters of erotic emotional warfare for the vibes only. But please don’t let the romantic subplot cloud your judgment. What happens with Jungkook here is tied to something much rawer and deeper inside him. This hits a core emotional wound. It connects to him, to his mom, to Mia, and to the specific horror of watching someone become smaller inside a relationship. The feeling of being trapped. The feeling of being managed. The feeling of not being able to breathe because someone else has convinced you the cage is care. Ruminate on that, my loves. 

Also, what’s a Kiki fic if I don’t add social themes and then make everyone suffer through them with pretty prose and emotional damage? Tae’s monologue is not just there for dramatic effect. It’s not only ‘best friend stops best friend from doing something stupid,’ though yes, that too. It’s also there to uncloud Jungkook’s judgment because Jungkook is walking toward a situation where the reality is not in his favor. Asian man in the U.S. against a polite white cis man with academic credibility, glasses, and a vest? Yeah. The odds are not neutral. They are not clean. They are not ‘who is morally right wins.’ Tae knows that. Jungkook knows that. Yoongi knows that. And I needed that reality to sink in not only for Jungkook, but for you too.

Because what Jason representd doesn’t need to be physically violent to win a narrative.

And finally, the last scene. I needed the female solidarity there. I needed Yeji and Irya after the Jason disaster. I needed Y/N to have women outside that door who understand the specific kind of violation that comes from being calmly, reasonably, gently made to feel insane. And I also needed someone who is not Jungkook to talk to her.Because I refuse to cheapen the depth of my side characters for the sake of pushing the romantic plot forward selfishly. FMU is not just about Jungkook and Y/N orbiting each other until one of them combusts. It is also about the people around them. The people who catch them. The people who understand different pieces of them before they can understand themselves. The person who comforts her is exactly the right person. And you’ll understand soon why it had to be them.

Enjoy the chapter, my loves. Be patient with me. Be kind to each other. Don’t make me tap the sign. Mama will be back. Just busy. Very busy. Horrifically busy. Dream-promotion busy.

Now go read, suffer, theorize responsibly, and behave yourselves.

Or don’t.

But if you don’t, at least be funny about it. 🩷

The room is smaller than it was this morning.

Which doesn’t make sense, architecturally, because rooms don’t shrink. Walls don’t migrate inward while you’re downstairs eating drugged brownies and letting boys in bath robes corner you against kitchen counters. That’s not how buildings work. That’s not how physics works. You took a science elective. You passed it. Barely, but the point stands.

And yet.

The blue suite feels different. The ceiling’s lower or the bed’s bigger or the air is thicker or maybe—maybe it’s just that Jason closed the door behind him with a click instead of letting it drift shut, and the click had a sound to it. A punctuation.

You didn’t like it.

You haven’t liked any of it walking behind him up the stairs.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t put his palm on the small of your back the way he usually does in hallways.

He just walked. And you followed.

And now you’re standing three feet inside the door and he’s by the window and the bed is between you like a negotiating table, and everything was fine earlier. It was fine when you got dressed in this room. It was fine when Irya did your collarbones and Jason called you incredible and held out his hand and you took it.

It was fine twenty minutes ago.

So why does the wallpaper look like it’s breathing?

…Okay. That one might actually be the weed.

This was definitely not your best pharmaceutical decision.

Jason turns from the window. Faces you. Brings both hands together in front of his mouth—fingertips touching, pressed to his lips, the prayer gesture. The one people do when they’re organizing a thought they’ve already finished thinking and are now just choosing the delivery method.

He holds it there.

Drops his hands.

“Okay. So.”

A breath. Through his nose.

“What’s going on with him?”

Something catches in your throat. Not a sound—a shape. The shape of a word you weren’t ready for, or the shape of being caught, or the shape of every single moment from the last forty-eight hours compressing into a single syllable that sits behind your tongue and refuses to move.

Fuck.

He noticed.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He saw you at the counter. He saw the way you were standing—how close, how angled, the chocolate on your fingers, the laugh you didn’t authorize—and now he’s standing in this room with the door clicked shut and his hands in that prayer thing and he’s asking, and—

The shower. The orange. The hallway.

«Circles, Nix.»

The bracelet. The fucking bracelet that’s still on your wrist pressing the little rain charm into your pulse point.

He knows. He doesn’t know how much but he knows something.

Act normal.

You are a normal person who does normal things and has normal friendships with her normal roommate and none of those things involve coming in adjacent shower stalls or the word cookie being used as a double entendre in a kitchen full of witnesses.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Nailed it. Completely nailed it. Meryl Streep would weep. Oscar-worthy. Standing ovation.

Jason looks at you.

“Don’t do that.”

Okay. Fuck.

No. Don’t be discouraged bitch. Make Meryl proud, come on.

“Do what?”

“The thing where you act like you don’t understand the question.” His voice is level. Measured. Patient in a way that somehow makes it worse. “You know exactly what I mean. He’s constantly in your space.”

Okay, Meryl, girl. There was an attempt.

Your fingers find the bracelet.

Automatic. Unconscious. The way your hand goes to a bruise to check if it still hurts—you don’t decide to do it, you just do, and by the time you realize you’re doing it you’re already pressing the charm into your wrist and looking to the side, away from his face, at the lamp on the nightstand that is doing absolutely nothing wrong and doesn’t deserve to be stared at this hard.

“We’re friends.” You say it to the lamp. “That’s it.”

“Friends.”

“Yeah. Friends. People who talk to each other at parties. Groundbreaking concept.”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Can you look at me?”

You look at him. Force yourself to do it—drag your gaze from the lamp to his face like it’s a physical act, like your eyes weigh something they didn’t weigh ten minutes ago.

He’s not angry. That’s the thing. He’s not doing the thing you’re braced for—no raised voice, no visible frustration, no clenched jaw or sharp edges.

He looks calm. Concerned. Reasonable.

For some reason, it feels like his most dangerous version.

“I’m not trying to start a fight,” he says. Opens his hands. Palms up. The universal gesture of ’I come in peace’ that people only do when peace is not, in fact, what they came with. “I just—I think it’s worth having a conversation about boundaries.”

“Boundaries.”

“Yeah. About what’s appropriate. In front of other people.”

Something hot flickers in your chest. Not guilt anymore. Something meaner.

“What exactly was inappropriate?”

“I didn’t say inappropriate. I said—”

“You literally just said what’s appropriate, Jason, which means something was inappropriate, so what was it?”

He takes a breath. The patient one. The one that says ’I’m going to let that tone slide because I’m the mature one here.’

And god, you hate that breath. You hate it the way you hate being corrected by someone who’s technically right but fundamentally missing the point—that specific, grinding frustration of being managed.

“I just don’t think it’s a great look,” he says. “Having another guy’s hands all over you at a party where we’re here together.”

Hands all over you.

Hands all over you?

The kitchen counter flashes—Jungkook’s palms flat on either side of your hips, the heat, the proximity, the vanilla bottle sitting there like a prop in a play about your bad decisions—and your stomach drops because okay, maybe from across the room that did look—

“That’s not what was happening.”

“From where I was sitting—”

“Then maybe you were sitting at a bad angle.”

“Y/N.” The patient breath again. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying—as someone who cares about you—I don’t think you realize how it looks. To other people.”

His eyes drop. To your wrist.

“And—I wasn’t going to bring this up, but since we’re talking about it.” He gestures. A small tilt of his chin toward your left hand. “That thing.”

You don’t need to look down to know what he means.

“What about it?”

“You’ve been wearing it all week. I couldn’t help but notice.” His voice is still calm. Still measured. Still wrapped in enough reasonableness that the words almost sound like concern instead of what they are. “And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to—but it’s a bit childish, no? The colors. The beads.”

Yellow. Orange. Red. Little silver letters spelling ‘Rogue’ across.

“It’s a bracelet, Jason.”

“It says Rogue.” He says it amused in a way that’s worse than mean—condescending, like he’s being generous by only finding it slightly embarrassing. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s an inside joke.”

“With who?”

“With—people. It’s a friendship bracelet. People have those.”

“At your age?”

The question hangs. Rhetorical. Already answered by the tone he used to ask it.

His eyes move from the bracelet to your hand. To the back of it. To the fleshy part below your thumb where—

“And—is that a bite?”

Your hand snaps behind your body so fast you nearly throw out your shoulder.

Too fast. Way too fast.

The speed of it is its own confession—nobody hides an innocent injury like they’re palming evidence at a crime scene—and you watch Jason clock the reaction the way he clocks everything: slow, but sure.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a bite mark.”

“It’s not. I just bumped into something.”

“That’s teeth.”

“It was—the brownie thing. In the kitchen. It was stupid, someone was—it was a joke.”

“A joke.” Flat. “Someone bit you. As a joke.”

And the way he says it—someone—makes it clear he doesn’t need you to fill in the name.

His jaw works once. Controlled.

“So you’re out there getting drunk and high and—what, bitten by people at a party? Randomly? While we’re here together?”

“It wasn’t—”

“That’s the kind of behavior you think is—”

“It was a joke, Jason, we were fighting over a brownie and it was dumb and it lasted two seconds—”

“I just—”

He runs a hand through his hair. Looks at you with an expression that’s trying so hard to be gentle it comes full circle into something sharp.

“That’s not the girl I know. The beads and the nicknames and the—getting bitten in kitchens at midnight—it’s not you.”

Not you.

Not the version of you he knows.

Not the version he built in his head from seminar answers and coffee dates and the careful, polished, composed woman who shows up when he’s watching.

The version that wears matching jewelry and speaks in complete sentences and doesn’t have an inside joke with her roommate spelled out on her wrist in colored beads like a kid at summer camp.

“Maybe you’ve just never known me.”

You say it quiet. Looking right at him.

His mouth opens. Closes.

And for one second—half a second—surprise cracks in the diplomacy.

Then the composure reseals. The crack plasters over. The expression returns to its default setting: concerned, measured, slightly wounded.

“I think you should be more mindful. That’s all. About how you carry yourself. I think you should—”

A pause. Careful. Choosing.

“—respect yourself a little more.”

Respect yourself.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You deserve better than being someone’s—I don’t know—physical prop. Being grabbed and hung on and—it’s not how someone treats a person they respect. And I think you know that.”

The hot thing in your chest is spreading. Climbing up your throat. Making your heartbeat louder in your own ears, which might be the weed or might be fury or might be some volatile combination of both that’s going to end in either tears or property damage and you genuinely do not know which.

“Nobody was grabbing me. Nobody was hanging on me. I was talking to someone. At a party. Like a person. With a social life.”

“You were—”

“What? Finish that.”

“Can you let me finish a sentence?”

“Can you stop starting sentences that end with me not respecting myself?”

“I just don’t think Jimin sees it like that.”

Everything stops.

The room. Your breathing. The weed-warped wallpaper. The hot angry thing in your chest.

All of it hits pause, mid-stride, like someone yanked the needle off a record.

“What?”

“I said I don’t think Jimin sees it the way you think he does.”

Jimin.

Jimin?

He’s talking about—

This entire—every single word of this conversation—the boundaries, the appropriateness, the respect yourself—

“You think Jimin has feelings for me?”

It comes out flat. Incredulous. Like someone asked you to confirm the sky is blue.

Jason’s expression doesn’t change.

Same steady, reasonable, measured look.

Same concerned furrow between the brows.

Same ’I’m saying this because I care about you’ energy pouring off him in waves of cedar and bergamot.

“I think Jimin knows what it’s like to be a guy,” he says, “and have a girl draped all over him.”

Draped.

He said draped.

Like you were fabric. Like you were a decoration. Like the arms you had around Jimin’s shoulders—warm, platonic, the kind of casual affection you give to someone who just did your eyeliner and trusted you with the shape of his questions—were some kind of tactical maneuver. Some calculated display that poor innocent Jimin couldn’t possibly interpret as anything other than sexual, because you’re a girl, and he’s a guy, and apparently that equation only has one answer in Jason’s math.

Your fingernails press half-moons into your palms.

“Draped,” you repeat. Testing the word. Tasting it.

It tastes like your mother.

«You’re too much, you’re too loud, you’re taking up space in a way that makes people uncomfortable, and you’d know that if you’d just stop and think about how you look from the outside for once in your life.»

You feel the beginning of a compression in your chest.

One that you recognize from a long time ago, from fights in kitchens with marble countertops, from sitting at dining tables where every fork was placed at the correct angle and every word was placed at the correct volume and every version of you that didn’t fit the blueprint got folded up and put away.

Your lungs feel smaller.

That’s the weed. That has to be the weed.

“Jimin is my friend.” You say it slow, clear. “He did my eyeliner. I hugged him. I hug my friends, Jason. That’s a thing people do.”

“I’m not saying you can’t have friends—”

“Oh, good. Thank you. Permission granted. Really appreciate that.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about.” He gestures at you—at all of you, the sarcasm, the crossed arms, the whole defensive architecture of your posture. “This. Right here. I try to have an adult conversation and you immediately go to—”

“To what?”

“To this. The deflection. The sarcasm. The making me the bad guy for expressing a concern.”

And the fucked up thing—the really truly fucked up thing—is that he’s not entirely wrong.

You are deflecting. You are being sarcastic. You are making him the bad guy because the alternative is engaging with the actual content of what he’s saying and you can’t do that because the actual content requires you to either (a) explain that Jimin is not interested in you because Jimin is currently navigating something about his own identity that is private and sacred and none of Jason’s goddamn business, or (b) admit that the real problem isn’t Jimin at all, it’s the guy in the Ghostface robe who said circles to you across a kitchen like it was a promise—

And you can’t do either of those things.

Option A outs Jimin. Option B outs you.

So you’re stuck.

Trapped.

Standing in this room that’s getting smaller with every sentence, defending a position that isn’t the real position, fighting a fight that isn’t the real fight, and your chest is doing the thing and your hands are doing the thing and the wallpaper is definitely breathing now and you can’t—

“He was sitting down,” you say, and your voice is thinner. You can hear it. “I came up behind him and put my arms around him. The same way I’d hug Yeji. The same way I’d hug Irya. Are you going to tell me that’s inappropriate too?”

“Yeji and Irya are women.”

“So?”

“So it’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it is. Because whether you want to acknowledge it or not, there is a difference between how men and women interpret physical affection, and I’m not being old-fashioned by pointing that out, I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being controlling.”

Jason’s face does something you’ve never seen it do before.

He looks hurt. Real, actual hurt, the kind that flashes across someone’s face before they can catch it and tuck it behind something more presentable.

“I’m not controlling you,” he says. “I’m asking you to think about how your actions affect the people around you. That’s not control. That’s consideration.”

Consideration.

Your mother’s favorite word. Your mother’s number-one, gold-standard, go-to weapon for every single time you did something that embarrassed her or surprised her or reminded her that you were a separate person with separate wants—’have some consideration. Think about someone other than yourself for once.’

You can feel your heartbeat in your fingers, in your wrists, in the base of your throat where the gold chain sits against your skin.

You want to scream that Jimin is already interested in someone else, that possibly he doesn’t even like girls.

But you don’t.

Because it’s not yours to say. It’s Jimin’s. It belongs to him the same way the pink nail belongs to him, the same way the question in the bathroom belongs to him—’what if none of it fits, what if there isn’t a word for it’—and you don’t get to hand that to Jason Calloway like a hall pass just because you’re cornered and scared and your lungs won’t open all the way.

You don’t get to sacrifice someone else’s secret to win your own argument.

So you stand there. Hands shaking. Jaw shut. Pulse hammering against the rain charm on your wrist.

And you have nothing.

No defense that doesn’t betray someone.

No explanation that doesn’t expose something.

“I shouldn’t have to justify hugging my friend,” you say, and it comes out cracked.

“Nobody’s asking you to justify anything. I’m asking you to be aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“Of how you come across. Of the signals you’re sending. Of the fact that you’re at a party with me—with me—and you spent the last hour hanging off other men and barely looked in my direction.”

The compression in your chest is getting worse. Heavier. Like someone’s stacking books on your ribcage one at a time—each sentence another volume, another weight, another reason you can’t get enough air into your lungs to fight properly.

Your eyes burn.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You are not going to cry in front of Jason Calloway in a Medusa costume with two pot brownies dissolving in your bloodstream. That’s not happening. That is a thing that will not occur.

“I think,” he says—and there’s a softness to it now, a careful softness that’s worse than the accusations because it sounds like kindness, it sounds like concern, it sounds like someone who loves you explaining for the fifteenth time why you’re doing everything wrong, “that sometimes you don’t realize the way you act around men. And I don’t think that’s your fault. I think it’s—a pattern. And I think if you were a little more self-aware about it, a little more…”

He pauses. Looking for the word.

“…mature, you’d...”

You tune out the rest of the sentence.

Because that word.

Mature.

One single, careful, well-chosen, precisely deployed word that lands in the exact center of the thing your parents built inside you—the architecture of not-enough, the blueprint of every dinner table correction and every lowered voice and every ’when are you going to grow up and start acting like the person we raised you to be’—

And inside you something buckles—a load-bearing wall giving way, a structural failure that’s been building since the shower, since the orange, since circles, since the prayer hands and what’s going on with him—and you are not going to cry here.

You are not going to cry here, you are not going to cry here, you are not—

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Y/N—”

“I need to use the bathroom, Jason.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

His expression is doing the thing again—the hurt, the confusion, the genuine inability to understand why his reasonable words keep producing unreasonable reactions—and part of you, the part that’s still rational, knows he doesn’t get it.

Knows he thinks he’s being fair.

Knows he genuinely believes that everything he just said came from a place of care and concern and wanting the best for you.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

That he means it.

That the cage is lined with good intentions and the bars are made of ’I just want what’s best for you’ and the lock is turned by someone who thinks love and management are the same thing.

You grab the door handle. Pull.

“Can we at least—”

The door closes behind you.

The hallway is empty. The sconce flickers. The fog machine’s output has crept up the stairs and is hanging in thin wisps along the baseboard and you walk through it on legs that don’t feel entirely connected to your body—one foot, then the other, mechanical, automatic, the way you used to walk from the dining room to your bedroom after the conversations that left you feeling like this, small and wrong and taking up too much space and not the right shape and never, ever, ever enough—

The bathroom door.

You push through it. Lock it behind you.

Slide down the door until you’re sitting on cold tile with your knees pulled up and the Medusa skirt bunching around your thighs and the snake cuff digging into your bicep and the gold chains in your hair pressing into the back of your skull against the wood.

The first sob comes out silent.

The second one doesn’t.

It’s ugly. Wrenching. The kind that starts in your stomach and rips upward through your chest like something with claws, and you press your hand over your mouth to contain it because there are thirty people downstairs and the last thing—the absolute last thing you need—is someone hearing you fall apart in a bathroom at a Halloween party because a boy used the word ’mature’ and your nervous system couldn’t tell the difference between him and your mother.

Tears streak through Jimin’s perfect eyeliner, wings dissolving, the careful symmetry ruined, and you think stupidly, absurdly, through the wet gasping wreckage of your breathing, that he’s going to be so disappointed when he sees what you did to his work.

That thought makes you cry harder.

Which makes you laugh.

Which makes you cry again.

You pull your knees tighter. Press your forehead to them. Let the gold chain belt dig into your thighs.

On your wrist, the rain charm catches the fluorescent light.

You don’t take it off.

He can taste purple.

Not like—grape. Not like candy or medicine or anything that’s supposed to be purple. Just the color. Just purple, sitting on his tongue like a frequency, and the ceiling is doing something interesting with its textures and Jungkook is pretty sure the decorative cobwebs have been moving for the last ten minutes but in a chill way. A friendly way. Like they’re also at a party and having a good time.

He shouldn’t have eaten that third brownie.

He knows this.

He also shouldn’t have taken that last shot of whatever Hobi poured out of a bottle with no label—a liquid the color of antifreeze that tasted like someone dissolved a green apple Jolly Rancher in paint thinner and then blessed it with a prayer and a middle finger.

But rational decisions have never been his forte and they’re not going to start now.

Not when the ceiling has this much going on, anyway.

“Hoseok deserves jail,” Taehyung mutters next to him.

He says it to the ceiling too. Both of them, heads tipped back against the couch cushions, staring up at the crown molding like it contains the answers to questions neither of them are smart enough to ask right now.

Jungkook chuckles. “Federal.”

“Minimum.”

“Consecutive sentences.”

“No parole.”

They sit with that for a moment. Satisfied with the verdict.

This lounge is on the far side of the house—quieter, dimmer, tucked away from the main party like a VIP section nobody asked for. Somebody dragged a floor lamp in here at some point and aimed it at the wall, which means the light is amber and indirect and makes everything look like a memory. There’s a smaller couch, an armchair with an afghan thrown over it, and a coffee table covered in jack-o-lanterns that Jungkook carved this morning with a steak knife and what he’d considered, at the time, artistic vision.

He looks at the decorations. The cobwebs he stretched across the doorframe. The battery-operated candles on the mantle. The little plastic spiders he positioned along the bookshelf with deliberate spacing because—film major.

Composition matters. Even in novelty arachnids.

“You know what,” he says. “I did a pretty good job with all this.”

He gestures broadly at the room. The gesture is meant to encompass the whole house but his arm is heavier than expected so it mostly encompasses the lamp and half of Taehyung’s face.

Taehyung snorts.

“Sure. If you don’t count the pumpkins.”

Jungkook’s head rolls sideways on the cushion. “What’s wrong with my pumpkins?”

Taehyung stops staring at the ceiling. Lifts his head. Rights himself into something approaching a seated position, which is a production—because Taehyung is currently dressed as Gomez Addams and the costume is committed.

Pinstripe suit. Actual pinstripe, not printed. A burgundy pocket square folded into something that probably has a name—triangle? pyramid? fabric origami?—that matches the deep red of Irika’s dress because of course it does, because Kim Taehyung looked at his girlfriend’s Morticia costume and said ’I will restructure my entire wardrobe around your color palette’ without a single beat of hesitation. The mustache is drawn on with eyeliner. Thin, precise, curling slightly at the ends. His hair is slicked back—every strand cemented into place with what smells like an entire can of product—and there’s a fake rose pinned to his lapel that Jungkook watched him steal from a vase in the entryway and present to Irika on one knee in the living room while she pretended to swoon and Hobi filmed the whole thing for Instagram.

Disgusting. Truly disgusting behavior from a man Jungkook respects and loves.

“Are you kidding me,” Taehyung says.

Jungkook rights himself too. Sits up. Squares his shoulders. The Ghostface robe shifts around him like a bathrobe at a very dramatic hotel.

“The pumpkins are perfect.”

“They’re not perfect. They look stupid.”

“They don’t—”

“Dude.” Taehyung points—hazily, finger drifting slightly left of center—at the jack-o-lantern sitting on the coffee table directly in front of them. “Look at it. Actually look at it.”

Jungkook looks at it.

It’s… okay, the mouth is a little wide.

And the eyes are slightly different sizes, which he’d thought was characterful at the time but might, in the current lighting, read more as neurological event.

And the nose—he’d tried for a triangle, landed on something more rhomboid—

“It looks like Willy Wonka,” Taehyung says. “Or some shit.”

“Willy Wonka’s attractive.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain clears them and he hears them land in the room and thinks, ’well, that’s a sentence I just said with confidence to another man on a couch.’

Taehyung’s entire head rotates toward him. Slowly. Like a surveillance camera.

“What.”

“What? He is. Didn’t you see that TikTok guy? The one who dressed up as Wonka and got like—millions of followers?”

“What the fuck is on your For You Page, dude.”

“Bro, I swear. He went viral. Hold on.”

Jungkook pulls out his phone. Unlocks it. The screen is brighter than the sun and he squints against it like a vampire encountering daylight for the first time—which, given the costume, feels thematic.

“Look. Wait.”

He opens TikTok. His thumb is slower than usual. The letters in the search bar are behaving strangely.

“How do you spell Wonka.”

“How do you—Jungkook.”

“No, I know how, I just—is there an H?”

“There’s not an H in Wonka. There has never been an H in Wonka. Where would the H go.”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking—”

“W-O-N-K-A. Five letters. No H. You went to college.”

“Technically I’m still going to college—”

“You—“ Taehyung groans, snatching the phone, “gimme the phone.”

Somehow, his friend manages to write with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t have three brownies and Hobi’s prison cocktail dissolving his neural pathways.

Two seconds later he’s scrolling through results.

Jungkook, on a sober note, would call that blasphemy.

“This one?”

He holds the phone up. A guy in a purple velvet coat and a top hat, abs out, doing a grinding motion to some remix of ‘I wanna love you’.

“That’s him! See?” Jungkook takes the phone back. Points at the screen. “Tell me that’s not attractive.”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to sit on this couch, in this suit, and confirm or deny the attractiveness of a TikTok Willy Wonka to you at midnight on Halloween. I have limits. I have a pinstripe situation happening.” Taehyung tugs his lapel. “Gomez wouldn’t do this.”

“Gomez would absolutely do this. Gomez would rate every man in a room if Morticia told him to.”

“That’s—” Taehyung pauses. Snatches his phone again. Narrows his eyes. “That’s actually accurate and I’m mad about it.”

“So the pumpkin looks like an attractive man. What’s the issue.”

“The issue is that a jack-o-lantern is not supposed to look like an attractive man, Jungkook. It’s supposed to look scary. That’s the—that’s the whole assignment. Scary face. On a gourd.”

“A gourd?”

“A pumpkin is a gourd.”

“Since when?”

“Since—botany? Since agriculture? Since the dawn of gourds?”

“I feel like you’re making that up.”

“Google it.”

“You Google it. You have my phone.”

Taehyung looks down. He does, in fact, still have Jungkook’s phone. He stares at it for a long moment, like he forgot how it got there and is now reconstructing the timeline.

“…Your wallpaper is still Griffin,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“From when he was a kitten.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cute.”

“I know.”

They look at each other. Two grown men on a couch. One dressed as a fictional serial killer, the other as a fictional husband. Both profoundly, catastrophically, beautifully stoned.

Taehyung hands the phone back.

“Your pumpkins still look stupid.”

“Noted. Rejected. Moving on.”

“The one in the hallway looks like it’s having an allergic reaction.”

“That one’s abstract.”

“It’s abstract in the way that a car accident is abstract.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to argue, but his brain has already lost the thread—gone, dissolved, replaced by the observation that the cobwebs on the ceiling are still moving and he’s kind of into it. Like a mobile. Like a very goth baby mobile.

He tips his head back again. Taehyung follows a beat later.

Ceiling.

Cobwebs.

“Hey,” Taehyung says.

“Yeah.”

“The decorations are good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Not the pumpkins. Everything else.”

Jungkook grins at the ceiling. “Thanks, man.”

“The pumpkins are, like, honest-to-god dog shit.”

“Got it.”

“But the rest is solid.”

“Appreciate that.”

They sit with it. Content. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who've known each other long enough that not talking is its own form of conversation.

Somewhere in the house, someone drops a glass. A cheer goes up.

Neither of them moves.

Then Jungkook's thumb finds the silver ring. Starts turning it.

He doesn't notice he's doing it. Never does. It's the kind of habit that lives below the threshold of awareness—a background process, automatic, the way some people tap their foot or chew their lip. He just spins the ring. Round and round. The pad of his thumb catching the flat edge, pushing, rotating, catching again.

"Jason bothers me."

He says it to the ceiling. Same way he said the thing about the pumpkins. Same way he said Willy Wonka was attractive. Just out there. A sentence released into the room without a permission slip.

Taehyung doesn't move. Doesn't look over.

"You've mentioned."

"No, I mean—" The ring spins. "He bothers me."

"Yeah. You've mentioned that too." Taehyung shifts on the couch. Gets slightly more upright. The jacket creaks. "Multiple times. Extensively. At length. I believe the phrase 'trust fund guidance counselor' was used. And 'discount therapist with a cologne budget.' And my personal favorite—"

"I'm not joking around right now."

Something about the way he says it—the flatness, the absence of the usual punchline, the punchline that should be there because Jungkook always has a punchline, that's the deal, that's the contract between him and every serious moment he's ever been in—makes Taehyung's head turn.

Jungkook is still looking at the ceiling. But he's not seeing the cobwebs anymore.

"Something's off about him."

"Off how?"

"I don't—" His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. Searching for the word. The right word. "I don't know. Off. Just off, bro. The way he—"

He stops. Starts again.

"She used eucalyptus soap."

Taehyung blinks.

"...What?"

"Earlier. The showers. Y/N. She used the eucalyptus soap that was in the stall instead of her own stuff."

Taehyung stares at him. The Gomez mustache—what's left of it—crinkles with the specific bewilderment of a man who was just having a perfectly good conversation about gourds and is now being asked to care about shower products.

"I'm gonna need, like... significantly more context than that."

"She's vanilla, Tae." Jungkook says it like it's obvious. Like it's a fact of the natural world, on par with gravity or the boiling point of water. "She’s vanilla everything. Everything. Soap. Lotion. The stuff in her hair. She's got like six different vanilla products in the shower caddy and she didn't bring any of it. She used the generic eucalyptus shit in the stall and she doesn’t—she still smells like vanilla underneath because it's basically her, like her actual—"

“Jungkook.”

"—but it's off. There's this—this layer on top of it that isn't her and I'd bet you anything—anything—that he said something. About the vanilla. That he made some comment about it being basic or juvenile or whatever the fuck and she just—adjusted. Without even—she probably doesn't even know she did it."

The silence that follows has a specific quality.

…The quality of someone deciding whether to call an ambulance or a therapist.

"Jesus, man. The weed really did a number on you. You’re having an episode over body wash, are you hearing yourself—"

"It's not—" He swats at Tae. "It’s not about the body wash. It's—" He drags a hand down his face. "Okay, the body wash thing sounds insane. I know it sounds insane. That's the problem. Every individual thing sounds insane if I say it out loud. It's only when you put all of it together that it—"

He makes a vague, frustrated gesture at the air. Like he's trying to grab the shape of what he means and it keeps slipping.

"She doesn't do her tea thing anymore."

"Her tea thing."

"She used to leave the tea bags in the sink. Every morning. Just—sitting there. On the sink. Drove me insane. I texted her about it. Twice. She left me on read and then told me where I could shove the tea bags. It was a whole thing."

He's talking to the ceiling again. His thumb hasn't stopped.

"And then she starts seeing this guy and the tea bags are gone. Just—poof. Not in the sink. Not anywhere. And the thing is—I should be happy about that, right? I wanted them gone. But they didn't stop because she decided to stop. They stopped because he—"

No, but that doesn’t sound right. Because he doesn’t know for sure, does he?

Did you stop the tea bag situation after Jason?

Was it before him? Was Jason the reason?

He wishes he could trust his memory. Or his own brain.

"I’m really trying to follow the thread here, Jungkook."

"It’s—it’s just—the way she is after she's been with him for a while. Like she’s been adjusted or something."

Taehyung is quiet for a second. Processing.

Runs a hand across the back of his neck, seemingly choosing words carefully, which is very unlike him.

"Look, man… She's a grown woman. People date shitty guys all the time. That's, like... a universal experience. It's not really—"

"I know."

"—your problem. She's your roommate. You guys argue about milk. It's not—"

"I know, Tae."

"So then why are you—" Taehyung's hand comes off his neck. Gestures at all of Jungkook. The ring spinning, the jaw set, the whole rigidness of a man who's clearly been carrying this around for longer than tonight. "Why are you like this about it? Since when do you even—I thought you guys just coexist. She leaves her shit around, you leave your shit around, Yoongi mediates. That's the dynamic."

The ring stops.

Spins again.

"We're friends."

Taehyung's eyebrows go up. Genuinely up.

"You're friends?"

"I think so. Yeah. I've been trying to convince her of that for like a month and she basically just gave in earlier tonight—anyway, that's not the point, dude—"

"No, I—I'm just—since when? Last I heard she was 'the menace in room three' who used all the hot water—"

"She's not a menace, she's—okay, she is a menace. With the hot water specifically. But that's a separate issue and it has nothing to do with—"

He's losing the thread. Can feel it unraveling. The way it always does when he tries to explain something that lives in the space between what he sees and what he can prove—the words come out wrong or come out in the wrong order or come out sounding like a conspiracy theory narrated by a guy who's had three pot brownies and a shot of Hobi's antifreeze, and he knows that, he can hear himself, but the alternative is shutting up and the alternative is worse because shutting up means the thing stays in his chest and eats.

"Okay. Forget the soap. Forget the tea bags. Forget all the—the individual things, because individually they're all nothing. Right? Each one is nothing."

He sits up. Slightly. Enough that his feet plant on the floor and he's not talking to the ceiling anymore. He's talking to his hands.

"But it's like—when you watch a movie. And you can't point to the one thing that's wrong with it. The lighting's fine, the acting's fine, the script is fine. But you walk out and you feel bad and you don't know why, and then two weeks later at three in the morning you sit up and go 'the pacing'—it was the pacing the whole time, the pacing was off and it made everything else feel wrong even though everything else was technically fine."

Catches his breath.

"Jason is the pacing."

Taehyung opens his mouth. Closes it. Tilts his head.

"That's..." he says slowly, "genuinely one of the most unhinged analogies I've ever heard you make. And I was there for the 'risotto is emotional labor' speech."

"It made sense in context—"

"It didn't, but go on."

Jungkook's face is on his hands now, resting his weight on his elbows. The way he does when the frustration of not being able to translate the thing in his body to the thing in the air hits critical mass.

"I'm not saying this right."

"You're really not."

"I just—I see her, Tae. I see her before she goes to his place and I see her when she comes back and she's different. And I can't—I can't point to the exact frame where it changes. But she's smaller when she comes back. Not like—not physically. Just... the volume on her goes down. And it comes back up when she's home for a while and then she goes back to him and it goes down again and I—"

He stops. Presses his palms flat on his thighs. Pushes down. Grounding.

"Something about him makes my skin crawl and I don't know if that's real or if I'm—"

«…making it up, Jungkook. You’re seeing things that are not there, baby. You’re projecting.»

"—or if I'm just... seeing shit that isn't there because of my own stuff. I'm aware that's possible. I'm aware I could be the problem here. But every time I try to talk myself out of it something else happens—something small, something that doesn't matter by itself—and the feeling comes back and it's—it's—"

He makes a sound. Not a word. The verbal equivalent of throwing a pen across the room because the sentence won't cooperate.

"I'm really not saying this right."

"Hey." Taehyung's voice has changed. Not all the way. Still casual, still on the couch, still Kim Taehyung at a Halloween party. But the tone is softer. "You don't have to get it perfect, man. Just say the part that matters."

The part that matters.

The ring spins.

"He—" he gulps down, the pronoun stumbling over itself, "he reminds me of—"

And the sentence stops. Not because he chose to stop it. Because the word that comes next has a weight to it—actual, physical, gravitational—and the weight wins. Holds it in his chest. Behind the sternum.

In the exact place where things live that he brings to Dr. Liao's office and puts on the table between them and says ‘I don't know what this is but it won't leave.’

He doesn't finish. Just turns his head. Looks at Taehyung.

The look does what the word won't.

Taehyung, who knows what lives on the other side of sentences Jungkook doesn't finish, nods softly.

"Mia?"

Jungkook takes a couple seconds. But then he nods.

Taehyung sits up. All the way up. Elbows on his knees. The stolen rose on his lapel bends sideways.

"What do you mean he reminds you of—like, specifically. What is he doing?"

"It's—it's just a hunch, man. I don't know him. I've barely talked to him, so for all I know I could be paranoid. I'm aware of that." He sighs. "But something about his presence makes my skin fucking crawl and—when I see her—when I see her after she's been with him for a while, every time she's..."

Loses it. The sentence. The thread. The bridge between the thing he can feel and the thing he can say.

Starts over.

"I feel like he makes her think she's the problem. Like the way she is—her personality, the way she takes up space, the way she's loud and leaves tea bags everywhere and wears vanilla everything—like all of that is this flaw he's generously helping her with. And she just—she takes it. She adjusts. And she doesn't even know she's adjusting, that's the—"

His hands are moving now. Not gesturing. Just moving. Restless energy that needs an exit.

"—and I can't say anything because we're barely—I've been her friend for like five hours, I don't get to walk up and be like 'hey, I think your boyfriend is psychologically dismantling you one tea bag at a time.' That's insane. That's—"

"Hey." Taehyung's hand on his knee. Firm. "Slow down. Start from the beginning. What specifically has he—"

The door to the lounge swings open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Jimin comes through it like the hallway spat him out—fast, slightly off-balance, costume rumpled. The quill pen is gone from behind his ear. His eyes are wide and scanning the room with the specific urgency of someone who needs something and needed it thirty seconds ago.

"Sorry—sorry, is there water in here?"

Jungkook lifts one hand from the armrest. Swallows. Rubs the back of his neck. Points vaguely at the side table where someone abandoned a cluster of bottles and cups sometime around the second hour of the party.

"Over there."

Doesn't take long to notice Jimin's chest is moving too fast.

"Yo." Sits up.

The weed is still there—still fuzzing the edges, still making the room feel like it's wrapped in felt—but something underneath it is starting to sharpen. An instinct. The one that monitors rooms, reads exits, clocks the difference between someone who's out of breath from running and someone who's out of breath from something worse.

"What's up, Jim?"

Jimin picks up the cup. Puts it down. Picks it up again.

Licks his lips.

"It's—"

He says your name.

Everything in Jungkook's nervous system goes from THC-saturated haze to full alert in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

"She's—" Jimin swallows. Runs his hand through his hair and the careful side-part collapses, which he doesn't notice, which means whatever this is ranks above vanity. "She's in the bathroom. Crying. And Yeji and Irya are outside the door but she won't—they can't get her to come out. I think—I think her and Jason had a fight or something."

Jungkook is standing before the sentence ends.

He doesn’t remember deciding to stand. His legs just did it—unfolded beneath him, pushed him vertical, and now he’s crossing the room toward Jimin and Taehyung is sitting up behind him making a sound that means ’what’s happening’ but Jungkook’s already there, already in front of Jimin, already close enough to see the specific kind of worry on his face—not the general kind.

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What the fuck did Jason say to her.”

Jimin blinks. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“I don’t—I don’t know exactly, she was crying and talking really fast and not making a lot of sense through the door and the music, but she said—” He stops. Regroups. His fingers are gripping the cup and the plastic crackles under the pressure. “She said something about feeling trapped. That he was being controlling, or she felt controlled, or—I couldn’t hear everything, she’s high and emotional and Yeji was yelling at someone to turn the music down so—”

Trapped.

The word hits different than the others.

The others—fight, crying, bathroom—those are bad, those register, those go into the filing cabinet under urgent and get processed accordingly.

But trapped doesn’t file.

Trapped doesn’t go into a cabinet.

Trapped goes into his chest.

Right next to the place where a different face lives—a word from a different room, a different year, a different woman, except it’s not different, it’s the same fucking word, the same four walls closing in, the same air running out, the same—

“—and so I wanted to grab some water because I thought maybe if she just has some water and—Jungkook?”

He’s already at the door.

“Jungkook, wait—”

He doesn’t wait. His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek—hard, pressure that’s keeping something behind his teeth that wants out, something with a shape and a heat to it that he recognizes from a long, long time ago.

Not anger. Anger is manageable. Anger is a thing he’s learned to sit with, to breathe through, to hand to Dr. Liao in pieces and say ’I felt this, I didn’t act on it, are you proud of me.’

This isn’t anger.

This is the thing underneath anger.

The thing that has no name in his vocabulary because he’s never let it stay long enough to need one.

The thing that only shows up when someone he cares about feels trapped.

His jaw clenches. The silver ring bites into his finger where his fist has curled without permission.

He rounds the corner into the hallway and the party noise swells and none of it reaches him.

Footsteps behind him. Fast. The pinstripe suit wasn’t built for pursuit but Taehyung’s making it work—long strides, dress shoes clipping the hardwood, and his voice has lost every trace of boneless ice and Willy Wonka and ceiling cobwebs.

“Jungkook.”

Doesn’t stop.

“Jungkook—wait.”

Doesn’t stop.

“Wait, man. Think this through—”

He cuts through the living room like it’s not there.

Beer pong table, fog machine, centurion, bunny, bodies in costumes he registers as shapes and colors and none of them are the shape he’s looking for.

The music is too loud and someone’s laughing near the speakers—high, a sound that scrapes the inside of his skull—and his hands are at his sides and his jaw is locked so tight the pressure reaches his temples.

Trapped.

The word keeps playing. Looped. Skipping like a scratched record.

«This is what men do.»

Not now. Not fucking now.

He reaches the french doors to the garden. Open. Night air. Cold enough that it should register but doesn’t. Patio stones under his boots. String lights overhead making everything amber and warm and the warmth is wrong—everything about this scene is wrong because it looks like a party and sounds like a party and somewhere upstairs you’re on a bathroom floor and the door is locked and you said trapped—

“You’re not doing this.”

Jungkook doesn’t turn. Steps off the patio onto the lawn.

“Hey. Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Doesn’t turn.

The grass is wet. His boots sink.

None of it registers as information worth processing because the only information that matters right now is the distance—a hundred feet, closing—and the shape of Jason’s silhouette against the string lights and the sound the word trapped makes when it loops inside a skull that’s stopped filtering anything else.

“Jungkook—you’re gonna catch a charge. You understand that? A criminal charge. At a Halloween party. In a costume. That’s what you’re walking toward right now. An assault charge in a Ghostface robe. That’s the legacy. That’s the headline.”

Eighty feet. The fountain is to his left now.

“And you know who’s not catching a charge tonight? Him. You know why? Because he didn’t do anything illegal. He was an asshole to someone. That’s it. That’s all it was. And you can’t break someone’s face for that, Jungkook, not—not in the way that counts, not in the way that a cop is gonna care about when they show up and see—”

A breath. Not a pause—a reload. Taehyung’s stride lengthens. He’s beside him now, not behind, shoes squelching on wet grass.

“—when they show up and see you. Standing over him. With blood on your hands. And they’re gonna look at you and they’re gonna look at him and who do you think—” His voice trips. Catches. Goes harder. “Who do you think gets the benefit of the doubt in that scenario? Huh? You? Asian? With the tattoos and the—and him with the PhD program and the glasses and the fucking vest? You think that’s a coin flip? You think that goes fifty-fifty?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Doesn’t slow down. Seventy feet.

“His parents probably have a lawyer saved in their contacts. You know that, right? People like him—they don’t fight back, they call their dad’s buddy at whatever firm and suddenly it’s not a Halloween party anymore, it’s depositions and court dates and you trying to explain to a judge why you—” Taehyung’s hand cuts through the air. “A judge who’s gonna see the exact same thing the cops saw. Who gets believed. I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.”

He shouldn’t. They both know why.

They’ve both been in the rooms where it gets spelled out without anyone saying a word—where looking a certain way in a certain zip code means the margin for error shrinks to nothing and the assumption of guilt arrives before the explanation does.

Taehyung knows. He’s been in those rooms with him.

Same parking lots, same bloody knuckles, same cops who looked at two Asian kids with split lips and didn’t ask who started it.

“This is exactly what he’s not worth. You’ve been saying it for weeks. You said he was a prick, you said he was a snob, you said he gave you bad vibes—great, you were right, congratulations, and now what? Now you’re gonna prove it by giving him a reason to press charges? By handing him the one thing he actually needs to make you the problem? That’s the play?”

Sixty feet. Jungkook picks up speed.

“Because that’s what happens. That’s exactly what happens. You know this. I know you know this because we had the same conversation in high school after Joey Cho got expelled for defending himself in a fight he didn't start. Remember that? Remember what his mom said? She said it doesn't matter who started it. It matters who they believe. And they're not gonna believe you. Not over him. Not when he looks like that and you look like this."

A beat.

“You hit him and he’s the victim, Jungkook. He’s the guy who got attacked at a party by his girlfriend’s unhinged roommate and he gets to tell that story for the rest of his life and she—” He stumbles on the word. “—she becomes the girl it was about. The girl whose psycho roommate couldn’t keep his hands to himself. And that’s his version. That’s the version that wins. You get that, right? You get that his version wins?”

Taehyung is still talking and talking and talking and none of the words are landing because words are noise to him right now.

“Are you listening? Can you even hear me right now? Because I’m talking and you’re walking and I’m running out of ways to say the same thing which is that you’re about to fuck your entire life up and he gets to watch. He gets to stand there with his busted lip and watch you get put in the back of a car and that’s—” Taehyung’s voice goes mean with the effort of keeping it whole. “That’s not justice, man. That’s not protecting her. That’s not gonna make you feel any better, Jungkook, you know that. You know why you know that.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue and picks up speed.

Taehyung swears under his breath and matches it. “You’re not hearing me. You’re not—okay. Okay.”

Taehyung cuts in front of him. Gets there fast—one long diagonal stride and a pivot—and plants himself in the path with his hands on Jungkook’s chest.

“No.”

Hands. Flat on his sternum. Holding.

“No. I told you, bro. You’re not doing this.”

Jungkook tries to step left.

Taehyung shifts left. Blocks it. Doesn’t budge.

Tries right.

Same thing. Mirror image. The hands stay on his chest.

“Do not.” Taehyung’s pointing finger finds Jungkook’s chest. “Don’t play me right now, Jungkook. Back the fuck up.”

He grabs Taehyung’s wrist and shoves it off his chest. Sidesteps.

Gets two steps.

Taehyung grabs a fistful of the Ghostface robe from behind and hauls him backward.

Jungkook’s balance goes—boots sliding on wet grass, the robe yanking tight across his throat—and the stumble turns into a pivot and he rounds on Taehyung and swats the grip off the fabric, forearm connecting with Taehyung’s wrist hard enough to crack, and Taehyung doesn’t let go, just tightens his hold and braces and Jungkook shoves forward into his chest and Taehyung pushes back and for three ugly seconds they’re tangled—grunting, grabbing, both of them too angry for technique.

Taehyung gets both hands on the front of the robe and pushes—hard, this time, the full force of his weight behind it—and Jungkook’s back foot slides out and he catches himself and surges forward and Taehyung meets him and pushes again and they break apart.

Three feet of grass between them. Both breathing through their teeth. The pinstripe jacket wrenched sideways on Taehyung’s shoulders, pocket square crushed, and the Ghostface robe twisted half off Jungkook’s frame like someone tried to unwrap him.

“Alright, you know what.” Taehyung spreads his arms.“Come on then. You wanna fight so bad? Fight me. Right here. Let’s go. I’m right here, Jungkook.”

His chest is heaving. His hands are open. His chin is up in the specific way that means he isn’t bluffing and Jungkook knows damn well he’s not bluffing.

“Hit me. Come on. Hit me. Get it out. Because I promise you—I promise you on everything—you’re not getting within ten feet of that guy tonight. Not while I’m standing. So either you put me down first or you stand here and breathe like a fucking adult. Those are your options. Two options. Pick one.”

Jungkook’s tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. Copper taste. His whole body is a live wire looking for ground and the ground is just some feet away laughing and Taehyung is in the way.

He takes a step.

Taehyung takes one to match. Closes the gap. Gets in his space.

“I’ve had your back in every stupid fight since we were sixteen, dude.”

Quieter now. Which is worse. Taehyung getting quieter means the real thing is coming.

“Every single one. I was there. So believe me when I tell you—if you try to get past me right now, I will lay you out on this lawn and I will not feel bad about it. Not even a little. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever. Because the alternative is watching you throw your entire life at some guy who’s not worth the skin on your knuckles, and I’m not doing that. I’m not watching that. That’s my line. You’ve found it. Congratulations.”

Jungkook’s chest hurts. It hurts and he wishes he could rip what’s beating underneath his chest out.

“You’re better than this.” Taehyung’s throat works. “You know you’re better than this. So act like it or I swear to god I’ll drop you myself, Jungkook. You know I will.”

The silence feels like the canteen, like sixteen, like bloody knuckles behind a 7-Eleven after someone mocked Jungkook’s mom and Taehyung took care of it.

“I did not spend two years watching you put yourself back together just to let you blow it up tonight. Not over this. Not over him.” His jaw flexes. “You wanna get to Jason? You’re going through me. And I don’t go down easy. You know that.”

A beat.

“So help me god, Jungkook, test me and find out.”

“What’s happening.”

From the left, from the direction of the garden wall where the smokers are thinning out—

Yoongi.

“One of you talk.” He stops. Positions himself at Taehyung’s shoulder. “Now.”

Jungkook is a locked system. Nothing’s coming out of him that isn’t breath and body heat.

Yoongi looks at Taehyung.

Taehyung runs both hands through what’s left of the slicked-back hair. Wreckage. His chest is still heaving but his voice comes out forced-steady, the way it does when he’s physically holding himself together to deliver information that matters.

“Jason. The TA. Him and Y/N had a fight—she’s locked in a bathroom upstairs. Jimin came in, said she’s crying, said she told him she felt trapped. That he was being controlling.”

The word lands between the three of them.

Trapped.

Yoongi’s gaze tracks to Jungkook. To the fists. The jaw. The set of his shoulders. The readiness.

He looks at this for a long moment.

Then he looks at the direction Jungkook’s body is pointed. At Jason fifty feet away.

Then back at Jungkook.

He steps forward. Even with Taehyung. Shoulder to shoulder.

His hands go into his pockets.

“Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, Jungkook, tell me what happens next. You get past us. Then what. You feel better for ten seconds and then you’re the guy who assaulted someone at a Halloween party and she’s the girl it was about. That what you want?”

No.

That’s not what he wants.

What he wants is to go back in time fifteen minutes and be in whatever room Jason took you to and stand between you and whatever sentences made you say trapped.

What he wants is to have been there.

He wasn’t.

“Use your head for a second here, Jungkook.” Yoongi hasn’t moved. Hasn’t blinked. “Come on.”

Jungkook’s jaw works. The pressure in his chest is unbearable—a full-body hum of something that needs to go somewhere and has nowhere to go because every exit is blocked by friends who are right, and that’s the worst part, he knows they’re right, and knowing doesn’t do a single fucking thing about the voltage running through his body looking for ground—

Over Yoongi’s shoulder, past the fountain, Hobi.

Standing near the garden wall. Drink in hand. Mid-conversation with the Mia Wallace girl.

He catches Yoongi’s gaze across the patio and Yoongi does something—small, barely visible. A head tilt. A jaw set. The kind of signal that exists between people who’ve done this before and have a protocol.

Jungkook knows this and hates it.

Hates it more because Hobi’s smile drops and he knows he’s read the entire scene in the time it takes to set his drink on the wall and say something short to Mia Wallace and start crossing the patio.

He tries to cut between Yoongi and Taehyung.

To no avail.

Because an arm suddenly loops around his shoulders.

“Hey!”

The specific weight of Jung Hoseok’s arm, which has the density of someone who’s been dancing professionally for a decade and casually manhandles grown men like it’s a love language.

“Have you seen the music room?”

Jungkook’s whole body is rigid under the arm.“Hoseok—let go, I swear to god—”

“The music room.” Hobi doesn’t let go. Steers him. Smoothly, like they’re two friends walking somewhere together, nothing to see here, just guys being guys at a party. “Other side of the house. Past the library. Tessa’s grandfather was apparently some kind of collector.”

He’s walking Jungkook away from the garden and Jungkook is aware of the maneuver, so he tries to sidestep with all his might because he will not be persuaded this time—

“There’s an electric guitar in there.”

Jungkook’s stride falters.

“I’m serious.” Hobi’s voice drops a half-register. “Vintage, I think. Hanging on the wall. Looked expensive.”

Over his shoulder, Hobi makes a gesture. Quick. Two fingers, a direction.

“Come on.” Hobi squeezes his shoulder. “Show me if it’s any good. I can’t tell with guitars. They all look the same to me.”

“They don’t all—” Jungkook’s voice comes out scraped. Ruined. He clears his throat. “They don’t all look the same. That’s like saying all dance styles look the same.”

“Exactly. Terrible. Tragic. I need you to educate me.”

The arm stays around his shoulders. The garden gets smaller behind them. The french doors pass. The hallway opens. The party noise dims.

His hands are still shaking.

Hobi doesn’t mention it.

You’re still hiccuping and you feel so stupid.

That’s the worst part. Not the crying—the crying has a reason, the crying has a source, the crying is a physiological response to emotional stimulus and you can rationalize it later into something manageable.

But the stupidity of it. The exact specific humiliating stupidity of sitting on a bathroom floor at a party in a costume you felt good in thirty minutes ago, mascara running, eyeliner destroyed, hiccuping like a child who lost her balloon at a county fair because someone said a fucking word.

A word.

It doesn’t get more embarrasing than this.

Except it does, because you’ve been here before.

Not this bathroom. But this exact posture. This exact tile-against-spine, knees-to-chest, face-in-hands architecture of feminine collapse, because you are apparently a person who processes her worst moments in bathrooms, and that’s—

That’s a pattern, isn’t it?

Sophomore year of high school. Alicia Gutierrez’s house party. You wore the denim skirt you’d been saving for something that mattered and David Morrison kissed Noor Adil in the living room with his hand on the back of her neck, the exact hand that had been on the back of your neck two hours earlier behind the bleachers, and you walked to the bathroom and sat on the floor and cried.

Different tile. Same posture. Same girl.

Everything big happens in a bathroom. Everything that matters, everything that shifts the axis of your stupid little life—it all happens against porcelain and tile and horrible lightning.

The day Jungkook propositioned you in 6B. Leaning in the doorframe like he owned the square footage, smelling like rain and bad decisions, saying words that should’ve made you slam the door but instead made you stand there with wet hair and a racing pulse trying to formulate a comeback while your brain buffered.

The day he mentioned your cologne before Emma’s birthday. Just—said it. Casually. Like noticing what someone smells like is a thing you mention to your roommate while she’s brushing her teeth.

«You changed it.»

Two words that sat in the steam of the bathroom for three seconds too long and rearranged something behind your ribs that you’ve been pretending didn’t happen.

The first time Jimin did your eyeliner, it was in that bathroom too. And today as well, in the bathroom of the suite you might no longer share with Jason, quill pen behind his ear and his careful fingers on your jaw and the question he asked that wasn’t really about labels or aisles or boxes on shelves but about whether it’s possible to exist without a name for what you are.

All your big moments happen in bathrooms.

There’s something poetic in that, if you ignore the toilet.

The brownies are definitely hitting now. Everything has a shimmer to it. The grout lines between the tiles look deeper than they should.

Also your fingers feel very far away from your body. Like they’re suggestions. Theoretical fingers.

Great. You’re having an emotional breakdown while slowly becoming one with the bathroom tile. This is the human experience at its most dignified.

A knock. Soft.

“Hey. It’s me.”

Irya.

Not Yeji—Irya, which means Irya got to the door first or elbowed Yeji aside, and there’s a difference between those two arrivals that matters.

Yeji arrives like a SWAT team. Irya arrives like an EMT.

Both are trying to save you. Only one is going to kick the door down to do it.

“I brought your phone,” Irya says. “You left it on the loveseat.”

You don’t answer.

“You don’t have to open the door. I’m just going to sit out here, okay? Just me.”

A pause.

Then, farther away, Yeji’s voice—gritted like it comes between her teeth.

“And me. I’m also here. With knives.”

“She doesn’t have knives,” Irya says.

“I have metaphorical knives. I have the energy of knives.”

“Yeji.”

“What? I’m being supportive. I’m supportively enraged.”

You press your forehead into your knees. Hiccup.

A sound against the door. The soft thud of someone sitting down on the other side—Irya, you think, based on the gentle way it happens. Yeji sits down the way she does everything: with intent and aggression toward the furniture.

“Babe.” Irya’s voice is close now. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Just—whatever you want. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s okay. That’s totally okay. Tell me anyway.”

Something about the way she says that—’tell me anyway’—like your not-making-sense is not a problem to be solved but a thing to be held.

“He said I should respect myself more.”

Silence.

Then, from further back: “He said what?”

“Yeji—” Irya, steady.

“No. No, repeat that. He said she should respect herself? Those words? In that order? From his mouth?”

“Yeji, hold on—”

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to walk downstairs and I’m going to commit a crime that will be studied in law schools—”

“You’re not killing anyone. Sit down.”

“I wasn’t gonna stand up—”

“That’s only because I’m holding your wrist down.”

A huff. Yeji sits quieter.

“Okay.” Irya again. Closer. You can hear her shifting, getting comfortable against the door, settling in for however long this takes. “He said respect yourself. What else?”

You swallow. The hiccups are slowing but your throat is raw and everything tastes like salt and chocolate.

“He said—that I should be more mindful. About how I act around other people. That I was being—”

You search for the word.

It comes back coated in cedar and bergamot.

“Inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate how?”

“He said I was draped all over—that I was hanging on someone and it looked bad. In front of people. That I need to think about how I come across.”

“Draped,” Yeji repeats from behind Irya. She says it the way you’d say ’cockroach’. “He described physical affection between friends as draping?”

“And that I should have more consideration. And be more—”

The word.

“More mature.”

Silence. A long one.

You hear Irya exhale.

“Can I say something?”

You nod.

Then realize she can’t see you.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not going to tell you he’s wrong about everything. Because that wouldn’t be helpful, and I think what you need right now is honesty, not just someone being angry on your behalf.” A beat. “That’s Yeji’s job.”

“Damn right,” Yeji mutters.

“But I want you to hear this. The way someone says something matters as much as what they say. And a person who frames their discomfort as your character flaw—who says you need to respect yourself instead of saying I felt uncomfortable—that person is not having a conversation with you. They’re managing you.”

The word cracks something open.

Managing.

That’s—

That’s exactly what it felt like. Not a discussion. Not two people navigating something messy and complicated.

A performance review. A parent-teacher conference.

‘Here’s what you did wrong, here’s what you need to fix, here’s the version of you I’d prefer to be dating.’

“He’s not—” You stop. Start again. “He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody said he was, babe.”

“He’s not—it’s not like he was mean. He didn’t yell. He was calm. He was being—totally reasonable—”

“Totally reasonable is how they get you.” Yeji. “Totally reasonable is the whole con. Being calm while you say controlling shit doesn’t make it not controlling. It just makes the other person feel crazy for having a reaction.”

You know that. You know that.

You’ve read the articles. You’ve had the conversations.

You just didn’t think you’d be sitting on the other side of it with mascara on your chin.

“Can I ask you something?” Irya. Gentle. “And you don’t have to answer.”

“Yeah.”

“When he said those things—the maturity thing, the respect thing—did it feel new? Or did it feel… familiar?”

You swallow.

Irya waits. Patient in that way she has—not passive, not absent, just genuinely unhurried, like she’d sit outside this door all night if that’s what it took.

“Familiar,” you whisper.

“Okay.” Soft. Like she expected that. “Okay, that’s important. That’s really important. Because when something hurts more than it should, it’s usually because it’s landing on something that was already bruised.”

The sob comes before you can stop it. Just one. Hard, sharp, ripped from somewhere below your sternum.

“I know,” Irya says. “I know.”

“It’s—it sounded like my mom.” You’re saying it before you’ve decided to say it—the words just coming, tumbling out through the crack in the door like water through a broken seal. “The way he said it. The tone. The calm. She used to—she used to do this thing where she’d sit me down and explain, very patiently, why everything I was doing was wrong. Very gently. Very reasonably. And I’d sit there and just—take it. Because how do you argue with someone who’s being nice about it? How do you say stop, you’re hurting me when they’re smiling?”

“You can’t.” Yeji. Not angry now. Quiet. “You can’t because the smile is the point. The smile is what makes you feel insane.”

“I feel insane,” you say, and it comes out small.

“You’re not insane.” Irya. Steady as gravity. “You’re having a very sane reaction to a very specific kind of hurt. And the fact that you can name it—the fact that you can say this felt like my mother—that’s not insane. That’s the opposite.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes. Gold shimmer and black liner smear across your skin.

“Babe, please.” Yeji’s voice is closer now. She’s moved up. Right beside Irya, if you had to guess. “At least drink some water. You had Hobi’s drinks and those brownies and you need to hydrate or you’re going to feel even worse.”

“I don’t want water.”

“You say that, but—”

“Yeji. I’m fine.”

“You are audibly not fine.”

“I am choosing to be not fine in private, which is my right as a—”

“If you say ‘as a feminist’ I’m picking this lock.”

Shuffling outside the door. Footsteps, the clipped sound of dress shoes on hardwood.

A male voice: “Hey, is she—”

Yeji is on her feet so fast you hear the combat boots squeak.

“No.”

“I just—”

“No. Absolutely not. Turn around.”

“Yeji—” That’s Irya. Mediating.

“The last thing she needs right now is another fucking man outside this door.”

“I’m not—I’m just trying to—”

“Oh great. Another man who’s just trying to. Fantastic. Groundbreaking. Never heard that one before.”

“Can you stop for one second—”

“Can you stop? Can you maybe read the room and understand that a girl who’s crying because a guy made her feel like shit does not need a different guy showing up to—”

“I’ve been where she is.”

That stops Yeji.

Not completely—you can feel her resistance from inside the bathroom, can practically hear the argument building behind her teeth—but the sentence cuts through the momentum the way a stick cuts through water. Not by force. By changing direction.

“Yeji.” Irya. Quiet. A hand on an arm, you imagine. “Let him.”

A paus, long enough to contain a full conversation between two people who love each other so much they can negotiate in microseconds.

“If she says go away, you go away,” Yeji says finally.

“Yeah. Got it.”

The boots retreat. Not far—you know Yeji, she’s pulling back ten feet and maintaining line of sight like a Secret Service agent in Doc Martens—but far enough.

Then a sound.

A sigh, long and gusty and annoyed, like he’s been personally inconvenienced by the existence of feelings and the floor and gravity and the entire concept of sitting down in a suit.

Then the thud of a body dropping against the other side of the door with the grace of a man who committed to this before he fully thought through the logistics.

“Hey.”

Taehyung.

His voice is different than it was ten seconds ago with Yeji. Quieter.

“You don’t have to talk. I just—I’m gonna sit here for a minute. If that’s okay.”

You don’t answer. Your throat is raw from the crying and your sinuses are packed with concrete and the hiccups have slowed but not stopped, punctuating the silence at irregular intervals.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

A beat.

“I just know what that door feels like from your side.”

Something in your chest clenches.

“I locked myself in Hobi’s bathroom once.” His voice is steady. Calm. But there’s a grain to it—something rough, something lived-in. “For like… three hours? Maybe four. Hobi sat outside the whole time. Didn’t leave. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

You hear him shift his weight.

“I was—going through something. Something bad. And I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think and I felt really, really stupid for not being able to just—handle it. Because it’s breathing, you know? You’ve been doing it your whole life. How hard can it be.”

A hic escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Loud in the quiet.

“That was a good one,” he says.

And despite everything—despite the mascara and the tile and the word mature still rattling around in your skull like a bullet in a tin can—the corner of your mouth twitches.

“Hobi didn’t try to fix it,” Taehyung continues. “He didn’t say the right thing or give me advice or tell me to come out. He just… sat there. Told me about this dumb thing that happened at rehearsal. Some dancer who accidentally kicked another dancer in the face during a lift. And I was crying and laughing at the same time and it was—really messy. But it helped. Just having someone on the other side of the door who wasn’t trying to make it better. Who was just… there.”

He pauses.

“So I’m just here. That’s it. That’s the whole pitch.”

You press your lips together. Hard. Because if you open your mouth right now what comes out is going to be ugly—not sarcastic-ugly, not defense-mechanism-ugly, just real ugly, the kind of honest that has no style to it, no wit, just a girl on a floor who doesn’t know how to stop feeling too much about everything all the time.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying this hard,” you say.

It comes out broken. Scratchy. Barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to know why.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. He didn’t even—he didn’t yell. He didn’t do anything wrong, technically. He was—” Hic. “He was being reasonable. That’s the fucked up part. He was being totally calm and rational and saying things that sounded right and I just—”

“Sometimes it’s the calm that gets you.”

The sentence stops you.

“The loud stuff—the yelling, the throwing things—that’s easy to point at. You can say ’that, right there, that’s the problem.’ But when someone’s calm…” He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s letting something out that’s been sitting in his lungs for a while. “When someone’s calm and reasonable and says things that sound almost right, it makes you feel crazy for being upset. Like the problem is you. Your reaction. Not what they said.”

Silence.

“That’s worse,” he says quietly. “That’s so much worse.”

Your chin is trembling. You clamp your jaw around it.

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you—” Hic. Fuck. “When did it stop? The feeling like—like you were too much. And also not enough. At the same time. How did that stop?”

The door is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you wonder if he’s deciding whether to answer or deciding how to answer, and you know the difference because you live in the gap between those two things.

“I’ll let you know when it does.”

Your breath comes out in a rush.

First one since you locked yourself in this room.

“But it gets—I don’t know. Quieter? It doesn’t go away. You just get better at hearing other stuff over it. People who actually mean it when they say you’re enough. People who don’t need you to be less.”

A thump against the door. Soft. His head, you think. Tipping back against the wood.

“And you learn who to listen to. That’s the hard part. Because the ones who make you feel small usually sound the most reasonable. They’ve got the best arguments. The best vocabulary.” A pause. “Real ones don’t need a vocabulary. They just show up and sit outside your door at midnight dressed as Gomez Addams and hope it helps.”

That breaks you.

Not the word mature. Not Jason’s calm reasonable hands folded in prayer. Not even the memories of marble countertops and correctly angled forks.

This. This stupid, quiet, honest thing from a guy you barely know who’s sitting on a hallway floor in a pinstripe suit because he once locked himself in a bathroom too and somebody sat outside for him.

The sob that comes out is different from the ones before. Softer. Rounder. Less like something being ripped from your chest and more like something being released. A pressure valve opening. Steam instead of shrapnel.

“Okay,” you manage. Watery. Wrecked. “That was—you can’t just say stuff like that to someone who’s—”

“Too late. Already said it. No returns.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s fine. I’m very hateable. Ask Jungkook. He has a list.”

You laugh. It comes out wet and awful and it hurts your ribs and it’s the best sound you’ve made in an hour.

On the other side of the door, you hear him exhale. Relief. The kind someone makes when they weren’t sure it was going to work and then it did.

“For the record,” he says. “Your eyeliner’s probably ruined.”

“I know.”

“Jimin’s going to be devastated.”

“I know.”

“Like, genuinely distraught. He might never recover.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m just preparing you for the grief.”

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. It comes away black and gold and wet.

“Can you just—” Hiccup. “Can you sit there for one more minute.”

“Yeah.” Immediate. “Yeah, I’m here.”

So he sits.

And you sit.

And the door stays between you, and that’s fine.

That’s actually the whole point.

Sometimes the best thing a person can do is be close enough to hear and far enough to not see, and let the wood do the work that words can’t.

A minute passes. Maybe two.

The hiccups stop. Your breathing evens out. The brownies are still doing their thing, but the room doesn’t feel like it’s shrinking anymore.

It feels like a room. With a floor. And a girl on it who cried the right amount for the right reasons and is probably going to feel embarrassed about this in the morning but right now, in this specific minute, feels something closer to emptied out than broken.

Your hand finds your wrist. The rain charm, cool against your pulse.

You flick it.

Then you stand up.

Your knees protest—stiff, cramped, the tile having done nothing for the cramps that are still low and persistent in your abdomen—and you catch yourself on the sink.

Your reflection in the mirror is a horror show. Mascara tracks. Eyeliner smeared into grey-black smudges beneath your eyes. Gold shimmer streaked across your cheeks where the tears dragged it. The dark berry lipstick is mostly gone, bitten off, leaving just a stain at the edges.

Medusa, post-battle. Snakes wilted.

Whatever.

You unlock the door. Pull it open.

Taehyung looks up at you from the floor.

He looks like a 1920s husband who got left at a train station and decided to wait.

His eyes move across your face. The damage. The evidence.

He doesn’t comment on any of it. Just gets up. Unfolds himself from the floor, brushing off the back of his trousers with one hand, and stands there. Not too close. Not too far.

“Do you know where Jungkook is?” comes out of your lips.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know where he is.”

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