By the time your shift ended, Seoul had already turned blue with evening.
Not pretty blue, not the kind people wrote songs about, but the tired kind that sat between buildings after sunset and made every window look colder than it was. The air outside the café smelled like rain, roasted chestnuts from a street cart nearby, and the burnt sugar left on your sleeves after six hours of making drinks for people who ordered like the world would end if their iced americano had one wrong cube of ice.
You pushed through the back door with your bag hanging from one shoulder, your hair smelling faintly like coffee no matter how many times you tied it up, and your phone buzzing in your pocket before you even made it to the sidewalk.
Without even looking, you already knew who it was.
Mina: don't go home
Mina: come to hongdae
Mina: there's people dancing and it's actually good tonight
Mina: also i need moral support because i saw my ex with his new girl and i refuse to look lonely
You stopped walking, stared at the messages, and let out a laugh so tired it barely counted.
you: i just got off work
you: my feet hate me
you: and ur ex doesn't care, u shouldn't either
Her reply came fast.
Mina: he cares
Mina: he looked at my story yesterday
Mina: that's basically a "let's get back together"
You rolled your eyes and kept walking toward the bus stop as you typed.
you: seek help
Mina: seek me in hongdae
Mina: pls
Mina: i'll buy you tteokbokki
That was how you ended up on a bus to Hongdae with sore feet, a half-dead phone, and the kind of hunger that made you angry at everyone standing too close to you.
You told yourself you would only stay for thirty minutes. That was the usual lie people always told before Hongdae swallowed the rest of their night.
The streets were already crowded when you arrived, full of students, couples, buskers, tourists holding shopping bags, and groups of friends standing too close together while pretending they were not trying to be seen. Music came from every direction at once. A ballad from one corner, a rap song from another, someone's guitar near the subway exit, then the heavy beat of a dance track cutting through all of it from farther down the street.
Mina found you near a convenience store, waving both arms like she was directing an airplane.
"You look dead," she said as soon as you reached her, her eyes scanning your face like she had expected you to magically recover on the bus ride.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and gave her a flat look. "You said there would be food, so I came."
"There will be food," she said quickly, already reaching for your wrist before you could escape.
"You said tteokbokki."
"Yes, yes there will be tteokbokki."
"That doesn't sound honest."
Mina pressed one hand to her chest like you had offended her personally. "But it is honest."
You stared at her, but she grabbed your wrist before you could turn around. "Just come. They're doing dance covers over there, and I swear one group did BTS earlier."
You let her pull you into the crowd, mostly because arguing with Mina in public took more energy than walking.
The closer you got, the louder the music became, bass vibrating under your shoes, cheers rising whenever someone landed a cool move. People had formed a loose circle around the dancers, with their phones lifted in the air, and their faces lit by the screens.
You stayed near the back at first, but Mina, of course, pushed forward.
Still, you remained where you were, with your arms crossed, bag pressed against your side, watching a group of boys in black sweats and others in jeans practice formation before the song restarted. They looked a little nervous, laughing too much, and checking each other's positions. One of them fixed his cap, meanwhile another wiped his palms on his jeans.
Then the opening beat of "Boy In Luv" hit the speakers, and the crowd screamed.
You knew the song, even if you were not the kind of fan who memorized every little detail, but it was impossible not to know it by then. Your classmates played BTS videos during lunch, Mina had gone through a phase where she insisted she was "casually interested" while knowing every member's birthday, and the song had followed you through cafés, shops, buses, and every corner of Seoul until parts of it lived in your head against your will.
The dancers started, and they were actually very good. Not all perfect, but good in a way that made people stop walking. Their shoes scraped against the pavement, the movements making their jackets swing with every sharp turn. A few girls near the front screamed the lyrics. Mina turned around once just to mouth, See? at you like she had personally trained them.
You were about to make a face at her when your eyes caught on someone standing a little farther from the center of the crowd, but closer to where you stood by steps.
A boy stood near the trees lining the sidewalk, frozen in place in a way that made him noticeable even though he did not seem to be trying. He wore a long black coat that fell loosely around him, dark pants cuffed above shiny black shoes—the whole outfit simple, but strangely sharp under the Hongdae streetlights. His hair was dark and soft across his forehead, long enough to shadow his eyes whenever he looked down, and there was something quietly tired about his face that did not match the whole scenery around him.
Most people in the crowd were moving somehow, between lifting phones, whispering, cheering, leaning around each other to see.
But he did none of that, he just watched, and for some reason, that made you want to look at him longer than you meant to.
Maybe it was because he looked close to your age but carried himself like someone trying to keep all his thoughts in one place, or maybe it was because the lights from the shops caught the side of his face whenever he lifted his head, softening the line of his cheek and making him look like a boy who had wandered into Hongdae because he needed air, and at the same time, like someone who did not belong in this scene for some odd reason.
You looked away before he could catch you staring at him like a creep.
Mina shoved herself back to your side a minute later, breathless and dramatic, with one hand clutching your sleeve while the other pointed toward the dancers. "They're super good, right?"
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it longer than necessary. "They're okay."
Her mouth fell open. "You're so annoying."
"You’re the one that asked," you said, shrugging.
"They're literally dancing in public. Have respect." Mina nudged your shoulder, still half-watching the performance like she was scared to miss one second.
"I respect them for it, they’re good. But I'm just not gonna scream like someone is proposing to me."
Mina leaned closer, lowering her voice suddenly. "Okay, don't freak out." That immediately made you suspicious, quite the opposite of what she had just told you.
You turned your head slowly toward her. "Why would I freak out?"
"Because I think that's Jungkook."
You blinked. "Who?"
She gave you a look so offended it almost made you laugh, her hand tightening on your sleeve. "BTS Jungkook."
Your eyes moved before you could stop them.
The boy in the black coat was still standing a few steps away, still watching the dancers, but now that Mina had said it, your brain started putting pieces together too quickly. The big-round eyes, the hair falling over his forehead, the young, but soft-looking face you had seen before on your friends' phone screens. The way people around him were slowly beginning to notice him, one by one, like the news were now spreading through the crowd before anyone really said it out loud.
"I don't know," you said, even though you clearly had caught on.
Mina gripped your sleeve harder, leaning so close her whisper brushed your ear. "I'm telling you, that's him."
"Then don't stare, he's going to think we are stalking him."
"I'm not staring," she said, while absolutely staring.
"You're staring with your whole face."
"I'm observing him. You rarely see BTS in the streets."
"You look insane right now."
Before Mina could answer, two girls near the front turned around at the same time. One of them froze, and the other's eyes widened, a hand flying to her friend's arm. You saw the moment where recognition passed between both of them like electricity, and definitely the boy saw it too, because his body changed instantly like instinctively he tensed a little.
Obviously not enough for everyone in the crowd to notice it, but enough for you to see it from where you stood. His shoulders straightened slightly, and his gaze dropped for half a second before he looked back up with a polite smile, as if he had already accepted that the quiet moment he came for was clearly over.
The girls whispered to each other, excited but unsure still. Meanwhile, the dancers kept on going, despite all of this, and for a few seconds, nobody really do anything about the fact that Jeon Jungkook was standing casually there.
Until, one of the girls approached him carefully, phone held against her chest instead of pointed at his face. You could not hear everything over the music, but you saw the way she bowed a little, and the way he leaned down slightly to listen, then he lifted one hand in a small gesture that seemed almost apologetic.
Mina whispered, "Oh my god, it is him."
You looked at her quickly. "Don't even start"
She lifted both of her hands a little, offended. "I didn't say I was going to do anything."
"I know what you were thinking."
"I wasn't even thinking."
The song ended, and the crowd exploded into cheers. Jungkook clapped too, quietly, hands meeting only a few times before he lowered them again. There was something almost careful about it, like he did not want to take attention away from the people performing, but he was Jeon Jungkook, so attention found him anyway.
A few fans gathered around him, not too many yet. He smiled politely, a little shyly, while people tried not to shake too much beside him. He leaned in for photos without making it awkward, his dark hair falling close to one eye, his face bare and soft under the streetlights.
He looked younger than you expected, not like an idol though, just young in a way that made all the noise around him feel slightly too much for someone his age.
At least from your perspective you wouldn't be able to handle it.
Mina whispered, "He's taking pictures," her voice suddenly softer, like saying it too loudly would jinx the moment.
"I can see that," you said, though your eyes had not exactly moved away either.
"He's so nice."
You glanced at her and noticed the way she was holding her phone against her chest like she was physically restraining herself from approaching him too or tearing up in excitement. "You're about to cry."
"I'm not."
"You look like it."
"No I don't, I'm just happy to see him." Mina shot you a glare, but she was too busy staring to make it convincing.
You should have kept watching like everyone else, but instead, you noticed a coffee cup in Jungkook's hand.
It looked nearly empty considering how he was holding it, the cardboard sleeve crushed slightly between his fingers. Then, someone bumped him from behind while trying to get closer, and the last bit of liquid inside splashed over his hand.
He flinched and because your body had been trained by too many café shifts to react to spilled drinks like a trigger, you reached into your bag without thinking and pulled out the napkins you always stole from work just in case something like this happened. In your head though, typically, it was Mina who spilled liquids not Jeon Jungkook.
"Here," you said, stepping forward and holding them out before you could talk yourself out of it.
The girl beside him looked at you first looking a bit confused and annoyed, then he did.For one second, Jungkook only stared at your hand, then at your face then back at the napkins. "Thank you," he said, taking them carefully. His voice was surprisingly softer and quieter than you had expected.
Up close, he looked even more tired, not ugly tired, or bored tired, but the kind of tired that sat behind someone's eyes after too many days of being pulled from one place to another.
Despite the situation, he smiled at you, polite and small, like thanking a stranger for napkins was somehow important enough for someone like him to do properly.
"Jeez, you’re bleeding attention everywhere," you said before you could stop yourself earning a strangled sound from Mina behind you.
Jungkook blinked, napkin still pressed loosely between his fingers. "What?"
You nodded toward the growing group of fans pretending not to gather around him while absolutely gathering around him.
"You came here to watch people dance, no? Not become the performance." For a moment, you thought you had said too much, or sounded too rude.
Then his eyes curved, and the smile that appeared on his face was small, surprised, and almost helpless.
"I didn't mean to," he said, looking down at the coffee on his fingers as if that might hide the smile.
"Ah yes, famous people never do."
His fingers paused around the napkin, making you instantly regret saying that, not because it was mean, at least not to you, but because his face changed in a way you could not read. Then he looked at you again. "I'm not that famous."
Mina coughed behind you awkwardly, but you ignored her. "You're famous enough for her to forget how to breathe," you said, pointing vaguely at Mina without turning around.
"I'm breathing," Mina hissed, her voice sharp with embarrassment.
"You're coughing like you’re choking."
Jungkook laughed, real enough that it changed his whole face. The tiredness around his eyes loosened for a second, and suddenly he looked exactly like what he was: a young boy in a long black coat, standing under Hongdae lights, possibly just trying to organize his thoughts and feelings that the world had already started making too heavy for him.
A fan nearby looked like she might collapse from witnessing it and Mina grabbed the back of your jacket in warning, probably trying to communicate with her fingers that you needed to stop speaking to him like he was some random guy blocking the sidewalk.
But that was the thing, he did look like a random guy. A very tired, young, and famous one. A boy standing in Hongdae with coffee on his hand, watching strangers dance to a song that belonged partly to him and partly to everyone screaming it back.
He looked at the dancers again as another group began setting up, his gaze following the boys as they checked their formation. "They're so good," he said with a small smile.
"They are," you answered, glancing back at the dancers too.
"They work hard."
You glanced at him, noticing the serious way he said it, like he could see every hour of practice behind each move. "You sound like a teacher."
His eyes moved back to you, amused. "Do I now?"
"A little."
"That's bad?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
You shook your head before thinking. "Nah. It's cute." The word slipped out too casually for you to catch it.
Jungkook went silent, and even Mina went silent at that too. Then, slowly, his ears turned pink.
You looked away first, pretending to watch the dancers because suddenly the pavement was very interesting and your mouth had become your worst enemy.
"I didn't mean cute like that," you said, clearing your throat.
He was smiling now. You could hear it before you saw it. "Oh. How did you mean it?"
"Like..." You searched for an excuse and found nothing useful, your eyes darting between the dancers, Mina, and literally anything that was not his face. "Like an old man."
His smile widened. "You think I'm cute like an old man?"
"No," you said quickly, turning back to him with a frown. "I think you sound like one."
"That's way worse, oh God."
"It's honest."
He laughed again, and this time you understood why the fans around him looked so helpless about it. Because it changed his whole face in a way that made him seem less far away than he probably should have been. For half a second, the noise around you softened. The crowd, the music, Mina's fingers still digging into your jacket, the people whispering his name, all of it moved somewhere behind you.
Then someone asked him for another photo. The moment closed, and he turned back to them with an easy politeness that looked practiced but not fake, leaning slightly so he could fit into the frame. You stepped back, suddenly aware that you had been standing too close to someone people were waiting to reach. Mina quickly dragged you away by the sleeve.
"Are you crazy?" she whispered, her eyes wide as she pulled you back into the thicker part of the crowd.
"What?" you asked, even though you already knew what she meant.
"You just called Jungkook cute like an old man."
"I panicked, okay?"
"You?" Mina pointed at you like you were on trial. "Panicked? You basically bullied him."
"I gave him napkins though."
"You told him he was bleeding attention."
"Because he is."
Mina stared at you like she was trying to decide whether to be horrified or proud. Behind you, the crowd cheered again, you turned your head once.
Jungkook was still there, but he was looking past the fans for a second, eyes moving over the people around him until they found you, it was brief. So brief you could have pretended it did not happen.
But then he lifted the napkins slightly, like a small thank you from across the crowd, and you, because you were tired and hungry and apparently committed to making questionable choices that night, lifted your hand back.
Not a full on-wave, it was barely on. Mina saw it and gasped like you had accepted a marriage proposal. "Shut up," you said immediately, turning away from the crowd before she could start.
"I didn't say anything."
"You are dramatic as hell."
"I have a right."
"You have a weird disease."
"Yeah," Mina said, falling into step beside you with a grin too pleased for your comfort, "and it's called witnessing destiny."
You groaned and started walking toward the food stalls before she could make it worse.
You thought about tteokbokki, your sore feet, the homework waiting for you at home, and the fact that tomorrow morning you would still have to wake up early like your life had not brushed against someone else's for five strange minutes in the middle of Hongdae.
Still, when you reached the end of the street, you looked back once, and there he was, watching the dancers again.
Long black coat, his dark hair over his eyes, and the spilled coffee cup still in one hand. The crowd still aware of him, but not yet impossible.
Mina bought you tteokbokki after that. You made sure she did, since you were literally starving.
The two of you ended up standing near a street stall with paper cups in your hands, steam rising between your faces while the sauce burned your tongue badly enough to make your eyes water. You kept eating anyway, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening air, because your stomach cared more about being full than being comfortable.
Mina, unfortunately, had not stopped looking at you. You felt her stare from the side before you even turned your head. "What?" you asked, poking at a rice cake with your toothpick while trying to sound more annoyed than tired.
Mina narrowed her eyes, her own cup held close to her chest like she had completely forgotten she was supposed to be eating from it. "You're acting too normal."
"Well, yes. It’s called eating," you said, lifting the rice cake toward your mouth like that explained everything.
"You just talked to Jeon Jungkook." Mina leaned closer as she said his name, lowering her voice even though the street was too loud for anyone to care.
"I gave him napkins." You chewed carefully, keeping your eyes on the food instead of her face.
"You called him cute."
"Like an old man." You pointed your toothpick at her, because somehow that felt like an important detail to defend.
"That makes it worse." Mina's mouth fell open a little, and she looked genuinely stressed on his behalf. "Why would you say that to him?"
You looked down at your tteokbokki, stirring the sauce around like the answer might be hiding in it. "I told you already, that I panicked."
"You did not panic." Mina let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "You looked him in the face and bullied him."
"I helped him first." You lifted your eyebrows at her. "That should cancel out the bullying."
"It doesn't." She took a bite, still watching you while she chewed, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement that made you want to walk away before she built a whole story from nothing.
You sighed and shifted your weight from one sore foot to the other. "It was five minutes, Mina."
"Five minutes is enough for a first impression," she said, pointing her toothpick at you like she was making a serious argument.
"It was not a first impression." You wiped a little sauce from the edge of your cup with your thumb, frowning at how sticky it had gotten. "It was me handing napkins to someone who spilled coffee."
"And making him laugh."
"People laugh when things are awkward."
Mina tilted her head, studying you more closely. "So you admit it was awkward."
"It was obviously awkward." You looked at her then, unable to stop yourself from sounding defensive. "A crowd was staring, you were wheezing behind me, and I accidentally called a famous person cute like an old man."
"I was not wheezing," Mina muttered, but she looked away too quickly for it to be convincing.
"You were basically losing air like a balloon."
"I was trying my best."
"You were embarrassing."
"You're the embarrassing one." She nudged your shoulder with hers, but her grin came back a second later, too pleased to be offended for long. "but still, he laughed."
You rolled your eyes and took another bite, mostly so you would not have to keep responding to that.
The truth was, it had been strange. Not in whatever Mina was probably already naming it in her head, just strange.
It was strange to see someone you had only ever seen through phone screens standing under streetlights like any other boy your age. Strange to watch people recognize him slowly, one by one, until the air around him changed. Strange to hear him say he was not that famous while a small crowd gathered close enough to prove him wrong. But strange did not mean important, at least, not to you.
Mina kept talking while you finished your food, her words tumbling out between bites.
"He looked tired though," she said after a moment, her voice softer this time as she glanced back toward the direction you had come from.
"You think?" you asked, following her gaze only briefly before looking back at your cup.
"Of course. Poor boy, so young and has been working since the age of fourteen." Mina's expression shifted, the excitement dimming into something more thoughtful. "He smiled and everything, but yeah. He looked tired."
You nodded once, because that part was hard to argue with. "He's working," you said, pushing a rice cake around the bottom of your cup. "People look tired when they work."
Mina looked at you with a small frown. "You say that like you're fifty."
"I do feel fifty." You straightened your back a little, wincing when your feet reminded you how long you had been standing all day.
"You're eighteen, Y/N."
"My feet make me feel like I'm fifty."
That made Mina laugh again, louder this time, and the conversation finally loosened away from him. She started complaining about her ex, then about her classes, then about how the tteokbokki was too spicy even though she was the one who chose the stall. You listened with half your attention, answering when you needed to, letting the city noise fill the spaces between you.
By the time you left Hongdae, your phone was nearly dead, your jacket smelled like smoke from the grill, and your bag felt twice as heavy as it had when you arrived.
Mina walked with you to the bus stop, still too awake for someone who had spent the whole night being dramatic.
"Text me when you get home," she said, stopping beside the bus sign and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself.
You glanced at her. "Don't start sending me edits of him at three in the morning."
"I wasn't going to." Mina looked offended for exactly one second before her face betrayed her.
"You were."
"I might send if Instagram blesses me with some."
"You're sick, no."
"I'm supportive of him."
"You're unemployed in the head." You stepped closer to the curb when your bus appeared down the road, headlights turning the wet pavement pale.
Mina gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're so rude and mean after being fed."
"I'm mean because I'm so tired."
When the bus finally pulled up, you climbed on and found a seat near the window. Mina stood outside with both hands wrapped around the strap of her bag, still smiling like she had seen something much bigger happen than what had actually happened.
"Don't dream about Jungkook," you called through the glass once the door shut, knowing she probably could not hear you clearly anyway.
Mina cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something back. You could not hear it over the engine, but from the shape of her mouth, you were pretty sure it had the words old man in it.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling a little when the bus pulled away, and after that, the ride home was quiet.
Seoul looked different from the bus window after Hongdae. The bright streets slowly thinned into quieter roads, convenience stores glowing on corners, apartment windows lit in scattered squares, and people walking home alone with their shoulders curled inward against the cold. You leaned your head against the glass, your body was finally realizing how exhausted it was.
For most of the ride, you thought about practical things.
- Whether your phone would survive long enough for you to text Mina.
- Whether you have enough money on your transit card for tomorrow.
- Whether your uniform shirt would smell too much like coffee if you wore it one more time before washing it.
- Whether the landlord would notice if the rent came two days late.
- Whether anyone back in Daegu had tried calling while your phone was silenced.
Hongdae already felt far away by the time your stop came. Folded into the kind of night you knew you would be telling as a funny story later and Mina would make it bigger every time she repeated it, and you would correct her every time because that was how the two of you worked.
Your building was quiet when you reached it. It was the kind of place people passed without looking twice, narrow and plain, with old stairs that made too much noise no matter how carefully you climbed them. The hallway always smelled faintly like detergent, dust, and someone's instant noodles from behind a closed door.
You unlocked your door as quietly as possible, slipped off your shoes, and stepped inside. No one had left the light on, no one had cooked for you, and no one called from another room to ask why you were late.
Your place was exactly how you had left it that morning: a small bed pushed against the wall, a folding table covered in textbooks and receipts, a half-dry uniform shirt hanging near the window, and a cup of convenience-store instant rice sitting beside two unopened packs of seaweed.
Independent sounded better when people said it from the outside, but inside, it mostly meant you ate dinner alone and learned how to stretch money until it felt personal.
You dropped your bag beside the bed, plugged in your phone, and sat on the floor while the screen struggled back to life. For a second, you just stared at the black screen, waiting.
Part of you expected missed calls, but the other part of you hoped there were none. And when your phone finally lit up, there were no calls from home, just Mina. A lot of Mina, actually.
Mina: I FOUND PICS
Mina: HE REALLY WAS THERE
Mina: THE NAPKINS ARE HISTORICAL NOW
Mina: wait
Mina: omg
Mina: I THINK UR HAND IS IN ONE OF THEM
You stared at the screen, too tired to react properly.
Then you opened the photo she sent.
It was blurry, taken from somewhere behind the crowd, but there he was under the Hongdae lights, long black coat, dark hair falling over his forehead, head slightly lowered as he accepted napkins from someone just outside the frame.
You could not see your face, only your hand, your sleeve, and the edge of your bag. Nothing important enough for anyone to notice.
you: that could be anyone
Mina replied before you could even put the phone down.
Mina: but it's not anyone
Mina: it's napkin girl aka u
You stared at the nickname for a second, then made a face at your screen.
you: never call me that again
Mina: too late
Mina: history with an idol named u
You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed.
For a while, you sat there in the quiet room, listening to the distant sound of traffic outside your window and the faint hum of the mini fridge near your desk. Your room always sounded bigger at night, which was funny because it was barely big enough for you and your bad decisions.
On the folding table, your textbooks sat open beside a receipt you had been avoiding since morning.
Behind them was a small photo you had brought from Daegu, half-hidden under a notebook because looking at it too often made you feel too many things at once. So, you did not pick it up, you didn't need to. You knew the faces in it better than anything in Seoul.
You’d told yourself leaving home would make breathing easier. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it just made the silence louder—and, to be quite frank, it was sad too.
Genre: Fluff, domestic, slice of life, established relationship
Synopsis: After an especially exhausting day of practice, Juhoon comes home barely able to keep his eyes open.
Warning(s): Tooth-rotting fluff, sleepy Juhoon, cuddling, this is just too cute
Word Count: ~1.3k+
A/N: Hai! This is just a quick and short idea I had, so I hope you all enjoy. 🤍
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The soft hum of the bathroom fan and the occasional tapping of your fingers against your phone filled the room as you sat cross-legged near the headboard of your shared bed. Juhoon had gotten home barely twenty minutes ago, long enough to mumble a sleepy, "Hi” and steal a quick kiss from your forehead. He disappeared into the shower right as he arrived, and you smiled to yourself as warm steam began curling beneath the bathroom door.
Poor thing. He'd looked so exhausted. Almost as if his exhaustion settled into every movement he made, and even taking his shoes off seemed like a chore. You'd noticed how heavy his eyes were and how low his shoulders were hanging the second he'd walked through the front door. Even his smile had been smaller.
Practice must've been rough.
♡
The bathroom door clicked open and a cloud of warm steam drifted into the bedroom before Juhoon stepped out wearing loose gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. A white towel rested around his neck as his dark strands of hair dripped steadily onto the hardwood floor. He looked...comfortable. You know, the freshly showered warmth that made him even sleepier than before.
You looked up from your phone and smiled.
"Hai."
His lips curved into the tiniest smile.
"...Hi."
His voice was low. Still carrying that sleepy rasp it always seemed to have after long days. You studied him for another second before patting the bed in front of you.
"Sit."
Juhoon blinked slowly, but then gave the smallest nod.
"...Okay."
He shuffled over and climbed onto the bed, sitting farther back on the mattress until his legs barely hung over the edge. His eyes already started drifting shut as his hands rested loosely in his lap.
"I'll be right back."
He hummed softly in acknowledgement. You slipped into the bathroom and reached beneath the sink for the hair dryer before plugging it into the outlet beside the bed.
When you turned around, Juhoon's head had already begun tipping forward. A smile tugged at your lips.
"...Ju."
His eyes slowly fluttered open.
"Hm?"
He looked up at you, and then at the hair dryer in your hands. Recognition softened his expression almost immediately.
"...You're drying my hair?"
"Mhm."
"You don't have to."
"I know." You stepped a little closer. "But I want to."
After you said that, he simply looked at you. He was too tired to find the words he wanted, but then, almost shyly...
"...Thank you."
Your heart squeezed.
"You don't have to thank me."
Just as you reached to switch on the dryer, you felt gentle fingers wrap around your wrist. You looked down.
"...Ju?"
Still barely awake, he gave your hand the tiniest tug.
"...Closer."
You couldn't help smiling.
"Oh."
Carefully, you settled sideways onto one of his thighs so you could reach the back of his head more easily. Almost instantly, his shoulders relaxed. Like that tiny bit of extra closeness was exactly what he'd been looking for. You switched on the hair dryer promptly, and warm air filled the room. Your fingers combed gently through his damp hair as you worked softly, careful not to tangle anything. Juhoon's eyes closed almost immediately.
"How was practice?"
"...Good..."
You smiled.
"Just good?"
A tiny nod.
"Mhm..."
"What'd you work on today?"
A quiet pause.
"...The chorus..."
"The whole time?"
"...Mostly..."
You laughed softly.
"No wonder you're so tired."
Another sleepy hum. You continued drying the top of his hair before reaching around toward the back.
"I'm just gonna get behind your head."
"...Okay."
You leaned forward slightly, lifting the dryer to reach the damp hair near the nape of his neck. Almost instinctively, Juhoon leaned forward too. Until-
Bonk.
His forehead came to rest gently against your shoulder. You froze.
"...Ju?"
"...Mhm."
"You comfy?"
"...Mhm."
A laugh escaped you.
"I kind of figured."
He didn't move even a little. His breathing had already begun growing steadier, and at that moment you knew you didn’t have much time until he fully knocked out.
"Can I finish drying your hair?"
"...Mhm."
He remained exactly where he was…still using your shoulder as a pillow. You bit back another smile before awkwardly angling the dryer around him.
"This is...a little difficult."
No response.
"...Ju?"
Nothing. You peeked toward his face. His eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks with his mouth relaxed.
He'd fallen asleep.
"...Already?"
You lowered the dryer to its quietest setting.
"Okay..." You whispered more to yourself than to him. "Let's finish this."
Every so often his head would grow just a little heavier against your shoulder, but you'd steady him with your free hand before continuing. The warmth from the dryer, the quiet room, and the steady sound of his breathing begun to make you a little sleepy too. You could've stayed like that forever.
A few minutes later though, you clicked the dryer off. Silence settled over the bedroom once more.
"I'm done." You didn’t hear a response for a while, so you just smiled. "Ju?"
Still asleep.
Carefully, you shifted to stand. Or…at least you tried to. Something gently caught the back of your shirt. You looked down in confusion.
Juhoon's hand. His fingers had absentmindedly curled around the fabric near your waist. Your heart practically melted.
"...Baby."
He didn't stir at all. You turned back toward him, reaching up to softly comb your fingers through his now warm, dry hair. Your nails lightly scratched against his scalp.
"There you go."
Instantly, his grip loosened until his hand slipped away completely. You smiled before making your way to the outlet and quietly unplugging the hair dryer. After, you folded the towel he'd abandoned around his neck and hung it back in the bathroom, while filling his water bottle in the mean time. Once finished, you turned off the bathroom light and went to the front room to lock the apartment door.
By the time you returned, Juhoon had somehow managed to stretch diagonally across nearly the entire bed. One sock had even worked itself halfway off, and the blanket was twisted beneath him. You couldn't help laughing at the scene in front of you.
"You couldn't even make it under the covers."
You gently pulled the blanket over him before switching off the bedside lamp. The room fell into a comforting darkness, only lit by the moonlight spilling through the curtains.
You slipped beneath the blanket beside him and mattress dipped ever so slightly. Juhoon rolled toward you without missing a beat, eyes still closed and still completely asleep. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, and the other tucked beneath your back, pulling you close enough to where there wasn't even an inch of space left between you. Then, without opening his eyes, he buried his face against the crook of your neck.
A tiny sigh escaped him.
"...mmm you’re back."
You looked at him with a smile. His nose brushed lightly against your skin.
"...Warm..."
His voice was barely more than a sleepy mumble. You brought your hand up to the back of his head, softly patting the freshly washed hair.
"I know."
Silence engulfed the both of you. You simply rested your other hand against his back, slowly rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of his T-shirt. Just as you thought he'd drifted off completely, his soft and sleep-heavy voice came through again.
"...Thank you..."
You blinked.
"For what?"
There was a long pause before he spoke again. Long enough that you thought he might've fallen asleep again. Then...
"...Taking care of me..."
Your heart ached in the gentlest way. You pressed the lightest kiss against his forehead before brushing a few now perfectly dry strands away from his eyes.
"Always."
No answer came this time. Only the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. No matter how crazy practice or the outside world was, tucked safely beneath warm blankets, home had never felt quieter. Or warmer. Or quite so full of love.
You breathed out a heavy sigh of content before snuggling further into Juhoon, allowing yourself to finally relax for the night.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
A/N: This was a pretty quick one to write and I actually have to admit, this was in my ideas list for a good month or two. I’m glad I finally got to it though because it’s so soft and cutesy! I hope you all enjoyed! 🥹
⋆｡ martin × 𝑓!reader ʚɞ model reader idolau fluff est relationship kissing drabbleish #martinlookedsogood ˖ ⋆
the saint laurent after party was still going strong somewhere across paris . . . martin was beyond grateful to even be invited and was supposed to be there.
however, he was standing outside room 1215 at two in the morning accompanied by the occasional tweet of birds outside the open window down the dark hallway of the hotel. his hoodie was pulled completely over his messy hair while he switched his phone onto silent.
the door finally creaked open.
“you actually came.”
he mumbled a “course i did,” as you stepped aside to let him into the ridiculously fancy room you were provided for this whole trip.
a few hours ago you’d been walking one of the biggest shows of fashion week at only eighteen. the flash of cameras still stung your eyes and the makeup the stylists had spent hours perfecting was still half on your face.
martin swore up and down that he loved seeing you like how he did now though, cute pajama shorts that didn’t cover much, one of his oversized shirts, and hair pulled up.
"what?" you folded under his intense gaze and peculiar silence between the two of you.
"just saying," he said, kicking off his shoes, and shutting the door. "i think this is my favorite look of today.”
you laughed which only brought a stupid grin to his face. the room was comfortably quiet compared to the chaos of outside. it was finally just you guys for the first time all day with no paparazzi, no staff, no prying eyes everywhere.
"how'd you even get away?"
martin dropped onto the edge of the bed with a loud groan. "i told my manager i didn’t feel good."
your eyes widened, this idol shit was crazy strict, something you’ve definitely picked up on over time.
"you lied?"
“i would call it,” martin paused, scratching his head, “a little white lie.”
"you’re telling me you skipped the saint laurent after party?” you hurriedly said in complete horror, who in their right mind would want to miss something like that?
"i did." he shrugged.
"martin."
you shook your head, trying not to smile. you both hadn’t gotten a single second together all day, there was only secret longing glances shared.
it was hard, especially when all you wanted to do was tell him all about the show and he wanted to tell you that you looked breathtaking in response.
at least now you finally could as you sat beside him causing the mattress to dip a little.
"if your manager finds out—"
“trust me, i’d rather be here,” martin cut you off immediately, taking your hand into his own. “i’m sure james is having a blast at the party anyway.”
you laughed like always.
"god, you're terrible!”
"i know."
the silence was nice . . . the city lights shone through the big hotel window as traffic sounds echoed in the distance. paris looked beautiful at two in the morning.
but martin wasn't looking outside, he was looking at you, something he always seemed to do. for a model like yourself, you’d gotten used to people staring at you from every angle, but with him it always felt different.
"stop,” you huffed in annoyance, covering your flushed face with two hands.
"stop what, baby?"
"all the staring."
a smile tugged at his mouth. "you know i can't."
you rolled your eyes and felt his hand find yours once again.
"you were incredible today."
“thank you.” you looked down cheekily. “i know.”
“oh, do you now?” he tilted his head teasingly.
you looked back up and martin was already looking at you again. your bottom lip slid in between your teeth at the sight of his hooded eyes.
a second later your lips were on his, catching him by surprise as he didn’t reciprocate for a beat. your hands tangled in his disheveled hair before you pulled back.
your attempt to wipe the smug look off his face ultimately didn’t work very well since he was only smiling even more now.
“you’re impossible.”
his laugh filled the room, making you laugh too. neither of you cared about the cameras or staff anymore. you were just happy to be together at two in the morning in the middle of paris.
✉️ thank you for reading reblogs & cmnts appreciated !!
May you please write one where Jungkook is himself (an idol) and you’re his moms neighbour and you get close and she takes care of u and tells u about him but never says who he is and he’s on tour and then yall meet but you’re nonchalant cus u don’t really care about idols and stuff cus ur well established in your career and busy and how u both kinda grow to like each other but then he has to fake date another idol and something like that lol
ask and you shall receive! ❤️
____________________________________________
♪‧₊˚ ACROSS THE FENCE- jjk x y/n
⤷ in which…what starts as quiet familiarity with global superstar Jeon Jungkook slowly becomes something more, until a fake dating scandal forces distance, jealousy, and emotional chaos between you both.
When you moved into the small, quiet house tucked between rows of trees on a sleepy street outside Seoul, you didn’t expect your life to change in any meaningful way. The move had been practical, almost strategic - close enough to the city to keep your career intact, but far enough that the constant noise of success couldn’t quite reach you.
Your days were already filled to the brim with meetings, presentations, and the exhausting responsibility of being someone people relied on. You had built your career carefully, brick by brick, years of sleepless nights and relentless ambition finally turning into the kind of professional stability most people only dreamed about. Yet stability had come with a strange emptiness you rarely admitted to anyone.
Success had given you recognition, influence, financial security - but it hadn’t exactly left room for connection. Most evenings you came home long after sunset, shoulders aching from tension, your mind still spinning with problems to solve. The quiet neighborhood felt almost surreal compared to the relentless energy of your work life, and at first you treated it the way you treated most things outside your career - politely, but with a certain distance.
That distance lasted exactly three days.
On the third morning after moving in, you stepped outside to collect a package and nearly ran straight into a woman kneeling beside a garden overflowing with bright flowers and herbs. She looked up at you with a smile so warm and genuine that it momentarily disarmed the carefully constructed emotional armor you carried around everywhere.
Her hair was streaked with silver and tied loosely at the back of her neck, and her hands were covered in soil, but there was something quietly radiant about her presence that made the entire street feel softer somehow. Before you could even introduce yourself properly, she was already standing and brushing off her hands, insisting you come over for tea later and pressing a container of freshly made soup into your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You must be exhausted from moving,” she said gently, her voice carrying the kind of kindness that didn’t expect anything in return. “A warm meal always helps.”
You had lived next to plenty of neighbors before. None of them had ever looked at you with the kind of immediate affection that this woman did. Her name, she told you later that evening while pouring tea into delicate cups, was Mrs. Jeon, and somehow, without you fully realizing how it happened, she slowly began to become part of your life.
___
The first few weeks passed quietly, almost peacefully, the rhythm of your demanding career continuing as usual while your evenings gained a small, unexpected ritual. Sometimes you would return home late to find a small bag hanging from your gate containing homemade side dishes, other times Mrs. Jeon would wave you over while you were unlocking your door, insisting you come sit with her for “just a few minutes” that inevitably stretched into an hour of gentle conversation.
You learned that she loved gardening, that she watched old dramas while knitting, that she had a son who traveled constantly for work and rarely had time to visit. The way her voice softened when she spoke about him made it obvious how much she loved him, though she never spoke about his job in any real detail. “He’s very hardworking,” she would say with a proud smile. “Always busy, always moving.”
You assumed he was probably a businessman, maybe an engineer, someone with a demanding corporate career that kept him traveling frequently. It made sense, the kind of quiet pride she carried whenever she mentioned him reminded you of the parents you’d seen at industry award ceremonies, watching their children succeed. Still, you had never met him, and strangely enough, despite hearing about him often, you never really thought much about it.
Your own life was far too busy for that.
___
Jungkook had always loved performing, but loving something didn’t make it any less exhausting when it became the center of your entire existence. Being a global idol meant his life moved in relentless cycles of airports, rehearsals, interviews, performances, and hotel rooms that blurred together until cities started feeling interchangeable. The stage lights were blinding and beautiful, the roar of fans electrifying in a way that never truly stopped amazing him, but behind all of that adrenaline was a constant pressure that never quite faded.
Expectations followed him everywhere - expectations to be perfect, to be talented, to be endlessly energetic and charming even on days when he barely had the energy to breathe. His bandmates helped keep him grounded, the familiar chaos of their shared lives acting as a kind of anchor in an industry that constantly threatened to sweep people away, but even surrounded by them, he still felt the quiet ache of distance sometimes. Especially when it came to home, he missed his mother more than he admitted out loud.
The two of them talked on the phone whenever his schedule allowed it, usually late at night when rehearsals finally ended and the rest of the world seemed to quiet down enough for him to think clearly, those calls were often the calmest moments of his day. His mother had a way of speaking that instantly softened the tight knot of tension that lived permanently in his chest, her gentle voice reminding him that there was still a life outside the chaos of fame. She told him about her garden, about the neighborhood gossip, about the stray cat that had started sleeping on her porch.
And recently, she had started telling him about you. “The girl next door works too hard,” she had said one evening, her voice warm with concern. “She forgets to eat when she’s busy, i’ve been making extra food so she doesn’t starve.”
Jungkook had laughed softly at that, picturing some overworked office worker his mother had decided to adopt. “She sounds a bit like me,” he joked.
His mother hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why I worry about her.”
He didn’t think much more about it after that, his schedule moved too quickly for lingering thoughts, and the whirlwind of touring swallowed him again before the image could fully settle in his mind. Still, every time his mother mentioned you in passing - talking about how smart you were, how kind, how stubbornly independent - something about the way she spoke made him quietly curious. Not curious enough to ask many questions, but curious enough that your existence slowly began to take shape in the background of his thoughts.
___
You didn’t realize how deeply Mrs. Jeon had woven herself into your daily life until one particularly exhausting evening when you returned home long after midnight, your head pounding from a twelve hour meeting that had ended in yet another complicated decision you alone were expected to handle.
The weight of leadership often meant carrying problems no one else wanted to deal with, and tonight it felt heavier than usual. You were halfway through unlocking your door when a soft voice called your name from the garden next door. Turning, you saw Mrs. Jeon stepping toward you with a small thermos and a worried expression that immediately made your chest tighten.
“You came home so late,” she said gently. “I made tea. It helps with headaches.”Something about the quiet sincerity in her voice nearly broke the fragile composure you had been holding together all day.
You hadn’t realized how desperately you needed someone to notice you were struggling. You sat with her on the small wooden bench in her garden, the cool night air brushing softly against your skin as you slowly sipped the tea she had prepared.
The world felt strangely still around you, the distant hum of the city barely audible beyond the trees. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you allowed yourself to simply sit without thinking about work.
Mrs. Jeon watched you carefully, the kind of attentive gaze only mothers seemed capable of. “You remind me of my son sometimes,” she said after a while, her voice thoughtful. “He also forgets to rest.”
You smiled faintly into your cup. “What does he do?”
She chuckled softly. “Oh,” she said vaguely, waving her hand. “He just sings and dances a little.”
Of course, you assumed she meant it metaphorically.
So you had laughed at that, the sound softer than you intended, because the way she said it made it seem so ordinary, so harmless, like her son performed at small local festivals or taught children at a community center. “sings and dances a little” felt like such an understated way to describe someone’s life that you didn’t think twice about it, and maybe that was your first mistake.
You were too tired that night to dig deeper, too wrapped up in your own exhaustion to consider that there might have been more behind the gentle pride in her voice. Instead, you focused on the warmth of the tea between your hands and the way the garden lights cast small golden halos around the flowers, and for once you allowed yourself to just exist without calculating your next move.
Mrs. Jeon spoke quietly about how her son used to practice for hours when he was younger, how he never seemed to sit still, how stubborn he could be when he wanted something badly enough. The way she described him made him feel almost fictional, like a character in one of the dramas she liked to watch - passionate, hardworking, always chasing something just slightly out of reach.
You remember thinking he sounded intense, maybe a little dramatic, definitely not someone you would have much in common with. Your life was structured, calculated, carefully managed. You didn’t chase dreams anymore, you built them slowly with spreadsheets and negotiations and contracts. Still, something about the softness in her eyes when she spoke about him lingered in your mind longer than you expected.
The weeks passed, and your routine settled into something steady but heavy. Work didn’t slow down just because you changed addresses, and if anything, the added commute made your days longer. There were mornings you left before the sun rose and nights you came back so drained you barely had the strength to take off your heels before collapsing onto the couch. Yet somehow, in the middle of all that exhaustion, Mrs. Jeon became a quiet constant.
She would knock gently on your door with side dishes wrapped carefully in foil, scolding you lightly if you looked too pale. Sometimes she would simply sit beside you on the bench between your houses while you both watched the sky fade from blue to violet, speaking about nothing in particular. She told you stories about her son’s childhood - how he used to sing loudly around the house, how he once insisted on performing for relatives during a holiday dinner, how determined he was even as a boy.
There was pride in her voice, yes, but also a hint of worry that only someone deeply attached could carry. You began to notice that she missed him in small ways, like glancing at her phone after mentioning his name, or pausing slightly before saying she hadn’t seen him in months because he was “very busy.” You didn’t pry, you understood what it meant to love something that constantly pulled you away from home.
Then one evening, while you were sitting at your kitchen table reviewing a contract, your phone buzzed with an unfamiliar notification from a group chat your assistant had created for work updates. Attached was a trending article about a global tour selling out stadiums worldwide.
Normally, you would have scrolled past it without interest - celebrity news rarely held your attention - but a photo caught your eye for a split second. A familiar surname flashed beneath the headline. Jeon. You barely registered it at first, assuming coincidence, but something in your chest gave a faint, inexplicable tug.
You clicked the article absentmindedly, not out of curiosity but habit, scanning information quickly the way you did with everything. The name stared back at you in bold letters: Jeon Jungkook. Member of ‘BTS’. Global star. International tour. Millions of fans.
Your eyes skimmed over the details without much emotional reaction. You had heard of bts, of course - it was almost impossible not to - but you had never invested time into idol culture. Your life simply didn’t revolve around that world. After a few seconds, you locked your phone and returned to your contract, unaware that the universe had just quietly set something in motion.
___
It wasn’t until a few days later, when Mrs. Jeon casually mentioned that her son would finally be visiting after a long work trip, that something clicked in your mind. She said it with barely contained excitement, like a mother counting down to a holiday. “He hasn’t been home in a long time,” she murmured, adjusting the small cushions on her porch chairs as if preparing for royalty.
You smiled politely, offering congratulations, but your brain was slowly connecting threads you hadn’t bothered tying together before. Sings and dances. Travels constantly. Rarely home. The surname. The pride. The worry. You felt a strange flicker of realization building beneath your calm exterior, but you didn’t say anything. It wasn’t your place to assume, and frankly, you didn’t care enough about celebrities to feel particularly affected.
If her son happened to be famous, then good for him, it didn’t change your schedule, it didn’t change your deadlines, it didn’t change the fact that tomorrow you had a 9 a.m. meeting that could determine the direction of your entire department.
Still, when the day came that a sleek black car pulled into Mrs. Jeon’s driveway, your heart betrayed you with the smallest quickened beat.
You weren’t watching intentionally, you were simply arriving home at the same time, your bag heavy on your shoulder, your mind half stuck in work mode. But the moment the car door opened and he stepped out, the air shifted in a way that felt undeniable.
He looked exactly like the photos you had seen - dark hair falling into his eyes, casual but expensive clothing, a presence that carried both exhaustion and quiet magnetism. Cameras weren’t flashing here, fans weren’t screaming, he was just a man standing in front of his childhood home, taking in a breath like he hadn’t exhaled properly in months. For a moment, you saw something raw in his expression, something unguarded and deeply human.
Mrs. Jeon rushed out to greet him, wrapping him in an embrace that erased every trace of global superstardom from his posture. He melted into her instantly, arms tightening around her like he had been waiting for that hug longer than he wanted to admit. You looked away before you could feel like an intruder in something so personal.
You had truly intended to just walk inside your house and mind your business, but as you turned your key in your door, you felt his eyes on you. And when you glanced back, just briefly, your gaze collided with his.
There was no dramatic spark, no cinematic slow motion, just quiet curiosity. He looked at you like he was trying to place something, you looked at him like he was just another neighbour. Somehow, that unsettled him far more than screaming fans ever could.
___
The first few days after Jungkook arrived, you told yourself the strange tension you felt whenever you stepped outside was purely coincidence. Your life had always been carefully compartmentalized, every part of it organized neatly into responsibilities you could manage, and a world famous idol living next door didn’t exactly fit into the structure you had built, but the neighborhood itself didn’t change just because someone famous was suddenly there.
The trees still rustled quietly in the late afternoon breeze, Mrs. Jeon still watered her garden every morning with the same peaceful routine, and you still left your house before sunrise most days with a laptop bag slung over your shoulder and your phone already buzzing with work messages.
The only difference was that sometimes, when you passed the small gate between your houses, you could feel a quiet awareness hanging in the air, like someone was observing the rhythm of your life with unfamiliar curiosity. You had caught glimpses of him more than once now: sitting on his mother’s porch with a mug of coffee, walking slowly around the garden like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of the place, leaning against the fence while talking on the phone with someone whose voice carried through the stillness.
Each time your eyes met briefly, he gave you the same small nod of acknowledgment, polite but slightly puzzled, like he expected something different from you. Maybe recognition..? Maybe excitement, maybe the kind of starstruck reaction he had probably grown used to seeing everywhere else in the world.
What he got instead was the same calm indifference you gave anyone else you didn’t know very well, and although you didn’t realize it, that quiet normalcy was beginning to bother him in ways he didn’t fully understand.
Your first real conversation happened on a Saturday morning when, for once, you didn’t have to rush anywhere. The week had been brutal, a series of meetings that left you mentally exhausted, and you had woken up later than usual with the rare intention of doing absolutely nothing for a few hours.
The sunlight was warm when you stepped outside with your coffee, and Mrs. Jeon’s garden smelled faintly of herbs and damp soil after an early watering. You had barely taken two steps toward your car before a voice behind you spoke your name, low and slightly hesitant, like someone testing unfamiliar words.
When you turned around, Jungkook was standing by the fence separating your yards, dressed in simple grey sweatpants and a loose black shirt, his hair slightly messy in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t. Up close, he looked younger than you expected and somehow more tired, the kind of tired that came from living constantly under pressure rather than simply not sleeping enough.
For a moment, neither of you said anything, and the silence felt strangely intimate for two people who had technically only exchanged glances until now. Finally he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish little smile. “You’re the neighbor my mom keeps talking about,” he said, his voice softer than you expected. “y/n, right?”
You nodded once, leaning casually against the wooden post of your gate. “And you must be the son who sings and dances a little,” you replied without thinking too much about it, because that was still the only description Mrs. Jeon had ever given you.
The reaction was immediate and honestly a little amusing, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and for a second he stared at you like he couldn’t quite decide whether you were joking or serious. Most people probably spent years dreaming about meeting him, rehearsing excited introductions in their heads, yet you had just summarized his entire career with the same tone someone might use to describe a hobby.
Something flickered across his face then - not offense exactly, but curiosity sharpened by disbelief. “Just a little?” he repeated slowly, almost laughing under his breath.
You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee. “That’s what your mom said.” The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying very hard not to grin.
What neither of you expected was how naturally the conversation kept going after that. You talked for nearly twenty minutes, leaning lazily against opposite sides of the fence while the morning stretched around you in comfortable quiet. He asked about your job, and when you described the complicated, high pressure industry you worked in, his attention sharpened in a way that felt sincere rather than polite.
Most people either became intimidated by your career or overly impressed by it, but Jungkook reacted differently. He seemed genuinely fascinated by the way your life operated - the negotiations, the long hours, the responsibility of managing people and projects that carried enormous stakes.
When you finally asked him what touring was like, his expression softened into something thoughtful and almost vulnerable. “It’s loud,” he admitted after a moment, looking down at the grass beneath his sneakers. “But also lonely sometimes.” The honesty in that answer surprised you. Fame usually built walls around people, yet here he was casually admitting something most idols probably avoided saying out loud.
What you didn’t notice was the way he kept watching you while you spoke.
Jungkook had met thousands of people in his life - fans, celebrities, industry executives, interviewers - and almost all of them reacted to him in predictable ways. Some were dazzled by his fame, others intimidated by it, a few tried too hard to impress him.
You, however, were none of those things.
You treated him exactly the same way you treated everyone else: calm, composed, quietly observant. There was no awe in your voice when you spoke to him, no hint that you had spent years watching his performances or listening to his music. In fact, it became painfully obvious very quickly that you knew almost nothing about him at all.
When he mentioned a recent stadium tour, you simply nodded politely instead of asking questions. When he referenced his group members, you looked slightly confused until he explained. Normally, that kind of ignorance might have annoyed him, but with you, it did the opposite.
It fascinated him, because for the first time in years, someone was looking at him like he was just a man standing in a quiet neighborhood, not a global phenomenon, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
___
Later that night, long after you had gone inside your house and the street had fallen into its usual peaceful silence, Jungkook found himself sitting on the edge of his childhood bed with his phone in his hands, replaying the conversation in his head like a song stuck on repeat.
It was ridiculous, honestly, he had performed in front of seventy thousand people just weeks earlier without feeling half as unsettled as he did now thinking about the woman living next door to his mother. Something about the way you spoke to him - straightforward, slightly amused, completely unimpressed - had slipped under his skin in a way he couldn’t explain.
He was used to admiration, used to excitement, used to the way people’s voices changed when they realized who he was.
Your voice hadn’t changed at all. If anything, you had looked mildly distracted half the time, like you had more important things to think about than the fact that a world famous idol was leaning against your fence talking about life. It should have been humbling, maybe even a little embarrassing.
Instead, it felt strangely freeing.
His phone buzzed suddenly, the screen lighting up with a group chat message from the other members of his band. The conversation quickly shifted into chaotic teasing when he mentioned the mysterious neighbour his mother had been feeding for months.
One of them joked that he sounded suspiciously interested, another asked if you were pretty. Jungkook hesitated for a second before answering that question, staring at the ceiling as he tried to articulate something that felt difficult to summarize.
Pretty wasn’t quite the right word, there was something composed about you, something quietly powerful in the way you carried yourself. Even the exhaustion in your eyes, which he had noticed immediately, seemed to come from determination rather than weakness.
He only typed a simple reply. “Yeah, she’s…interesting.” Then he tossed his phone onto the bed beside him, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated little sigh,because if there was one thing Jungkook had learned after years of living under a microscope, it was that “interesting” was often the beginning of trouble. and somehow, deep down, he had the strange feeling that meeting you might complicate his life in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
___
It had started subtly, the way most complicated things in life tend to begin. At first, it was just small coincidences that made your routine overlap with Jungkook’s more than either of you expected.
You would step outside in the morning with your laptop bag and find him already leaning against the fence with a cup of coffee, watching the quiet street like he was trying to memorize every detail before the chaos of his real life swallowed him again.
Other times you would return home late from work, your shoulders aching and your mind still tangled in unfinished negotiations, only to see him sitting on his mother’s porch steps strumming a guitar softly under the dim porch light. The music wasn’t loud or showy, just quiet melodies drifting into the evening air, but there was something about the vulnerability of it that made you pause more than once before going inside.
The strangest part wasn’t that he was talented - you had already guessed that much from the global attention surrounding his career - but the way he seemed almost relieved when he realized you were nearby, like your presence somehow made the moment more real.
Over time, your conversations stretched longer and longer, shifting from casual greetings into something deeper without either of you consciously deciding it. You spoke about work, about exhaustion, about the strange loneliness that came with chasing ambitious goals for too long. He spoke about performing, about the surreal feeling of hearing thousands of people scream your name while still feeling like the same quiet kid who used to sing in his bedroom.
The more you spoke, the more you realized that beneath the fame and the headlines, he carried the same kind of relentless pressure you did - just in a very different world.
Mrs. Jeon noticed immediately, of course, mothers had a way of sensing emotional shifts long before anyone else acknowledged them, and she seemed almost delighted every time she caught the two of you talking by the fence or walking slowly through the garden together. She started inviting you over more often, pretending she needed help moving plants or cooking dinner, but somehow Jungkook always ended up there at the same time.
One evening, she insisted all three of you eat together on her small wooden patio, the table crowded with homemade dishes and the warm glow of string lights hanging between the trees. The conversation flowed easily, full of laughter and gentle teasing, and you began to see a different side of Jungkook than the calm, thoughtful version he usually showed you.
Around his mother he was playful and affectionate, stealing pieces of food from her plate and complaining dramatically when she scolded him for not eating properly during tours. Watching them interact stirred something unexpectedly soft in your chest. It reminded you of how distant your own life had become from simple moments like this, evenings where the only goal was to sit with someone you cared about and enjoy being present.
At one point, Mrs. Jeon excused herself to bring more food from the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone at the table under the quiet hum of cicadas. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and the silence felt strangely charged.
“My mom thinks you work too much,” Jungkook said finally, resting his elbow on the table and studying your face with a seriousness that caught you off guard. The soft lights above him reflected faintly in his eyes, making his gaze feel more intense than the casual setting suggested.
You exhaled slowly, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger as you considered how to answer. “That’s what people say when they don’t understand my job,” you replied, your voice calm but slightly defensive.
“Responsibility doesn’t pause just because you’re tired.” He tilted his head, watching you carefully like he was trying to read something beneath your words. “I understand responsibility,” he said quietly. “But I also know what it looks like when someone forgets how to breathe.”
The comment hit closer than you expected, and for a second you felt the strange urge to look away. Instead, you held his gaze, noticing the faint tension in his shoulders like he had said something more personal than he intended. “You sound like your mom,” you murmured, attempting to lighten the mood. That made him smile, the kind of small, crooked smile that felt disarmingly genuine. “She’s usually right,” he admitted.
What happened next was so small it could have been accidental, but the effect lingered far longer than the moment itself.
When you reached across the table for a dish, your hand brushed against his for barely a second - it was a simple touch, skin against skin, nothing dramatic. Yet the contact sent a brief, electric awareness up your arm that made you instinctively pull back.
Jungkook reacted the same way, his fingers flexing slightly as if surprised by the sudden warmth. Neither of you mentioned it, but the conversation that followed felt different somehow, the air between you carrying a quiet tension that hadn’t been there before.
You noticed the way his attention drifted toward your hands when you spoke, the way his posture leaned subtly closer whenever you laughed, and you became painfully aware of how easy it was to forget that he was someone the entire world adored when he looked at you like that - like you were the only thing in front of him worth focusing on.
Later that night, after Mrs. Jeon had gone inside and the street had grown quiet again, the two of you lingered by the gate between your houses. The conversation had drifted into softer territory - childhood memories, regrets, the strange paths life sometimes forced people to walk. You didn’t realize how close you had moved to each other until a breeze shifted the leaves above and you suddenly felt the warmth of his body only inches away.
Jungkook’s voice dropped slightly when he spoke next, quieter and more hesitant than before. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
You nodded, curious. He hesitated for a second, searching your face with a thoughtful expression that made your heartbeat feel unexpectedly loud. “Why don’t you treat me differently?” he asked.
The question was so sincere it almost made you laugh. “Should I?” you replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Most people do.”
You shrugged lightly. “You’re still just a person, Jungkook, fame doesn’t make you less human.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, almost without thinking, he reached out.
His hand closed gently around your wrist - not forceful, just enough to stop you from stepping away - and the sudden closeness sent a rush of heat through your chest. His thumb brushed lightly against your pulse point, the touch so soft it felt almost curious rather than intentional.
Neither of you spoke, the silence stretched until it felt fragile, like something that might break if either of you moved too quickly. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, and the realization of what almost happened hung in the air between you like a held breath.
You were the one who stepped back first, not because you didn’t want to know what that moment might become, but because you knew exactly how dangerous it would be if you didn’t.
___
Jungkook didn’t sleep much that night, the almost kiss replayed in his mind with frustrating clarity - the way your breath had caught slightly when he touched your wrist, the faint warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, the quiet tension in your eyes that suggested you had felt the same pull he did.
He had been close enough to kiss you, close enough to know exactly how easily it could have happened if neither of you had stepped away. The thought made his chest tighten with a strange mixture of excitement and frustration.
He wasn’t used to restraint when emotions felt this intense, most of his life was carefully managed by schedules and public expectations, yet personal moments like that usually happened quickly, impulsively, in the small pockets of privacy his career occasionally allowed. With you, everything felt slower. He found himself thinking about your voice, your quiet confidence, the way you challenged him without even trying. It wasn’t just attraction, though the attraction was undeniably there, it was the feeling that you existed outside the version of him the world constantly consumed.
The next morning, the illusion of peace shattered the moment his manager called.
Jungkook answered the phone half asleep, expecting a routine schedule update, but the tension in his manager’s voice immediately told him something was wrong.
Articles had started circulating overnight - rumors about his personal life, speculation about relationships, the kind of gossip that spread quickly whenever an idol’s name appeared in the wrong context. The company had already decided on a solution before he even finished hearing the problem.
A collaboration with another idol from a well known girl group was about to be announced, and to control the narrative surrounding the rumors, the agency wanted them to stage a temporary public relationship. A fake dating scandal, carefully planned and monitored, something dramatic enough to distract the media from whatever speculation had started circulating.
Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed listening to the explanation with growing disbelief, his fingers tightening slowly around the phone. Because the first thing he thought about wasn’t the press, It was you.
The quiet evenings by the fence, the almost kiss, the way your eyes had softened for a split second before you stepped away, and suddenly, the situation felt far more complicated than his company realised.
___
You didn’t realize how much Jungkook had quietly slipped into the rhythm of your life until the morning you woke up and noticed he wasn’t there. Normally, you tried not to think about him when you left the house for work, telling yourself the conversations by the fence and the shared late evenings in Mrs. Jeon’s garden were simply neighborly coincidences that would fade once his tour schedule pulled him away again. But habits had a way of forming before you consciously acknowledged them, and over the past few weeks your routine had begun to include small, almost invisible expectations.
You expected to see him leaning on the fence with his coffee when you stepped outside, you expected the faint sound of music drifting from his mother’s porch in the evenings, you expected the quiet, thoughtful conversations that somehow always ended with both of you revealing more about yourselves than either of you intended.
When none of those things happened that morning, a strange emptiness followed you all the way through your commute. The city felt louder than usual, your phone notifications more irritating, the fluorescent lighting of your office more suffocating.
You tried to bury the feeling under work, focusing on contracts and meetings and the endless chain of decisions people needed from you, but even in the middle of a presentation your mind drifted back to the memory of his hand lightly closing around your wrist the night before, the warmth of his thumb brushing against your pulse like he had felt something there he didn’t want to let go of. It had been such a small moment, almost accidental, and yet it lingered stubbornly in your thoughts like a question you hadn’t answered yet.
The answer arrived in the most impersonal way possible.
It was nearly lunchtime when your assistant walked into your office holding a tablet with an expression that suggested she wasn’t sure whether she should interrupt you. You barely glanced up from the documents on your desk, assuming it was another work issue, but the moment the screen turned toward you something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly.
The headline was impossible to miss, a high resolution photo filled the top of the article: Jungkook standing beside a young woman at what looked like an industry event, their shoulders nearly touching as cameras flashed around them.
Beneath the image were bold letters announcing the story that had apparently exploded overnight. Dating rumors confirmed. Global idol Jeon Jungkook reportedly in a relationship with rising star from another popular group.
Your assistant started explaining something about how it was trending across every platform, but the words blurred together before they fully registered. You weren’t someone who followed celebrity gossip, and under normal circumstances this article would have meant absolutely nothing to you. Yet the moment you saw his face next to hers, smiling in that carefully composed way public figures used when they knew the world was watching, a strange heaviness settled in your chest.
You told yourself it was none of your business. Logically, it wasn’t. You barely knew him, but logic had very little power over the quiet ache that appeared anyway.
You spent the rest of the day pretending nothing had changed. Meetings continued, emails piled up, and by the time evening arrived you had nearly convinced yourself that the article was simply another piece of entertainment news with no real connection to your life.
Yet the moment you stepped out of your car and saw Mrs. Jeon’s house glowing softly in the fading sunset, the fragile composure you had built throughout the day began to crack.
The garden looked exactly the same as always - the same flowers, the same bench where you often sat together - but the absence of the one person you had started expecting there made everything feel strangely hollow. You walked toward your door slowly, telling yourself you were imagining the tension in the air, until Mrs. Jeon’s voice called your name gently from her porch.
When you turned, she was watching you with a concerned expression that made your throat tighten unexpectedly. “You saw the news” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
You hesitated for a moment before nodding once, forcing a calm smile that felt thinner than you wanted it to be. “Good for him,” you said, your voice steady despite the faint pressure building behind your ribs. “He deserves happiness.”
Mrs. Jeon studied your face carefully, her eyes soft but perceptive in the way only mothers seemed capable of being. “You don’t really believe that, y/n.” she replied gently.
___
Jungkook had always known fame came with compromises, but sitting in a sterile meeting room while his company explained the details of his “relationship” made the reality feel heavier than it ever had before.
The plan was simple on paper. The rumors about his personal life had begun circulating too quickly, and the agency wanted to control the narrative before speculation spiraled into something more damaging. Pairing him publicly with another idol was a convenient distraction, something dramatic enough to redirect attention while still remaining manageable behind the scenes.
The woman chosen for the arrangement was talented, well known, and perfectly professional about the situation. She sat across from him during the meeting with a polite smile, clearly accustomed to the strange mechanics of the industry. She introduced herself warmly, explaining that their companies had already coordinated schedules for appearances and interviews that would make the relationship appear believable.
Jungkook listened to everything in near silence, nodding when necessary, but his mind kept drifting back to a quiet street outside Seoul and a woman who leaned casually against a wooden fence while telling him fame didn’t make him less human.
He should have been thinking about the media. Instead he kept thinking about you, because the timing felt cruel in a way he couldn’t ignore.
Only two nights earlier he had almost kissed you under the dim glow of the garden lights, close enough to feel your breath against his skin before you stepped away with that conflicted look in your eyes. That moment had stayed with him like unfinished music, a quiet possibility that might have grown into something real if circumstances had been slightly different. Now, he was sitting in a conference room discussing how to pretend to love someone else while cameras documented every detail.
When the meeting finally ended and the official announcement was prepared for release, Jungkook felt a strange hollowness settle into his chest. The relationship wasn’t real, everyone involved understood that. Yet the moment the article appeared online, the world would accept it as truth. And somewhere in a quiet neighborhood, you would probably see it too.
The thought made his stomach tighten.
___
Later that evening, Jungkook found himself driving back to his mother’s house with a restless energy he couldn’t shake. The streets were calm when he arrived, the familiar scent of the garden drifting through the open window as he stepped out of the car.
For a brief second he considered walking straight to your door and explaining everything - the contract, the pressure from the company, the fact that none of it meant anything real. But as he stood there in the fading light, he realized how absurd that idea was. You weren’t part of his world, you had your own demanding life, your own responsibilities. Dragging you into the messy reality of idol politics would only complicate things further.
Still, when he saw you standing near your door across the small distance between your houses, his heart reacted before his logic could stop it. “y/n,” he called softly.
You turned slowly, and the expression on your face told him immediately that you had already seen the news.
When Jungkook said your name from across the narrow distance between your houses, it felt like the quiet evening air tightened around you both at once, the calmness of the neighborhood suddenly fragile in a way it hadn’t been before. The sky was fading slowly into deep shades of violet, porch lights flickering on one by one along the street, but the softness of the moment did nothing to ease the strange tension that had settled inside your chest since you saw that article earlier in the day.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary, your fingers still loosely holding your car keys, staring at him with an expression you couldn’t quite control. He looked the same as he always did when he returned home - casual clothes, slightly tired eyes, hair falling loosely over his forehead - but something about him felt different now, as if the image of him standing beside another woman under flashing cameras had quietly inserted itself into the space between you.
You hated how irrational the feeling was, you had no claim over him, no right to question his life or his choices, yet the memory of his hand around your wrist two nights ago lingered stubbornly in your mind, and the contrast between that intimate moment and the public relationship dominating headlines now made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
“You saw it,” he said after a moment, his voice low and careful like someone approaching a fragile situation they didn’t want to shatter completely. You didn’t answer right away.
Instead, you slipped your keys into your pocket and crossed your arms loosely, the gesture subtle but protective. “Hard not to,” you replied finally, your tone calmer than you expected it to be. “It’s everywhere.”
For a second, he just stood there watching you, and the intensity of his gaze made the quiet street feel smaller somehow, like the entire world had shrunk to the space between your two houses. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said, the words coming out faster now, the controlled calmness in his voice beginning to crack slightly.
You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a tired laugh and a sigh. “Jungkook,” you said gently, shaking your head. “You don’t owe me explanations.” The statement was true, logically speaking, but the way his shoulders tensed at your words made it clear he didn’t accept that distance as easily as you did.
“Yes, I do,” he insisted suddenly, stepping closer to the fence like the extra few feet between you had become unbearable. His voice dropped slightly, frustration threading through the quiet seriousness in his expression. “Because you’re standing there pretending it doesn’t matter, and I can tell it does.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly at that, not out of anger but because the comment landed closer to the truth than you wanted him to see. “You’re imagining things,” you replied, though the words sounded less convincing the moment they left your mouth.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in the same restless gesture you had noticed so many times during your late night conversations. “It’s fake,” he said finally, the confession falling between you with surprising weight. “The relationship. The company arranged it to control rumors.” The honesty in his voice was unmistakable, but instead of relief you felt something heavier settle in your chest.
“Why are you telling me this?” you asked quietly.
He stared at you for a long moment before answering, and when he finally spoke again his voice carried a vulnerability you hadn’t heard from him before. “Because the idea of you believing it’s real…” he paused, his jaw tightening slightly as he searched for the right words. “…bothers me more than it should.”
___
Jungkook had faced stadium crowds of screaming fans without feeling half as nervous as he did standing in front of you that evening. The confrontation wasn’t loud or dramatic - your voice remained calm, your posture composed - but the quiet restraint in your expression made the situation feel heavier than any argument could have.
He could see the walls going up in real time, the careful emotional distance you were constructing between the two of you, and the thought of losing the fragile connection that had formed over the past few weeks made his chest feel uncomfortably tight. The worst part was knowing you were right in a way.
Technically, he didn’t owe you explanations. His career had always been full of decisions made by agencies and managers, situations that required compromises he couldn’t fully control. But none of those situations had ever involved someone like you before - someone who had met him as a person first instead of a celebrity, someone whose opinion mattered in a way he couldn’t easily explain to anyone else.
“You think I’m overreacting,” he said after a moment, studying your face carefully. You didn’t answer immediately, but the faint tilt of your head suggested you were considering it.
“I think you’re used to chaos,” you replied slowly. “Your entire life seems to exist under a microscope. Drama probably feels normal to you.”
Jungkook let out a soft laugh that carried almost no amusement. “You make it sound glamorous,” he said. “Most of the time it’s just exhausting.” The words hung between you for a moment before he spoke again, more quietly this time. “When I’m here..when I’m talking to you… it doesn’t feel like that.” Something about the honesty in that sentence made your composure falter for a fraction of a second. Jungkook noticed immediately.
“You’re different from everyone else I meet,” he continued, his voice low but steady now. “You don’t care about my fame, you don’t treat me like I’m something special, you just…see me.” He took another step closer to the fence, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his presence through the cool evening air. “Do you know how rare that is for someone like me?”
Your heart was beating faster now, though you tried to hide it behind the same composed expression you wore in every professional negotiation. “You’re still dating someone else,” you said softly.
The statement landed like a challenge.
Jungkook stared at you for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders building until it seemed almost visible. Then, before either of you could rethink the moment, he reached across the fence and caught your hand gently in his. The sudden contact sent a sharp awareness through your entire body, the warmth of his fingers wrapping around yours with a familiarity that felt both dangerous and strangely natural. “She’s not the one standing here with me,” he murmured.
Your breath caught slightly, the air between you felt electric now, the quiet street suddenly far too small for the emotions building beneath the surface. His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles, the movement absentminded but intimate enough to send heat rushing up your arm.
“You’re the one I keep thinking about,” he said quietly.
For a second, you considered pulling away, instead, you stepped closer.
___
You didn’t remember deciding to move toward him, and later you would realize the moment happened faster than logic could keep up with. One second you were standing on opposite sides of the fence, trying to maintain the careful boundaries you had built around your life. The next second the distance between you had vanished completely, your hands gripping the wooden railing as Jungkook leaned closer with an intensity that made the world feel strangely quiet around you. His gaze flickered between your eyes and your mouth like he was asking a question he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. Your heart was racing now, every instinct telling you this was reckless, complicated, probably destined to end badly. But the warmth of his hand still wrapped around yours made it impossible to ignore the pull you had been fighting since the night he touched your wrist under the garden lights.
“Jungkook,” you started softly, intending to say something responsible.
Instead, his other hand rose gently to your cheek. The touch was careful, almost hesitant, like he was giving you time to stop him if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
The kiss happened slowly at first, tentative and searching, the kind of kiss that felt less like an impulsive decision and more like the natural conclusion to weeks of tension neither of you had fully acknowledged. His lips were warm and steady against yours, the contact sending a rush of heat through your chest that made your fingers tighten unconsciously on the fence between you.
When he deepened the kiss slightly, your composure finally cracked completely, one of your hands sliding into his hair as the moment pulled you both closer.
The world beyond that small space faded into irrelevance.
For a while there was only warmth, breath, and the quiet intensity of two people who had spent far too long pretending this moment wouldn’t eventually happen.
Eventually, Jungkook pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours as both of you tried to catch your breath. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Come inside with me.”
Your heart skipped. You knew exactly what he meant. And after a moment of hesitation, you nodded.
___
You wake before you fully understand why you’re awake, like your body has already registered something your mind is still refusing to name. There’s a strange stillness in the room that feels heavier than silence, not uncomfortable but unfamiliar, as if the air itself has changed shape overnight and you’re only now noticing it.
For a few seconds you don’t move at all, just stare at the faint light filtering through the curtains while fragments of memory drift back in pieces rather than a full sequence, warmth, quiet breathing. The sound of your name spoken like it meant something more than conversation.
None of it comes back clearly, but your body remembers enough to make your chest tighten in a way you can’t immediately explain. When you finally turn your head slightly, you see Jungkook - still asleep beside you, his expression unguarded in a way the world would never get to see.
There’s no performance here, no controlled version of himself, no careful distance between who he is and who people expect him to be. Just someone who looks like he finally stopped holding his breath for a while, and that alone makes something uncomfortable twist in your chest, because it reminds you that whatever happened last night wasn’t casual, even if neither of you has the words to define it yet.
You don’t move closer, but you don’t move away either. You just stay there in the strange space between clarity and avoidance, trying to decide what version of yourself you’re supposed to be now that something irreversible has already happened without permission.
When he starts to wake, it isn’t sudden - it’s slow, reluctant, like consciousness itself feels like something neither of you are ready to deal with yet. His eyes open slightly before focusing, and the moment he sees you, there’s a pause that feels heavier than any words that follow. For a second, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn’t empty - it’s full of everything that shouldn’t be acknowledged too quickly. You sit up a little, instinctively pulling the blanket closer around yourself, not out of shame exactly, but out of reflex, like your body is trying to rebuild distance that your emotions haven’t accepted yet.
That small movement makes something flicker in his expression - awareness, recognition, something quieter than regret but just as complicated. “Hey,” he says eventually, voice low and rough from sleep and something else neither of you names.
You nod once, because your voice doesn’t feel trustworthy yet, and because anything you say right now feels like it could shift the entire direction of this moment. The air between you is careful, fragile in a way neither of you is used to navigating.
Finally he exhales, running a hand through his hair slowly like he’s trying to reset himself back into something more controlled. “We should probably talk,” you say quietly, but even as the words leave your mouth, they feel insufficient for everything they’re meant to contain.
“I know,” he replies, but he doesn’t immediately move away, and that hesitation says more than anything else. Neither of you is rushing to undo what happened, and that realization sits uncomfortably between you both. Instead, there’s a strange stillness - not peaceful, not tense, but something in between that feels dangerously close to understanding.
You glance down briefly, gathering your thoughts like they’ve scattered overnight. “This is…” you start, then stop, because nothing you can say feels accurate enough. Complicated feels too small, wrong feels dishonest, right feels too heavy to claim.
Jungkook watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for you to finish the sentence so he knows where to place himself in it, but you don’t, because you can’t. Instead, you feel the weight of everything outside this room pressing in - your career, your responsibilities, the structure of your life that doesn’t make space for emotional uncertainty. And now him, sitting beside you like an interruption your carefully built world didn’t plan for.
Eventually he speaks again, quieter this time. “They’re announcing it today,” he says, and the shift in tone is immediate. The outside world returns in pieces; cameras, media, the fake relationship, the narrative already being written without your involvement.
The words land harder now than they did before. Because before, it was just information. Now, it feels like interference in something that already started changing shape without either of you agreeing to it.
You don’t respond right away, and when you finally do, your voice is steady but distant. “Right,” you say simply. “Your company’s plan.” He looks at you at that, something tightening subtly in his expression, like he doesn’t like how cleanly you’ve separated him from it, but you’re not wrong.
Logically, it isn’t his choice, none of it is, and yet sitting here next to him, you can feel how little logic has to do with anything that actually matters right now. “It’s fake,” he says after a moment, almost like he’s reminding both of you. “All of it.” There’s a pause before he adds more quietly, “But everything else…isn’t.” That last part hangs between you longer than anything else said that morning.
___
Jungkook has lived most of his adult life in controlled environments - schedules, cameras, rehearsals, interviews, obligations that leave very little room for unpredictability. He is used to performing versions of himself that are polished enough for public consumption, even when exhaustion makes everything feel distant. But waking up beside you doesn’t fit into any version of that structure. There’s no script for this kind of quiet, no rehearsal for the way reality feels slightly off balance when someone sees you without the layers you’ve built around yourself. When he first opens his eyes, he doesn’t immediately think about the company announcement or the press waiting to dissect his next move. He thinks about you. About how close you are. About how different this silence feels compared to every other silence he’s known in hotel rooms and dressing rooms and temporary spaces that never belong to him. The memory of last night is fragmented but undeniable - not in what was said or done, but in how it felt to stop resisting something that had been building between you both for weeks. And now, sitting here in the aftermath of it, he realizes that nothing about it feels like something he can easily put back into place.
When you speak, your voice is calm in a way that unsettles him slightly, not because it’s cold, but because it’s controlled. You are already stepping back emotionally, already placing distance where he isn’t ready to accept it. “This is complicated,” you finally say, and he can hear how carefully you’ve chosen even that simple word.
He wants to argue with it, but he knows you’re right in your own way. The situation is complicated. His career, the fake relationship, the media narrative - all of it exists whether he wants it to or not. But none of that explains the way his chest tightens when you look at him like this, like you’re trying to decide how much of yourself you’re allowed to keep here.
When he mentions the announcement, he watches your reaction closely, looking for something - frustration, indifference, anger - anything that tells him where he stands in your world. But what he sees instead is distance forming slowly, carefully, like you’re already preparing for separation before it fully happens. That realization bothers him more than he wants to admit.
“It’s not real,” he says again, softer now, like he needs you to understand something he can’t fully articulate yet. “The relationship, the announcement, none of it.” He pauses, fingers curling slightly against the sheet beneath him. “But you’re still here,” he adds, voice quieter now.
That sentence feels more honest than anything else he’s said all morning. Because it’s true. You are here, and last night happened, and whatever boundary existed before doesn’t feel as solid anymore.
He watches you carefully, waiting for you to respond, but when you don’t immediately, something in him tightens. “I don’t want you to disappear because of this,” he says finally, and there’s no performance in his voice anymore - just something raw and unpolished that doesn’t belong in his usual world.
Because for the first time in a long time, Jungkook realizes that the thing he’s most afraid of isn’t the fake relationship going public or the media reaction waiting outside. It’s the possibility that you might decide this isn’t something you want to be part of at all, and that thought is worse than anything fame has ever demanded from him.
___
The announcement hits like a silent collapse rather than an explosion, because you don’t actually hear it happen at first - you feel it. It starts in the small, ordinary way most chaos does: your phone lighting up more than usual, messages stacking in places they normally don’t, notifications arriving with a strange urgency that doesn’t belong to your routine.
You’re in the middle of a meeting when your assistant slides your phone across the table, her expression carefully neutral in the way people use when they don’t want to influence your reaction. You almost ignore it, almost push it aside, because your life is already full and you’ve trained yourself to treat distractions as background noise.
But then you see the headline, and something in your chest tightens instantly, not because it surprises you, but because it confirms something you were already trying not to name. The words are everywhere - not subtle, not speculative anymore - official announcement, confirmed relationship, public statement. And there he is, Jungkook, smiling in a carefully chosen press photo next to someone else, someone positioned beside him like a narrative already decided for both of them.
You don’t react outwardly at first, you just stare at the screen a little longer than necessary, long enough for the meeting room around you to continue speaking without you fully participating in it. Your assistant leans in slightly, whispering something about media coverage, trending topics, damage control language, but her voice feels distant, like it’s coming from another room entirely.
What unsettles you isn’t the announcement itself - you already knew it was coming. It’s the timing. Because now, after the night before last, after everything that happened between you and him in the quiet space that no one else will ever see, the fake narrative suddenly feels like it’s stepping directly on top of something real before it even had the chance to become something fully understood, and you hate how much that bothers you.
You leave work earlier than planned, not because you’re finished, but because you realize staying will not make anything clearer. The city outside feels too bright, too loud, too indifferent to the fact that something inside you has shifted in a way you don’t know how to categorize yet.
By the time you reach your neighborhood, your thoughts have become quieter but heavier, like they’ve settled into a place you can’t easily shake off. Mrs. Jeon notices you immediately - she always does - even before you fully step out of your car. She’s standing in her garden, hands still slightly damp from watering plants, watching you with an expression that already knows more than she’s been told. “It’s out,” she says gently, not accusing, not questioning, just acknowledging.
You pause near your gate, fingers tightening slightly around your bag strap. “I saw,” you reply simply. There’s a beat of silence before she steps closer, her voice softer now.
“He didn’t want it to be like this,” she says carefully, and that sentence alone makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t immediately want to analyze.
You look away slightly, toward the fence that separates your homes, toward the place where he usually stands when he’s home. But he’s not there right now, and the absence feels louder than expected. “It’s not my place to be involved in any of it,” you say, though your voice doesn’t sound as steady as you intend it to. Mrs. Jeon studies you quietly, the kind of look that mothers give when they already understand something you’re still trying to deny to yourself.
___
The announcement is worse in person than it is in theory.
Jungkook has done controlled statements before, carefully curated appearances where his smile is measured and his words are approved long before they reach the public. But this feels different because nothing about it touches the part of him that is currently unsettled. Sitting next to the woman chosen for the public narrative, he smiles when he’s supposed to smile, nods when cameras flash, speaks when the script requires him to speak.
Everything is technically correct, everything is exactly what his company wanted, but none of it reaches him properly. Not because he’s incapable of performing it, but because part of his attention is still somewhere else entirely - a quiet house outside Seoul, a woman standing by a fence who looked at him like fame didn’t matter at all.
He should not be thinking about you right now. He should be thinking about the press cycle, the global response, the way this announcement will stabilize rumors and protect his career trajectory. Instead, every time the cameras shift away from his face, his thoughts drift back to last night in fragments he can’t fully separate from reality anymore.
The warmth of your presence, the hesitation in your voice when you tried to step back from him emotionally, the fact that even now, after everything, you haven’t called him or texted him or tried to insert yourself into a situation that technically involves him more than it involves you. That absence should feel like relief. Instead, it feels like distance he doesn’t know how to close.
After the press release, the world reacts exactly as expected. Headlines multiply, fan discussions explode, analysis videos appear within hours. Everything moves quickly except him. Jungkook sits quietly in the backseat of a car later that day, staring out the window without really seeing anything. His manager talks about schedules, appearances, follow-up statements, but the words blur together. At one point, his phone buzzes - messages from group members, from staff, from people congratulating him on maintaining public stability - but none of it feels relevant.
What finally pulls him back into reality is a message from his mother. A simple one. “Come home when you can.” No mention of the announcement, no mention of anything else. Just that, and somehow that simplicity makes his chest tighten more than everything else combined. Because he knows when he gets home, he will see you, or not see you, and he doesn’t know which outcome will feel worse.
When he arrives back at the house, the air feels different immediately. The garden is quiet, the light softer now as evening approaches, and for a moment he just stands there before stepping out of the car. Mrs. Jeon sees him first, of course, but her expression isn’t celebratory or proud in the way the media assumes mothers of idols must feel. It’s more careful than that, like she’s aware something fragile exists between him and the space next door.
“y/n saw it,” she says quietly before he even asks.
Jungkook stops walking for a second, his hand still on the car door. “What did she say?” he asks, though he already fears the answer.
His mother shakes her head slightly. “Not much,” she replies. “But I know she’s pulling away from you, Jungkook.” That sentence hits harder than expected. Not anger, not jealousy, distance. That’s what unsettles him. Because he can handle public chaos, he can handle fake relationships, he can handle scrutiny, but he doesn’t know how to handle you deciding not to stay close to him.
___
You don’t go over to see Mrs. Jeon that night, even though every instinct in your body feels pulled toward doing exactly that. Instead, you stay inside your house longer than usual, sitting in silence that feels heavier than it should, staring at nothing in particular while your thoughts loop through things you don’t fully have language for yet.
The announcement keeps replaying in your mind in fragments - Jungkook’s smile in the press photo, the words “confirmed relationship,” the way the world will now interpret him differently without ever knowing what actually happened between you. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, you tell yourself your life is too structured, too important, too full of responsibilities to be affected by emotional complications like this. But none of that stops the small ache that settles quietly in your chest whenever you think about him standing in front of cameras while privately being something entirely different with you.
Later that evening, when you finally step outside just to breathe, you see him near the fence. He doesn’t call your name this time. He just looks at you, like he already knows you’re going to try to keep your distance, and for the first time since everything began, you realize something uncomfortable: Distance isn’t making this easier, it’s just making it louder and harder for you to cope with.
___
You try to act like nothing has changed, but that is the first lie you tell yourself that day, and it quietly unravels everything that follows. The world outside your house behaves exactly as it always has - cars passing in the distance, the faint rustle of wind through the trees, the soft rhythm of life continuing as if nothing important has shifted. But inside you, everything feels slightly misaligned, like your thoughts no longer sit in the right order.
You avoid looking toward the fence more than you admit to yourself, because you already know what you’ll see if you do. And when you do see Jungkook, standing there in the late afternoon light, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable in that way that always made him seem both present and distant at the same time, your chest tightens before you even make the decision to move.
You don’t go to him immediately. Instead, you hesitate longer than you should, standing in the quiet space between your door and the world you’ve started to emotionally retreat from. When you finally walk over, it isn’t dramatic. There is no rush, no sudden confrontation. Just two people who already know something irreversible has happened trying to figure out what remains of everything else.
“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” he says quietly when you reach the fence, and there’s something careful in his voice that makes your throat tighten slightly. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look at him properly for the first time since the announcement, and you notice how tired he looks - not physically, but emotionally, like he’s been holding too many versions of himself in place at once.
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” you ask softly, though even you hear the distance in your own voice.
That makes Jungkook pause. His gaze flickers briefly, like he’s searching for the right version of you to respond to. “Because everything got much louder today,” he says finally, voice low. “And you don’t like loud things.” The accuracy of that observation unsettles you more than you want to admit.
You look away briefly, focusing on the garden instead of him, because looking at him too long feels like it might undo whatever restraint you’ve been trying to build. “You made your choice,” you say carefully, though it doesn’t sound accusatory. It just sounds tired.
“Not me,” he replies immediately, and that single correction carries more weight than the sentence itself.
There is a pause between you that feels longer than it is, stretched by everything neither of you are saying. You can hear faint sounds from his mother’s house behind him, the life continuing normally even as something between you fractures quietly.
“It’s not real, y/n.” he says again, softer now, almost like he’s reminding himself as much as he is reminding you. “The relationship, the announcement, none of it changes what actually happened.”
Your chest tightens slightly at that, because you understand what he’s trying to say, but understanding doesn’t make it easier. “But it changes everything else,” you reply quietly.
That makes him still for a moment. His hands shift slightly against the fence, like he’s trying to ground himself in something physical. “Does it?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in that question that you weren’t prepared for. You look at him then, really look at him, and for a second the distance between you feels like the only thing keeping you both from falling into something neither of you fully understands yet.
___
Jungkook has never been good at situations where there is no clear structure to follow.
His entire life has been built around rhythm - schedules, performances, rehearsals, expectations. Even emotional moments in his career are usually filtered through something controlled enough to survive public scrutiny. But this is different, this is not something he can perform his way through.
Standing in front of you now, he feels that lack of control more intensely than he is used to, because nothing about your reaction follows the pattern he expected. You aren’t angry in the way the media would assume, you aren’t demanding explanations or trying to pull him into emotional chaos. Instead, you’re doing something far more unsettling - you’re stepping back quietly, carefully, as if trying to protect yourself from something you haven’t fully named yet.
That distance is what bothers him most. Not the announcement, not the fake relationship, not even the cameras that will follow him for the next several weeks. It’s the idea that you might decide this space between you is safer than whatever exists on the other side of it.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. It feels like an understatement for everything that’s happened, but it’s the only honest thing he can offer without collapsing into something messier.
You nod slightly, though your expression doesn’t change much. “It doesn’t really matter how I found out,” you reply. That lands harder than he expects, because it’s not said with anger - it’s said with acceptance, and acceptance is worse.
He takes a small breath, then lets it out slowly, trying to organize thoughts that refuse to stay linear. “It’s temporary,” he says, though even as he says it, the word feels fragile. “The company needed control over the narrative. It’s not real with her.” You don’t react immediately, but he notices the slight tightening in your posture.
“I know,” you say quietly. “I understood that already.” That should have been reassuring. Instead, it creates another problem - because understanding doesn’t change emotional distance, and that is exactly what he can feel forming between you.
“You’re pulling away from me,” he says before he fully decides to say it, and the moment it leaves his mouth, something shifts in the air.
You finally look at him directly again, and there’s something in your expression he can’t quite decode - not anger, not sadness, but restraint. “I have to,” you reply simply.
That answer hits harder than anything else so far. “Why?” he asks, though he already fears the answer.
You pause for a moment before speaking, and when you do, your voice is steady but quieter than before. “Because your life is already complicated enough without me being part of it.” The words feel final in a way neither of you fully accepts yet.
Jungkook steps closer instinctively, like distance alone is something he can fix if he tries hard enough. “That’s not your decision to make,” he says, more firmly now.
You shake your head slightly. “It is when it affects both of us differently, Jungkook.” And that sentence - that difference - is what finally makes him realize the real problem.
___
The silence that follows feels heavier than anything before it, because now there is no misunderstanding left between you, only clarity. Painful, uncomfortable clarity.
You can feel the emotional weight of everything pressing against you - the fake relationship, the media attention, the reality of his career - all of it sitting between you like a barrier neither of you can ignore anymore. And underneath it all, something else still exists, something you are trying very hard not to acknowledge fully because acknowledging it would mean admitting how much it already matters.
Jungkook looks at you like he wants to say something else, like there are words trapped behind his expression that he doesn’t know how to release without breaking something open too far. “You really think this is safer?” he asks quietly.
You don’t answer immediately, because the truth is, you don’t know. Nothing about this feels safe, but distance feels familiar, and familiarity is what your life has always leaned on when things become uncertain. “I think it’s necessary,” you say instead.
That answer makes something in his expression shift - not anger, but something closer to frustration mixed with disbelief. “For who?” he asks. You don’t respond, because you don’t have an answer that feels honest enough to say out loud.
The conversation doesn’t end cleanly, it never does. Instead, it lingers in the space between you, unresolved and unfinished, like something neither of you is willing to fully let go of. Eventually, you step back first, not dramatically, just enough to create distance again, and that small movement feels louder than anything said.
Jungkook doesn’t stop you this time, but you can see it in his eyes - he wants to, he just doesn’t know how without making everything worse. When you finally turn away, the quiet between you doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels like something that used to belong to both of you, now slowly being returned to the world outside your control.
___
You tell yourself you are doing the right thing, and that becomes the sentence you repeat most often over the next few days, like if you say it enough times it will eventually start to feel true instead of hollow.
Life continues around you in the same structured way it always has, emails arriving at expected times, meetings filling your calendar, responsibilities stacking neatly into categories you know how to manage. But the space between those things feels different now, like there is a weight sitting quietly in the background of everything you do, something you cannot fully acknowledge without disrupting your ability to function.
You avoid looking toward the fence. Not because you are angry, but because you are afraid of what it will feel like if you see him again. Because seeing Jungkook doesn’t feel neutral anymore, it feels like something that pulls at a part of you you have been trying very hard to keep controlled.
Mrs. Jeon notices immediately, of course she does, because mothers always notice what others try to hide in silence. She doesn’t push at first, she just watches you a little longer than usual when you pass by, her expression softer than it should be for someone who knows something is breaking quietly between two people she cares about in different ways.
On the fourth evening after your conversation with him, she finally speaks.
You are sitting near the edge of her garden, hands wrapped around a cup she insisted you take, though neither of you are really drinking it. The air is cooler now, the kind of quiet that feels heavier because it stretches longer without interruption.
“Jungkook hasn’t been sleeping properly, you know.” she says gently, not accusing, just stating it like a fact she has observed and cannot ignore. You don’t respond immediately, because you are not sure what part of that sentence is meant for you.
“I think he’s thinking too much,” she continues, eyes focused on the plants in front of her rather than you. “About things he doesn’t know how to fix.”
That lands somewhere deeper than you expect it to, but you keep your expression steady. “I suppose people like him are always under pressure,” you reply carefully, though your voice sounds more distant than you intend.
Mrs. Jeon turns her head slightly toward you then, studying your face with that quiet maternal awareness that makes it impossible to hide anything fully. “Not all pressure comes from his job,” she says softly, and you know, even without her saying it directly, what she is referring to.
That night, you don’t go outside. You stay in your house longer than usual, sitting in silence that feels less peaceful and more suspended, like time is waiting for you to make a decision you keep postponing.
Eventually, you step toward the window without fully meaning to, and that is when you see him. He is standing near the fence again, hands in his pockets, head slightly lowered like he has been there for a while already. Not calling you, not moving closer, just waiting. And something inside your chest tightens immediately because you realize he has not given up on the space between you the way you thought he might.
Jungkook looks up as if sensing you there, and even from this distance, you can feel the weight of his attention. For a moment, neither of you move. The world between your houses feels suspended again, like it did before everything became complicated.
Then, slowly, you step outside.
___
Jungkook has never been good at doing nothing when something matters. Waiting feels unnatural to him, like a state that requires too much restraint for someone whose life is usually measured in movement and responsibility, but over the past few days, waiting is all he has done.
Waiting for you to come outside, waiting for you to look at him again without turning away, waiting for something he doesn’t fully know how to name to shift back into place. The announcement, the fake relationship, the public narrative - all of it feels distant compared to the quiet fracture that happened between you.
He can handle cameras, he can handle schedules, he can even handle pretending. But he cannot handle the way you looked at him like stepping away was the safest possible choice. That thought keeps repeating in his mind in ways he cannot control. Not because it is dramatic, but because it feels wrong in a way he cannot accept easily.
When he sees you finally step outside that night, something in him loosens slightly, even though nothing has been resolved yet. You are careful as you approach, not closed off exactly, but guarded in a way that makes him feel the distance even before you speak.
“I didn’t mean to keep showing up like this,” he says quietly, almost immediately, because he needs you to know this isn’t pressure.
You stop a few steps away from him, close enough to speak normally, far enough to still feel like there is space between you. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you reply.
That answer frustrates him more than anger would, because it leaves everything unresolved. “Then why does it feel like I did?” he asks, voice lower now, more honest.
There’s a pause before Jungkook continues. “You said it was necessary to step back, but I don’t understand what that means for us.” The word ‘us’ hangs in the air longer than either of you expected.
He takes a step closer without fully realizing it. “I tried to do everything right,” he says, frustration and exhaustion threading through his voice now. “I followed the company, I did the announcement, I handled the interviews, and I didn’t ask you to be part of any of it.” His voice softens slightly, losing some of its tension. “But none of that stopped me from thinking about you every day.” That confession lands heavily between you both. Not dramatic, not loud, just real.
He looks at you then, properly, like he’s trying to understand what is left of you in the space between all of this. “Tell me to stop and leave you alone,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you really want.” And for the first time, there is no performance in him at all.
___
The question should be simple, it should have been simple from the beginning, but nothing about this has ever been simple since the moment he looked at you like you weren’t just another person in his world. You can feel your own certainty wavering in ways that make you uncomfortable, because certainty has always been something you relied on.
You think about your career, your responsibilities, the structure of your life that exists because you built it carefully over time. You think about the fake relationship, the media, the attention, everything that would spill into your world if you let this continue. And then you think about him standing there quietly, asking you to be honest instead of safe. The silence between you stretches long enough that it becomes unbearable.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you finally admit, voice quieter than you expect, it feels like the first honest thing you’ve said in days.
Jungkook doesn’t interrupt, he just listens.
“Everything in my life is built on control,” you continue slowly, like you are sorting through your own thoughts as you speak them. “I don’t make decisions that don’t have outcomes I can predict.” You look at him then, and your voice softens slightly. “But you, Jungkook…” You pause, because the sentence doesn’t form easily. “You don’t fit into anything predictable.”
That makes something in his expression shift, but he doesn’t speak yet. You exhale slowly, shaking your head slightly. “That’s what scares me.”
The honesty sits between you both for a moment, raw and unfiltered. And instead of stepping back like before, Jungkook closes the remaining distance carefully, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
When he speaks, his voice is softer now. “I’m not asking you to lose control,” he says. “And i’m asking you not to disappear from me.” That sentence breaks something small in the space between you. Not dramatically or loudly, just enough that your breath catches slightly.
Jungkook’s hand lifts slowly, hovering near yours without forcing contact, waiting instead of taking. “I can handle everything else,” he says quietly. “But I can’t handle you choosing distance because it feels safer.”
This time, you don’t step away.
___
You don’t realize you’re crying until the first tear falls, and even then it doesn’t feel dramatic the way it does in movies or stories, it feels quiet, almost disorienting, like your body finally stopped holding itself together after too long pretending it didn’t hurt.
Everything you’ve built your life around - control, structure, predictability - feels suddenly fragile in a way you can’t reconstruct quickly enough to protect yourself from what is standing in front of you.
Jungkook is still there, not closing the distance further, not forcing anything, just waiting in a way that feels more terrifying than pressure ever could, because it means the choice is entirely yours. You think about everything at once: your career, the expectations, the life you’ve built that doesn’t allow space for emotional chaos like this. And then you think about him - about how quietly he’s been showing up in your life without demanding anything from it, about how even now he’s not asking you to choose him, just not to disappear.
The silence stretches between you both, heavy but not empty, full of everything neither of you has been brave enough to fully say out loud until now.
“I can’t do this halfway,” you finally whisper, your voice breaking slightly in a way you don’t try to hide anymore, because hiding suddenly feels pointless.
Jungkook exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the beginning of this conversation, and for the first time since you met him, there’s no distance in his expression at all. No idol version of him, no controlled public persona, just him.
“Then don’t,” he says softly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world even though both of you know it isn’t.
You shake your head slightly, frustration and fear mixing together in your chest. “Your life is already complicated,” you say, because it feels like the responsible thing to say even though it hurts to say it. “The fake relationship, your company, everything you’re dealing with-”
He interrupts gently, stepping closer but still careful. “None of that matters right now,” he says. “Not compared to this.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m tired of choosing everything except what actually feels real.” That sentence lands differently. He isn’t asking you to fix his life, he’s asking you not to remove yourself from it.
___
Jungkook has faced pressure in every possible form - public expectations, industry demands, schedules that leave no room for hesitation. But nothing has ever felt as uncertain as standing in front of you right now, waiting without knowing whether waiting will lead to loss or something entirely different.
He can feel how carefully you’re holding yourself together, like every part of you has been trained to step away from anything that threatens stability. And he understands that, he really does, because his life has trained him the same way in different terms. But for the first time, understanding isn’t enough. Because he’s already crossed a line inside himself that he can’t un-cross.
When he sees your tears, something in him shifts immediately - a little panic, not fear of consequence, but something quieter and more personal. “Hey- hey, y/n. No-”
He steps closer slowly, not invading, just reducing the space enough that his presence feels like grounding rather than pressure. “I know I should make this easier for you,” he says quietly. “But I don’t want to lie about what I feel just to make it simpler.”
His voice softens slightly, breaking away from anything rehearsed. “I really like you, and it didn’t start after one moment. It just…kept happening every time you treated me like I was normal.”
He pauses, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize you in case this moment doesn’t last. “The fake relationship doesn’t change that,” he continues. “If anything, it just made everything more obvious.” His hand lifts slowly again, not touching you yet, giving you space to stop him. “I’m not asking you to step into my world,” he says quietly. “I’m asking if I can step into yours too.”
That sentence feels heavier than anything else he’s said so far. Because it isn’t about fame, it isn’t about career, it isn’t about anything public at all. It’s just him, choosing honesty over control. The distance between you feels smaller now, but still fragile, like one wrong movement could break it in either direction.
And then Jungkook says it, softer than everything else: “Don’t disappear from me.” Not dramatic, not commanding, but real.
___
Something in you finally gives way - not loudly, not suddenly, but like a long held breath finally being released after too many days of holding it in. You step forward without fully deciding to, and that alone feels like the first honest choice you’ve made since this entire situation began.
Jungkook doesn’t move first, he waits until you close the distance yourself, like he understands that this has to be yours as much as his. When you finally reach him, the space between you disappears completely, and for a moment neither of you speaks, because there is nothing left that needs to be said in words.
Your hand finds his shirt lightly, almost uncertain at first, and that small contact seems to settle something in him immediately. His forehead lowers gently against yours, the kind of closeness that doesn’t feel rushed or desperate anymore - just certain.
“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit quietly, voice shaking slightly but honest now in a way it hasn’t been before.
Jungkook exhales slowly. “We figure it out,” he says simply. “Together.” The word together doesn’t feel heavy the way it should, it feels grounding.
Behind you, you hear movement - Mrs. Jeon stepping outside quietly, watching from a distance she respects instinctively. She doesn’t interrupt, she just smiles softly in a way that holds relief and understanding at the same time, like she already knew this moment was inevitable long before either of you did.
She turns back inside without a word, leaving the garden quiet again. And somehow that makes everything feel more real, not less. Because this isn’t just hidden anymore, it’s witnessed by someone who cares about both of you without needing to control the outcome.
___
Jungkook finally lets himself breathe properly when you don’t pull away. Not fully, not like everything is solved, but enough that something inside him unclenches after days of tension he didn’t fully realize he was carrying.
He knows the world outside this small space is still complicated - the fake relationship, the media narrative, the expectations waiting for him to perform a version of his life that isn’t fully aligned with this one. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like it’s competing with you anymore. It just feels like something he will have to navigate, not something that defines what this is.
He lifts his head slightly, looking at you properly again. “We’ll deal with all of it,” he says quietly. “But not by pretending you don’t matter to me.” There’s no performance in his voice now, no idol version of him trying to sound composed for public interpretation, just someone choosing honesty over distance.
His hand finally brushes yours, fully this time, grounding rather than hesitant. “I don’t care how messy it gets,” he adds softly. “As long as I don’t lose you because I was too scared to try.”
___
The night settles around you both slowly, like the world is finally giving you space to exist without interruption. You don’t know what the future looks like, and for once that uncertainty doesn’t feel like failure, it feels like possibility. You stay there with him for a long time, not rushing anything, not fixing anything, just existing in the quiet aftermath of everything that was almost lost and somehow wasn’t.
The life you built is still yours. His life is still complicated. The world outside still exists exactly as it did before, but something between you has shifted permanently now - not into certainty, not into resolution, but into something real enough that neither of you is willing to walk away from it anymore.
And when Jungkook finally says your name again, it doesn’t sound like distance, it sounds like home.
Fellow took some food a fan wanted to give to Yuu and ate it, not because he was hungry; but because he knew if he threw it away, the fan could find it and try to give it to Yuu again. Turns out the food was poisoned, but Fellow didn't say anything to Yuu until after the set was over where he just casually announced that someone should call a Doctor.
Something that most likely would've affected someone in 10 minutes affected Fellow in 30. So the doctors are curious as to HOW the poison took that long to actually hit him.
Fellow, looking pale but smiling: I have an iron clad stomach.
Yuu, looks at Gidel:
Gidel, signs: Garbage.
Fellow tells Yuu the description of the fan before he passes out. She sends her other "bodyguard" Swing after the fan.
Tags: strangers to something more, voice kink, phone sex, anonymous sexting, slow reveal, idol!Chan is lurking, dirty talk, mystery man AU, smut 18+, blindfolds, unprotected sex, thigh riding, dom chan, praise kink, oral (f receiving) fingering
Word count: 5.4k
Summary: It starts with a text. A no-name number. A bold stranger in the dark. He saw your comment in a chaotic Stay group chat—“those fingers could ruin my life”—and now he won’t leave you alone. But maybe you don’t want him to. Because his texts are flirty, filthy, and just the right kind of fucked up. Because his voice notes make your thighs press together. Because he talks like he already knows what you sound like when you come. And the worst part? His voice sounds dangerously familiar.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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The first text came at 12:43 AM.
Unknown Number:
hey. you awake?
You didn’t recognize it. No name. No contact photo. Just numbers. But something about the timing—and the boldness—had your curiosity flaring.
You hesitated, thumb hovering. Then answered.
You:
who’s this?
Unknown Number:
just a bored stranger. saw your number in that stay gc. figured you wouldn’t mind the company.
You blinked. That group had been pure chaos, a flood of usernames and selfies and people throwing their numbers around like confetti. You almost forgot you’d joined it in the first place.
You:
wow. bold of you to admit you’re creeping in there like that lol
also… which one were you? i don’t remember you posting anything
A pause.
Then—
Unknown Number:
i didn’t
i like watching more than talking
especially when the girls are that pretty
Your stomach dipped.
Flirty. Shameless. You should’ve blocked him.
Instead, your lips curled.
You:
so what—you just stalked and picked the first girl who looked like she’d be down to text a stranger?
Unknown Number:
no. i picked the one who made that comment about chan’s hands during that encore stage.
you said, “those fingers could ruin my life” and i haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
You froze.
Your heart stuttered. You remembered typing that. The GC had been flying, no way to know who’d even seen it. And now it was echoing back at you from some faceless man in the dark.
You:
you’re a menace.
admit it. you get off on lurking. Chan would be horrified.
Another pause.
Unknown Number:
maybe, but i think he’d understand
You:
oh yeah? why’s that?
Unknown Number:
because if i were him, i’d want to know exactly who says that kind of stuff about me.
especially if she meant it.
Your breath caught.
You:
…and do you?
mean it?
Unknown Number:
every word.
but you tell me—should i be worried you’re the type to flirt with strangers this easily?
You smirked at your screen, heartbeat kicking faster.
You:
maybe i just have a thing for mystery
or maybe i like the idea that some stranger out there is thinking about me when he should be sleeping
Unknown Number:
you should stop saying things like that
You:
why?
Unknown Number:
because now i’m wondering how you sound when you’re out of breath
You stared at the message a beat too long. It’s not even what he said—it’s the way he said it. Like he already knew he could be the one to pull that sound out of you.
You:
that’s a bold thing to say to someone you’ve never met. you don’t even know what i look like
Unknown Number:
don’t need to.
i like your brain first.
your mouth second.
the rest is just a bonus.
Your breath stuttered in your chest. Who was this guy?
You:
you talk like you’ve done this before
seducing strangers through a screen
Unknown Number:
i don’t.
just bored. and maybe a little curious.
You:
curious about what?
Unknown Number:
what kind of girl sends texts like that about chan’s fingers
and whether she texts even filthier things when she’s comfortable
You bit your lip, grinning.
You:
maybe you’ll find out if you don’t scare me off first
Unknown Number:
oh baby, if you scare easy… you wouldn’t have replied to me at all
The way he called you baby shouldn’t have made your stomach flip like it did. It wasn’t even a real person. You didn’t know who was on the other end. And yet—you couldn’t stop.
⸻
Day 3
Unknown Number:
still thinking about the way you said “ruin my life”
i wonder how far you’d really let someone take that
You:
depends on who it is
Unknown Number:
so if it were chan? you’d let him?
You:
you ask a lot of questions for someone hiding behind a fake number
Unknown Number:
maybe i’m just trying to find the perfect way to ruin you myself
Day 6
The texting hadn’t stopped.
It was not constant—but it was regular. Little things. Late-night provocations. Random check-ins. Sometimes he was sweet. Sometimes unhinged. But always flirtatious. Always suggestive. And always reading you too well.
Unknown Number:
you at work?
You:
yeah, bored af… why?
Unknown Number:
just picturing you trying to act normal after everything you said last night
like a good girl pretending she didn’t admit she wanted to be choked
Your fingers paused mid-typing.
You:
you’re twisted
i like it
Unknown Number:
i know you do
you’re just as fucked up as me and i haven’t even told you the worst parts yet
A few seconds of his typing bubble coming and going, before the next text dropped.
Unknown Number:
what’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined about him?
No warning. No easing into it. Just dropped into your messages like a match on gasoline.
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. You could’ve played coy. Could’ve brushed it off. But it was late, your inhibitions were low, and this was him—your anonymous stranger, your chaos comfort. The one person who let you say anything without judgement.
So, you gave him the truth.
You:
i think about riding his thigh way too much, like full on grinding in his studio, late at night.
headphones on, shirt off, music playing like nothing’s wrong, but i’m coming on his leg while he pretends to mix tracks
There was silence after that. No typing bubble. Nothing.
For a minute, you wondered if you’d finally gone too far. Made it too real. But then your screen lit up again—except this time, not with a message.
A voice note.
You stared at it.
The little waveform pulsed quietly, like it was waiting. And before you could think twice, you pressed play.
It started with a low breath. Like someone trying to keep their cool and failing.
Then—
“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”
The voice was deep. Gravel and heat and something so raw it skated straight down your spine. Familiar. Not too familiar—but something about it made your skin prickle.
“I shouldn’t be imagining it, but now I am,” the voice continued. Rough. Lazy. Wrecked. “You bouncing on my thigh, making those soft little noises you don’t even know you make…”
A pause.
Then a quiet, throaty chuckle.
“…and you expect me to sit still and pretend nothing’s happening? Baby, if you ever climbed on me like that, you wouldn’t be leaving the studio for hours.”
The recording cut off with the sound of a sharp inhale, like he was about to say more—but stopped himself.
Your heart pounded.
It wasn’t just the filth. Wasn’t just the way he said baby like he already owned your body. It was the tone. Something in it that teased the edges of recognition, like a song you couldn’t quite place. Not a perfect match—but a ghost of one. You frowned, replayed the voice in your mind, again and again.
And failed to ignore the stupid, impossible thought that whispered— No. It couldn’t be.
Could it?
You:
that voice
have we met before?
The message stayed unread for a few minutes.
And then—
Unknown Number:
not yet
—
You shouldn’t have replayed the voice note.
But you did.
Over and over. Lying in bed with your knees pulled to your chest, phone pressed to your ear like it held answers. And maybe it did—just not the kind that made sense. Because that voice did something to you. Tugged on a thread you didn’t know was loose.
Low. Deep. That exact kind of rough that spilled into your dreams when you thought about Chan whispering filth behind your ear.
Except… this wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
You’d said his name in front of a stranger. Described yourself melting on Chan’s thigh. And he hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away.
He’d responded like he’d wanted it. Like he was the one holding your hips down.
And God—that voice.
You tapped open a random behind-the-scenes video. Just to compare. Just to check.
Your breath hitched.
No. No way. Not possible. You were being insane.
Still… your chest felt too tight.
You:
i’m spiraling, don’t mind me
just casually obsessing over that voice note. you sound so familiar it’s driving me crazy
No reply. For hours.
But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that while you were busy unraveling, so was he.
Because you’d told him your name once. Offhanded. Way back on Day Two, when he called you baby girl in a text and you laughed, saying—
“you don’t even know me, my guy. it’s [Y/N], by the way.”
And that was all it took.
He went looking. Lurking. He searched through the GC again, found your profile. Clicked your socials.
And then he saw you.
Saw the face behind the dirty little texts. The smile that curled when you teased. The thighs you said you wanted to ride his with. The lips. The eyes. The one bikini pic you posted with zero shame and a caption that said “it’s too hot out” like you didn’t just set his whole body on fire.
He stared at your selfies so long he forgot to breathe.
And when he finally responded— It wasn’t with a text.
It was another voice note.
You saw the waveform and your stomach flipped.
Pressed play.
“Just saw your page.”
His voice came out lower this time. Slower. Like smoke and honey and trouble.
“You’re real pretty, y’know that?”
A pause. You could almost feel him grinning.
“Exactly my type. That mouth of yours would look even better wrapped around my fingers.”
You choked on air.
“If I had you in front of me right now, baby… I’d ruin you. You’d be soaked just from hearing the way I breathe your name.”
Your pulse skipped.
“Should I say it? Should I moan it for you next time?”
Click. It ended there.
You stared at your screen like it had slapped you. Your thighs pressed together on instinct, heat crawling up your neck. He knew now. He’d seen you. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a game anymore.
It felt like a trap.
And you were walking right into it.
You:
what else did you see?
Unknown Number:
enough to want more
every. single. night.
You didn’t respond right away.
You needed time to breathe, time to cool down—except, you didn’t. Not really.
You were already wet before the voice note ended.
Already playing it back in your head like it was your favorite late-night playlist. That voice, so low and thick in your ears. That cocky little pause before he asked if he should moan your name.
You almost said yes.
Almost begged for it.
But instead, you smiled—schemed.
You weren’t stupid. He’d seen your socials. He was definitely stalking now. You had no doubt he’d clocked your Chan obsession.
So you decided to play a little.
Test the limits.
You:
i keep wondering what you’d sound like really moaning my name
like… if i had my mouth on you
would you curse? or say something soft in… korean maybe?
Three dots. Then nothing.
A beat.
Then the voice note came in. You didn’t even hesitate this time.
Click.
“…you’d hear both,” he rasped, already sounding out of breath. “I’d be praising you in English and cursing in Korean. You’d earn every damn syllable.”
Your mouth went dry.
“But you’d have to beg for it,” he added. “On your knees. All needy, telling me exactly what you want. Exactly how deep.”
Click.
Your core throbbed.
Still—you had a goal tonight. And it wasn’t just soaking your panties.
So you pushed further.
You:
you’re so good at dirty talk
you sure you’re not some secret idol who’s had media training or something?
you kinda sound like you know how to use a mic
You smiled as you sent it. Waited.
Unknown Number:
haha! you’re cute
That’s it? No voice note this time. You narrowed your eyes, smirking.
You:
i’m serious though, i listened to one of chan’s old vlives today
he’s got a sexy ass voice, kinda deep like yours when you talk slow. you two could be twins
You watched the “read” receipt pop up instantly.
No response.
You:
wait…you’re not him, right?
imagine
Nothing.
Your phone stayed silent for almost ten whole minutes.
And then it buzzed again—another voice note.
You could already feel the grin spreading across your face as you hit play.
“I’m not him,” the voice crooned, low and slow like warm silk. “But if I was… you think I’d let you get away with saying shit like that without consequences?”
You bit your lip hard. The recording continued.
“You’d be bent over that couch before you finished the sentence, baby. Face down. Ass up. I’d remind you exactly what my voice sounds like when you’re full of me.”
Click.
You didn’t realize your thighs had clenched together until your muscles ached.
And still—you weren’t done.
You:
you’re really good at this
whoever you are
maybe too good, maybe i should be scared
Unknown Number:
then stop teasing or i’ll make you say my name while you come
Your pulse jumped.
And for the first time all night… you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you already had.
⸻
Your legs were already trembling.
You’d been edging yourself for the past ten minutes—hand under the sheets, replaying that voice note like it was a playlist you couldn’t live without. Every time he said baby in that ruined growl, your fingers slipped lower. Every time he whispered what he’d do to you, your breath hitched.
And then you got brave.
Your thumb hovered over the record icon. You didn’t think. You just pressed.
You let the silence hang for a second—just your breathing, soft and needy. You let him feel how real it was.
Then you whispered, voice hushed, drenched in heat:
“Wanna know how I sound when I imagine Chan fucking me?”
Another pause. Then a soft, teasing whimper. Just enough to make his imagination snap.
“I moan his name like it’s the only word I know,” you purred. “I picture him grabbing my throat, whispering dirty things in that deep voice and accent, and I can’t help it. I’m already dripping.”
You let your breath hitch again. Just once. Just enough.
“I imagine him pushing me up against the wall in his studio, whispering ‘good girl’ against my mouth, and I lose it. I come just from his voice.”
Click.
You stared at the screen, heartbeat in your throat. No regrets.
He didn’t answer immediately.
But when he did—oh, God.
It was instant.
Unknown Number:
baby.
Another voice note dropped in seconds later.
You didn’t even brace yourself this time. You wanted to hear him break.
Click.
“You really wanna play that game?” His voice was pure gravel now, thick with restraint. You could hear the tension, the crack in it.
“Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”
You bit your lip.
“I’m not gonna last if you keep saying shit like that. Fuck—you’re dangerous.”
Another pause. A breath. Something almost like a growl.
“You wanna take this further?”
Your breath caught.
“Take a chance on me. Meet me. Let me ruin you for real.”
You blinked, heart hammering now for a different reason.
Then the final blow—
“I’ll tell you my name in person,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “But you’ll be screaming it by the end of the night anyway.”
Click.
You stared at your phone, stunned. Soaked. Shaking.
Unknown Number:
yes or no
one word baby, and i’ll tell you where to find me
You didn’t text back. You couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too hard to type. So you hit the call button.
Just like that.
Your thumb hovered for half a second before it connected. And then it rang. Once. Twice.
He picked up.
“Fuck,” he breathed—just that.
And it hit you low.
His voice—real, not filtered through a voice note. It filled your ear like silk-wrapped sin, deep and slick and raw.
“You really called me,” he said, almost laughing under his breath, like he couldn’t believe it either. “God, you sound—”
“Wrecked,” you rasped. “I sound completely wrecked.”
His inhale was sharp. You could barely get words out.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you whispered. “Your voice—your fucking voice—it’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had about Chan, but worse.”
He choked. “Worse?”
You whimpered softly, dragging your palm across your soaked core, no longer caring if he could hear.
“He ruins me,” you breathed. “In my head, he’s so mean. Doesn’t even give me time to adjust. Just whispers, ‘take it,’ and—”
“Jesus Christ,” he growled.
“—And I do. I take it like a good girl. Like I’m supposed to.”
He was silent. But you could hear his breathing—heavy, desperate. Like his hand was wrapped around himself already.
You swallowed, voice dipping lower. “I imagine riding his thigh and crying when he doesn’t let me come. You think I’m sick for that?”
“…No,” he rasped. “I think I wanna see it.”
You bit your lip hard. “You’d really watch me fuck myself stupid over your voice?”
“I’d hold your hips down,” he said. “Make you say please. Make you scream.”
And you moaned. Right into the speaker.
Soft. Real. Honest.
He gasped—just a little. That sound did something to him. You felt it.
“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say my name.”
“Chan—” It slipped. You didn’t even think.
And he shuddered.
“Fucking hell. Say it again.”
“Chan—” breathy, broken.
“Keep going.”
“Chan, please,” you whimpered. “Please, I need—fuck—I need you inside me, I can’t—”
His voice broke, cracked, fractured in your ear. You still didn’t hear it. You didn’t notice.
Because in your head, this wasn’t real. There was no way your ultimate fantasy, your favorite idol, the man who owned your soul with one smirk on stage—was the stranger breathing ragged into your phone right now.
There was no way Chan could be real. No way he’d call you baby in that exact voice. No way he’d whisper—
“Say yes.”
Your lashes fluttered.
“To what?” you asked, dizzy.
“Say yes,” he repeated. “To seeing me. Let me prove what I’ll do to you.”
You swallowed hard. You wanted it. All of it.
Still clueless. Still soaked. Still talking to the one man you thought was impossible.
“yes.”
⸻
The car ride felt longer than it was.
Your thighs stayed pressed together the whole time, hands fidgeting in your lap. You kept reapplying lip balm even though it was perfect. Kept checking your phone even though he hadn’t messaged again—not since you said yes.
Just one message. “Penthouse” One pin drop location.
No name still. No other clue.
But you went. You had to.
You reached the building—quiet street, upscale high-rise. Your heels clicked softly against polished marble floors as you made your way through the lobby, every step heavier than the last.
Penthouse suite.
Of course.
He had money. You knew that already. The voice, the confidence, the way he said he’d show you what your fantasies felt like in real life—he wasn’t bluffing.
You stopped in front of the door.
Stared.
And then, hand trembling, you raised your knuckles and knocked once.
Silence.
And then—
The door opened. Your heart stopped.
The man standing there was familiar.
Too familiar.
Too—
“…Chan?” you whispered, eyes wide, stomach lurching.
He leaned against the doorframe, black hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair messy like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. His chain glinted in the soft hallway light.
One corner of his mouth curved up.
And that voice—that voice that had ruined you all night—slid through your skull like molten sin.
“Surprise, baby.”
You froze.
Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Brain not catching up.
You were standing face to face with Bang Chan.
Your idol. Your obsession. Your late-night fantasy.
The man who whispered filth into your ear like it was made for you.
“You’re—” You choked. “No way. There’s no fucking way—”
Chan stepped closer. Just one slow, predatory step.
“You called me Chan when you moaned,” he said, dark eyes locked on your lips. “You knew.”
“I—I thought I was just—I didn’t think—”
He laughed softly, jaw flexing. “But it was always right there in front of you baby”
You backed up a step, but his hand shot out—gripped your waist. Firm. Steady. Possessive.
“I’ve been dying to touch you since the second I saw your profile, Y/N. You think I didn’t notice the way you talk about me online? You practically begged me to ruin you.”
Your knees buckled slightly.
“Now,” he murmured, dragging you inside and shutting the door behind you, “I’m gonna make good on every filthy thing we both said.”
Your back hit the wall.
“But this time,” he whispered, voice all gravel and heat, “you won’t be able to pretend it’s just a fantasy.”
His mouth hovered inches from yours. Pupils blown.
Close enough to feel the heat, to smell the faint trace of his cologne—clean, smoky, dark. Your pulse thudded in your ears, wild and loud. You still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t breathe.
Chan’s hand slid from your waist to your jaw, slow and steady, like he was testing how much of you he was allowed to own. His thumb grazed your bottom lip, tugged it slightly, eyes never leaving yours.
“Still think this is a dream?”
You shook your head, barely.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I don’t want you waking up anytime soon.”
You leaned in, lips parted, waiting—begging—for his mouth.
But he smirked. Didn’t kiss you.
Instead, he leaned to your ear, breath hot against your skin, and whispered—
“You thought about me in this hoodie, didn’t you?
Your stomach dropped.
“Imagined me pulling it off, pressing you into my mattress—making you forget your own name.”
You whimpered, thighs clenching together.
“I heard every sound you made earlier,” he murmured. “You didn’t even try to hide how wet you were.”
“Chan—” you whispered, but it cracked.
“Mm. Just like that. Say it again.”
“Chan—”
He groaned.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look you over. His gaze dragged down your body—slow, heavy, hungry. “Fuck, you’re exactly my type. Pretty little mouth, skin I wanna bite, and thighs begging to be spread.”
You shivered, hands gripping the front of his hoodie.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
“Not yet.”
You blinked. “W-What?”
His mouth was at your neck now, barely brushing your skin. Not kissing. Not biting. Just hovering.
“You already gave me everything over the phone, didn’t you? Your moans. Your voice. Every filthy thing you wanted me to do.”
His voice dropped to a sinful purr.
“So now I wanna watch you beg.”
You gasped.
“You gonna let me see how desperate you get for me? Right here, baby. Against this wall.”
You swallowed hard. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers trembling.
He grabbed your wrists—lightly, but enough to stop you.
“Mm-mm,” he hummed, lips brushing your cheek. “I said beg.”
“Chan, please,” you whimpered, arching your back just slightly, pushing your chest against his. “You don’t know how badly I need you.”
“No,” he said, low and lethal. “I do. And that’s why I’m not giving it to you yet.”
His hand slid up your thigh—almost. Almost.
Then it stopped.
“You think I’m cruel now?” he whispered. “Wait until I’m inside you and still not letting you come.”
You whined—loud.
And he laughed, dark and breathless. “There she is.”
Then finally—finally—he kissed you.
Not soft, Not sweet.
Claiming.
Tongue first. No warning. Hands gripping your hips like he owned them. You barely got a breath in before he pressed you harder into the wall, lips devouring yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime.
You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole.
And then—he pulled back, chest heaving.
“One more chance to back out, baby,” he said, voice wrecked. “Because after tonight, things are gonna be different.”
“Please—”
He led you down the hallway with his hand on your lower back—no words, no teasing now, just heat radiating off his body like it was built to burn you.
The lights were low, but his room still felt rich. Sleek lines, black sheets, cool-toned walls. And you—blinking at your reflection in the floor-length mirror across from the bed—trying to remember how to breathe.
“Sit,” he said, and you did.
The bed dipped beneath your weight, silk beneath your fingers. He stood in front of you, hoodie still on, eyes dark and patient like a man who already knew how the night would end.
But then—you stilled when you saw what was in his hand.
A blindfold.
You looked up at him, breath catching.
“Trust me?” he asked softly.
You nodded. He stepped closer, brushing hair away from your face before tying the fabric around your eyes. Not too tight. Not uncomfortable. But enough to change everything.
“You don’t need to see me tonight,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’ve heard me. Felt me. Begged for me.”
He guided you backward, hands careful on your shoulders, until you were flat on the bed.
“Tonight,” he whispered, breath ghosting your throat, “you only get sound. And touch. And need.”
You whimpered, arching instinctively, trying to find his mouth, his hands, anything—
But he just laughed. Dark. Low. Almost cruel.
“Desperate already?” he murmured.
“Chan, please—”
“Mm. That’s the one.”
Then his hands—warm, wide—slid down your sides. Slowly. Reverently. But he still hadn’t really touched you.
Until— He moved.
Positioned you without a word. Straddled his thigh between your legs, gripped your waist, and pulled you flush against him.
You gasped—sharp, involuntary.
The muscle flexed beneath you. Solid. Hot. Right where you needed him.
“There,” he whispered. “Didn’t you say you thought about this?”
You nodded frantically, blindfolded and panting.
“Riding my thigh while I whisper all the things I’d do to you?”
“Fuck,” you whimpered, already grinding.
“That’s it, baby. Show me.”
He let you move. Just watched. Let you use him, breath heavy and dirty in your ear as he spoke.
“You’re soaked, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you cried.
“Messing up my pants like a good girl. Gonna leave a stain right there, huh?”
He flexed again.
You whined.
His lips brushed your ear.
“You want my cock already, but I’m making you come just like this. Wanna hear how greedy you sound.”
You moaned—loud, desperate.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Or I’ll stop. We don’t come until I say so.”
“Chan, please—please—”
But he stayed still, hand pressing lightly on your lower back.
“You’ll come when I let you. Not a second before.”
And that broke you.
Your body shook, thighs trembling as he slowed you down, holding you in place.
“You wanna be good for me, baby?” he breathed, lips against your neck. “Take the blindfold off and get on all fours.”
You froze.
He tugged the blindfold free.
You blinked, dazed, ruined.
“Turn around,” he said. “Now.”
And you did.
Hands on the sheets. Ass up. Back arched.
You looked over your shoulder—heart stuttering when you saw him standing there, hoodie off, black tank hugging his chest, chain catching the light.
“You’re gonna take me now,” he growled, stepping closer, voice low and possessive. “Every inch. Every word. Every fantasy.”
“And after that?” you whispered, eyes wide, skin burning.
His smile turned sinful.
“You’ll never think of me as your idol again.”
You felt his body behind you before you heard him move.
A warm palm smoothed over your back, from the dip of your spine to the curve of your ass. Gentle. Reverent. Worshipping. He breathed slow, like he was grounding himself. Like if he wasn’t careful, he’d devour you whole before he even got inside.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “Fuck, baby. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”
You tried to answer, but the words melted on your tongue when he leaned down—chest grazing your back, lips brushing your neck.
“You let me hear you. Let me tease you. Let me own your body before I ever saw your face.”
His fingers slid under the waistband of your underwear, dragging slow.
“And now that I have all of you…” He kissed your shoulder. “You’re not leaving my bed until I’ve ruined you.”
You whimpered.
He laughed, breath hot and low.
“Still so shy? After everything you said to me?”
You turned your head, lips parted. “I want it. All of it.”
That broke him.
The sound he made wasn’t human.
He tore your underwear down and off in one swift pull. Fingers gripped your thighs—tight. Spreading them wide. Exposing you completely.
“Fuck me…” he breathed. “So wet. And you haven’t even been touched yet.”
“Chan—”
He dropped to his knees behind you.
And licked a stripe up your center.
You screamed.
“That’s it, baby,” he growled against you. “Sing for me.”
He devoured like a man starved—tongue precise, relentless, cruel. Two fingers slipped inside, curling just right. Your moans turned messy, hips jerking, hands clawing the sheets.
“That spot?” he rasped. “Right there?”
“Yes—yes—please—”
He spanked your ass once, hard.
“Then take it.”
You shattered—body convulsing, legs trembling, gasping his name like a lifeline. But even through your orgasm, he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t let you rest.
“One more,” he ordered. “I want you crying before I even fuck you.”
Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled. You came again—harder, louder, incoherent.
And then— He pulled away.
You blinked back into the world to see him standing over you, eyes blown black, jaw clenched.
He grabbed your hips, dragged you up and back, and lined himself at your entrance.
“Last chance to run.”
You shook your head, tears on your lashes. “Want you.”
He thrusted in—slow, deep, unrelenting.
You both moaned—his hands squeezing your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise.
“So fucking tight,” he growled. “Like you were made for me.”
You whined, head dropping.
He started slow. Intentional. Torturous.
Then leaned over, mouth at your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat.
“Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll forget your name. Gonna fill you so full you’ll know who you belong to.”
Your moans spiraled into sobs. You were wrecked. Completely gone.
And still—he praised.
“Good girl. Taking me so well. Look at that pretty pussy swallowing me whole. Just for me.”
You lost track of time. Of the room. Of anything but the sound of your bodies slapping together and his voice dragging you through every layer of hell.
Then he flipped you. Straddled you.
Fucked you facing him. Eyes locked. One hand holding your face.
“I wanna see you come again,” he whispered. “Right here. Look at me while I ruin you.”
You nodded, tears spilling, body ready to shatter.
He slammed into you—hard, deep, ruthless.
“Now,” he ordered. “Now.”
And you screamed.
Came harder than you ever had. Back arched. Vision gone. World spinning.
He held you through it—kissed your forehead—whispered filth you couldn’t even process.
Then he followed you—coming with a groan so low and raw it vibrated through your bones.
He collapsed over you, breath tangled in your skin.
You lay there, chest heaving, both of you coated in sweat and bliss and something dangerous.
Then— A kiss to your temple.
—
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dangerous.
Your bare skin still touched his, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex, sweat, and the kind of risk you weren’t supposed to crave. His fingers traced lazy lines down your spine, like he didn’t want to let go. Like he was still memorizing how you felt stretched around him.
Neither of you spoke.
Because what the fuck was there to say? He wasn’t your friend. He wasn’t just a stranger. He wasn’t even just some faceless number anymore.
He was him.
And he knew exactly who you were now too. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. Like you were something forbidden he couldn’t stop tasting.
You shifted, chest rising and falling against his, still breathless.
“I probably should go,” you murmured.
His hand flattened against your lower back.
“Should you?” he said.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Didn’t stop you either.
You pulled away slowly. Found your shirt in a messy heap on the floor, sliding it over your head without bothering to fix your hair. Your thighs still ached. The inside of them still sticky. You weren’t sure if you were shaking from pleasure or adrenaline or both.
“Is this the part where I pretend this didn’t happen?” you asked, voice light but not teasing.
He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dragging across your figure.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
A beat passed.
Then another. And then—
“I probably should’ve stopped this,” he added, quieter this time.
“But you didn’t.”
You turned to face him fully now, shirt barely covering anything, mouth still swollen from the way he kissed you like he wanted to destroy you.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
You stepped toward him, slow.
Deliberate.
He watched you like prey—like the only reason he hadn’t pounced again was because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop the second time.
“I’m not asking for anything,” you said, standing between his knees now. “I know what this is.”
His gaze flicked up.
“What is it?”
Your lips twitched.
“Stupid. Risky. Completely fucking insane.”
He smiled.
And fuck, that smile—you could feel it between your legs.
“But you want more,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I do,” you breathed.
“So do I.”
You swallowed hard.
The air between you practically buzzed.
No confessions. No declarations.
Just need.
And beneath it all, the low, simmering thrill of getting away with something you shouldn’t.
“So what happens now?” you whispered.
His hand slid up your thigh. Not possessive—familiar.
“You wait for me to text you,” he said. “Then you come back. Let me fuck that fantasy out of you again.”
Your breath hitched.
“And if I don’t?”
He smirked.
“Then I’ll send you a reminder.”
His fingers dipped between your legs through your shirt, slow and cruel, and you nearly collapsed right there.
“I’ll see you again,” he added, voice rough against your throat now. “You know I will.”
You kissed him. Hard. Brief. Addictive.
Then slipped from his grip like a storm cloud—messy, dark, full of promise.
You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t need to.
The second the door shut behind you, your phone lit up.
Unknown Number:
Next time, I want you riding my face before you even say hi.
Your smile was sinful. And your reply came fast.
You:
Next time’s too far away.
-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: ‘Unknown number’ portrays one of my most vivid imaginations about how i wanna meet Chan 😩 we’re all delulu so dont look at me like that! But yeah, Chan is always lurking? Well i hope he lurks and finds this fic too 😏😏❤️❤️
