Room for Trouble Part Two; House Rules
Pairing: Roommate! Park Jimin x female reader
Word Count: 5.1k
Warnings: alcohol use, drunken behavior, unwanted sexual attention/creepy older man, arguments/yelling, humiliation, toxic dynamics, roommate conflict, sexual tension, implied sex, swearing, emotional manipulation, unhealthy coping, jealousy, pettiness, protective/possessive behavior, near-kiss, crying, cold war atmosphere
Summary: Y/N’s drunken night ends with Jimin rescuing her, but their fragile truce shatters into a cold war of petty fights and sharp words. Taehyung’s bold flirting tempts her to break Jimin’s one rule—don’t touch his friends—until Jimin catches them, humiliating her and deepening the tension that makes the apartment feel like a battlefield.
Part Two; House Rules
I lower the phone, staring at the blank screen like it might change its mind. My chest tightens with a mix of irritation and something I can’t quite name. He actually hung up on me.
The bartender slides another bottle my way, and I curl my fingers around it, letting the cold seep into my skin. I take a slow sip, forcing myself to savor it, even though my pulse is restless, jumping at every sound near the door.
The minutes stretch, heavy and uneven. I tap the rim of the bottle, shift on the barstool, tell myself I don’t care if he comes or not. But my eyes keep drifting toward the entrance anyway, waiting for the moment I know is coming.
I’m only a few sips into my beer when a shadow falls over me.
“Mind if I sit here?”
I look up, my head pleasantly heavy, and find an older man smiling down at me. His voice is deep, smooth, and it cuts through the bar’s hum in a way that feels almost comforting. I shrug, waving him toward the empty stool beside me.
“Sure,” I say, my words slurring just a little.
He sits, leaning close enough that his warmth brushes against me. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”
The compliment makes me giggle, my cheeks heating. I swirl the bottle between my hands, grinning into the lip before taking another sip. “Well, I’m not alone anymore, am I?”
He tilts his head, eyes sliding over me in a way that makes me squirm, though the alcohol turns it into something I mistake for attention. “What’s a girl like you doing out here by yourself, huh? You got a boyfriend? Husband?”
I shake my head, hair falling into my face, and giggle again. “Nope. Just me.”
His grin widens. “Good. That’s good. Means I got a chance.”
I snort at that, setting my bottle down with a little clink. “Yeah, okay," I say, too loud, too amused.
His grin falters, just for a second, and something sharper flashes across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I blink, surprised by the edge in his tone, and wave my hand clumsily. “Nothing—just… you’re like my dad's age, that’s all.” A hiccup bubbles out of me, making me giggle again.
He leans in closer, the space between us shrinking fast. “Maybe you need an old man to treat you right,” he says, his voice low, almost challenging. “You’re sitting here all alone, no guy looking out for you. That means you’re giving me a chance, whether you know it or not.”
My smile slips, the fizz of amusement draining out of me all at once. The words don’t sit right, heavy and sour in my stomach. For the first time tonight, the warmth from the beer doesn’t feel steadying—it feels thick, dizzy, wrong.
I shift back a little on the barstool, fingers tightening around my bottle. “That’s… um.” My laugh comes out thin, cracked at the edges. “That’s not really how it works.”
His grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows sharper as he leans even closer, his shoulder brushing mine now. “You let a man buy you a drink, talk to you a little, and that’s all I need to—”
“Finish that sentence,” a low voice cuts in, sharp as glass, “and you’re gonna regret it.”
I freeze, the words slicing through the bar’s hum, every hair on my arms lifting.
The man stiffens beside me, his grin faltering as his gaze shifts over my shoulder. Slowly, I turn.
Jimin is standing right behind us, close enough to smell the remnants of the day's cologne drifting off of his body. His jaw is tight, eyes burning in a way I’ve never seen—protective, unyielding, like the entire room has narrowed to this moment.
“She’s not interested,” Jimin says, his voice steady, deadly calm. “So you’re going to stand up, walk out, and forget you ever thought otherwise.”
The man opens his mouth, but the look Jimin gives him—sharp, immovable—kills whatever protest was about to surface. The man rises from the bar stool reluctantly, grumbling something under his breath as he walks to an empty table in the corner of the room.
Silence stretches in his wake, the hum of the bar filling in around us. I stare down at the bottle in my hands, my pulse thudding hard in my ears.
When I finally look up, Jimin’s eyes are already on me. There’s no smirk, no grin—just a hard, steady look that makes my stomach twist. His jaw is tight, his brows raised slightly, like he’s holding back words he doesn’t want to throw at me in front of everyone.
I swallow, heat crawling up my neck, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.
Jimin exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and shakes his head. “Come on,” he says, his voice quieter now but still edged with frustration. “You’re done here.”
Before he can touch me, I shove off the barstool, the legs scraping against the floor with a screech. I sling my bag over my shoulder and storm toward the door, the beer still buzzing heavy in my veins.
The night air hits me like a slap—cool, sharp, sobering—but it doesn’t put out the fire in my chest. Behind me, I hear Jimin’s footsteps as he follows, the door slamming shut on the bar’s hum.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, the word spilling out before I can bite it back.
“What was that?” Jimin’s voice is right behind me, clipped, tight.
I whirl on him, my arms crossing over my chest. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
His brows shoot up, his jaw tense. “Kid? You were drunk, alone, and letting some creep corner you. What the hell do you call that?”
My pulse hammers in my ears, the words tangled up with the heat rushing through me. “I call it none of your business.”
Jimin takes a step closer, eyes sharp, his voice low and rough. “You’re my roommate, Y/N. That makes it my business.”
I throw my arms up, frustration spilling over. “No, it doesn’t! You don’t get to control me just because we live under the same roof!”
Jimin’s eyes flash, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Control you? Are you serious right now? I pulled you out of a situation you couldn’t even see was bad because you were too drunk to notice!”
“I didn’t ask you to!” My voice breaks on the words, sharp and raw. “You think I wanted you swooping in and humiliating me in front of everyone?”
His laugh is harsh, bitter. “Humiliating you? You’d rather sit there giggling at some creep twice your age than admit I was right?”
The sting of his words lights something reckless in me, my mouth moving before I can stop it. I take a step closer, my voice lowering.
“Yeah, Jimin, I'd rather be kidnapped than live with you." The words leave my mouth like poison, harsher than I meant, but I don’t take them back. They hang in the air, heavy and ugly.
Jimin’s eyes widen for a second, then narrow just as fast. He lets out a short, humorless scoff, his tongue pressing against his cheek as he shakes his head.
“Cute,” he mutters, his voice low and sharp. “Real mature, Y/N. You think you’re proving a point? All you’re doing is showing me exactly what kind of roommate I got stuck with.”
The words land like a slap, stinging hotter than the night air. My throat tightens, but I force myself not to look away.
Jimin exhales hard through his nose, muttering something under his breath I can’t catch. Then he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine just enough to make me flinch.
He doesn’t slow down, his strides long and purposeful as he heads back toward the apartment, every line of his body still rigid with anger.
I stay rooted for a moment, chest heaving, the echo of our shouting still ringing in my ears. My throat is tight, my palms sweaty around the strap of my bag.
Finally, I turn, trailing after him at a distance. My footsteps are uneven, a few paces behind, as if the space between us can soak up the things I shouldn’t have said.
The walk feels endless, the only sounds the shuffle of our shoes and the low hum of traffic in the distance. Neither of us speaks. Jimin doesn’t even glance back, his shoulders squared, his pace unrelenting.
When we reach the apartment building, he pulls his keys from his pocket with clipped movements, the metal jangling sharp in the quiet. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look at me, just fits the key into the lock and pushes the door open.
For half a second, I think he’ll at least hold it, but he slips inside without a word, letting it swing shut in my face.
The sting in my chest tightens, sharper than before. I catch the door before it clicks shut, pushing my way inside, the silence between us louder than any argument.
The apartment feels heavier than when we left, the air thick with everything unsaid. I shut the door behind me, drop my bag by the couch, and suddenly my stomach twists, sharp and sour.
Oh, god.
The alcohol churns hot and bitter in my throat, and before I can think, I bolt down the hall, barely making it into the bathroom before dropping to my knees. I don’t even bother shutting the door.
The sound of my own retching fills the small space, loud and humiliating. My eyes water, my throat burns, and all I can think is how badly I want this night to end.
Behind me, footsteps approach—steady, unhurried.
A moment later, Jimin crouches down beside me, a glass of water in his hand. He sets it gently on the edge of the tub, his movements quiet, almost practiced. Without a word, he settles onto the tub next to the toilet, his hand brushing back my hair and holding it away from my face.
I grip the edge of the toilet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, my face burning hotter than my stomach. “You don’t have to help me,” I mumble, my voice raw and shaky. “I don’t need it.”
“I know,” Jimin says easily, his hand still steady in my hair. “I just want to make sure you don’t miss the toilet.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, weak but real, cutting through the ache in my throat.
Jimin chuckles too, the sound low and warm, echoing in the cramped bathroom. For the first time all night, the weight between us eases, just a little, replaced by something lighter.
The laughter trickles off, leaving behind a silence that feels easier than the ones before. My head rests against my arm on the rim of the toilet, breath coming slow and shaky. Jimin shifts on the edge of the tub, reaching for the glass of water and setting it in front of me.
“Here,” he says gently. “Sip it when you can.”
I nod, too tired to answer. The burn in my throat is fading, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.
Jimin leans back against the tiled wall, one arm draped over his knee. For a moment, he just studies me, something softer in his expression now. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and almost amused, “Taehyung thinks you’re hot.”
I let out a groan, hiding my face in the crook of my arm. “Oh my god, don’t start.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “If only he could see you now.” His gaze flicks toward me—my damp hair sticking to my forehead, my red eyes, the pathetic slump over the toilet. “Total heartbreaker.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out, quiet and shaky. “Shut up.”
Jimin grins, the sound of my laugh tugging his own out again.
My laugh fades into a sigh, the weight of exhaustion pulling at every bone in my body. I try to push myself upright, but the room tilts, and I slump back against the wall with a groan.
Jimin clicks his tongue softly. “Alright, come on,” he says, standing and offering his hand. “You’re not sleeping on the bathroom floor.”
“I might,” I mumble, too tired to argue.
He huffs a quiet laugh, then crouches again, coaxing my arm around his shoulders. “Not happening. Up you go.”
Between his steady grip and my clumsy steps, we manage to make it down the hall. He eases me onto the edge of my bed, tugging the blanket over me with surprising care. I blink up at him, the blur of his face softened by the dim light.
“Thanks,” I whisper, my voice barely there.
Jimin just nods, his expression unreadable, and slips quietly out of the room.
The next morning, sunlight cuts through the blinds, stabbing at my eyes. My mouth tastes like cotton, my head pounding with every heartbeat. I groan, dragging the blanket over my face.
I shift onto my side, trying to block the sun out—when a burst of laughter erupts from the living room.
I freeze.
Another voice joins in, then another, overlapping in deep tones that carry easily down the hall. The sound swells, careless and loud, as if the night before hadn’t even happened.
My stomach twists, frustration bubbling up sharp and sour. It’s barely morning, and there are already people here. I haven’t even shaken off last night, and Jimin’s apartment feels less like home and more like some open-door clubhouse for him and his friends.
I shove the blanket off with a groan, pressing my palms to my temples. All I wanted was quiet—just one morning of peace. But apparently, that’s too much to ask.
I slip out of bed, dragging on yesterday’s hoodie and running a hand through my tangled hair. The voices in the living room swell as I crack my door, laughter echoing like they own the place. I keep my head down, hoping I can make it to the kitchen unnoticed.
No such luck.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Taehyung is leaning back on the couch, his long frame draped lazily over the cushions. His grin is slow, teasing, like he’s been waiting for me to appear.
All of the 7 men are looking at me, so I barely wave and hurry into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee is already in the air, sharp and welcome. I pour a cup, focusing on the swirl of cream as I stir, trying to anchor myself with something steady.
But then my eyes lift—and catch on the sink.
It’s overflowing. Bottles, shot glasses, plates stacked precariously, the whole thing sticky and sour-smelling. My stomach flips, not from the hangover, but from pure irritation.
I turn, mug in hand, and Jimin is right there, leaning against the counter like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
“Seriously?” I mutter, sharper than I mean to. I gesture with my spoon toward the disaster behind me. “It’s nine in the morning, and the sink already looks like this?”
Jimin groans from the couch, dragging a hand down his face before shooting me a glare. “Are you serious right now? You wake up hungover and the first thing out of your mouth is another complaint?”
I tighten my grip on the spoon, heat rushing to my cheeks. “It’s not a complaint, it’s an observation. Normal people don’t live like this.”
His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Normal people do live like this, you're just a control freak."
The sting of his words lodges in my chest, hot and tight. For a second, I think about firing back, but the weight of all those voices in the living room, the sight of Taehyung smirking at the tension, makes me swallow it down.
Without another word, I take my mug and storm outside, the door clicking shut a little too hard behind me.
The morning air hits cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat simmering in my chest. I sink down onto the front steps, the concrete rough beneath me, and cradle the cup between my hands.
The coffee is bitter, but it steadies me. Out here, at least, the noise is muted—the laughter from inside a distant hum instead of a constant roar. For the first time since waking up, I can breathe.
Still, the frustration lingers, curling in my stomach with every sip. This isn’t what I pictured when I thought about moving in. Not even close.
The door creaks open, and I glance back to see Taehyung stepping out, stretching like the morning air belongs to him. He wanders over and drops onto the step beside me, his presence easy, unbothered.
“Thought I’d check on you,” he says smoothly, that lazy smile tugging at his lips.
I tighten my grip on the mug, irritation bubbling up before I can stop it. “You don’t need to check on me,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “I’m fine.”
From inside, Jimin’s voice rings out over the laughter, loud and dismissive. “She’s fine!”
The words sting, like he’s already written me off.
Taehyung chuckles low under his breath, clearly amused by both of us. “Guess that settles it then,” he says, but his eyes linger on me, softer than his grin suggests.
Taehyung sits next to me. Leaning back on the railing, he pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. With a flick of his lighter, the flame glows briefly before he cups it, draws in a long inhale, and exhales slow into the morning air. The smoke curls between us, sharp and bitter.
He takes another puff, then tilts the cigarette toward me, eyebrow raised.
I hesitate, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t smoke.”
His grin curves lazy, challenging. “You sure?”
With a huff, I take it, holding it awkwardly between my fingers before bringing it to my lips. The first drag burns hot in my chest, making me cough, but I force myself through it, handing it back with a glare.
Taehyung only chuckles and takes it from me, easy as ever.
And just like that, the words start spilling out.
“I swear, I’ve known Jimin for less than forty-eight hours and he’s already driving me insane,” I mutter, pressing my mug against my knee. “He forgot I was even moving in, he dumped all the unpacking on me, he brings people over without asking, and don’t even get me started on the mess in the kitchen.” My voice rises, sharp with the frustration I’ve been swallowing since yesterday. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice there’s someone else living here now. Or worse—he does notice and just doesn’t care.”
The rant leaves me breathless, the air sharp in my lungs.
Taehyung takes another drag, then holds the cigarette between two fingers, his elbow resting casually on his knee. His grin lingers, slow and infuriatingly amused.
“God, you’re cute when you’re pissed off,” he says, smoke curling out on the words.
I snap my head toward him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m serious, Tae. He’s impossible.”
“Oh, I know.” He nods like he’s agreeing with me, but that grin only sharpens. “But the way you go off about him—” He gestures loosely at me with the cigarette, his eyes warm and mischievous. “It’s like watching fire in a bottle. You’re all wound up, cheeks pink, eyes flashing. Honestly?” He leans a little closer, voice dropping. “It’s hot.”
Heat rushes up my neck before I can stop it. “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging my coffee cup up to my lips just to have something to hide behind.
Taehyung chuckles low, leaning back again and flicking ash over the side of the step. “Maybe. But you like it.”
I roll my eyes, staring stubbornly at the street, but my pulse betrays me—thudding too fast, too loud.
He nudges my knee lightly with his, a smirk playing on his lips. “The way you get all worked up… makes me wonder what you’d sound like if I had you worked up for a different reason.”
I take the cigarette from his hand, bring it to my lips, and blow the smoke out slow just to prove I can. The words spill out before I can think better of them.
“You talk a big game, Taehyung. Makes me wonder if you’d actually keep up.”
The moment hangs heavy between us, and my stomach flips at my own audacity.
Taehyung doesn’t flinch. He laughs low, dark and warm, his eyes dragging over me like he’s savoring the challenge. “Mmm, love,” he says, leaning just close enough to brush my shoulder, “You've got it wrong, I set the pace.”
My pulse slams against my ribs, but I don’t look away. “Guess we’ll see about that.”
Taehyung’s grin deepens at my words, slow and sharp, like he’s just been handed a dare he intends to win. His hand brushes against mine where it rests on my knee, deliberate, testing, and when I don’t pull away, he leans closer.
The cigarette smolders faintly between his fingers, forgotten. His breath is warm, tinged with smoke, as his mouth hovers inches from mine. My heart stutters, caught somewhere between terror and thrill.
“See about it, huh?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting so close I can almost taste him.
I tilt forward without thinking, the space between us shrinking to nothing.
And that’s when the apartment door swings open.
The sound is loud, jarring. Taehyung jerks back just enough to look over his shoulder, irritation flickering across his face. My own breath catches hard in my chest, my body snapping stiff.
Jimin steps onto the landing, keys jangling in his hand, and stops dead. His gaze flicks from me to Taehyung, still leaning too close, smoke curling around us like evidence.
For a beat, the world holds still. Then Jimin’s jaw tightens, his expression stormy in a way I haven’t seen before.
“What the hell,” he says flatly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “Are you kidding me right now? It’s your third day here, Y/N. Third day. And you’re already trying to hook up with my friend on the front steps?”
The words slam into me, hot and humiliating. My chest tightens, my stomach dropping as the group of strangers behind him shift, some of them stifling laughter, others just watching like it’s their personal soap opera.
Taehyung exhales a lazy chuckle beside me, clearly entertained, but Jimin doesn’t even glance at him. His glare stays pinned to me, sharp enough to pin me in place.
The heat of Jimin’s glare burns into me, but it’s the muffled chuckles from behind him that finally break something loose in my chest. My throat tightens, eyes stinging, and I can’t stand here another second with all of them staring like I’m some kind of spectacle.
I shove up from the step, brushing past Taehyung without a word. The landing is crowded, but I push through the bodies anyway, ignoring the surprised mutters and sidelong glances. Shoulders bump against mine, someone says “whoa, easy,” but I don’t stop.
The apartment feels too small, too loud, the air thick with leftover smoke and laughter I can’t stand to hear. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and sink onto the edge of the bed, pressing my hands over my face.
The tears come hot and fast, slipping through my fingers before I can stop them. My chest heaves, frustration and humiliation tangling until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I curl up on the bed, phone clutched tight in my hand as I press Jae’s name. She picks up on the second ring, her voice bright. “Hey! How’s my favorite—”
“Jae, I can’t do this,” I blurt, my voice breaking. “He just… he humiliated me. In front of everyone.”
Her tone shifts instantly, worried. “Whoa, slow down. What happened?”
I drag in a shaky breath. “I was outside with Taehyung, and it got—we almost kissed. And then Jimin came out, and he just… snapped. Started yelling that it’s only my third day here, like I’d done something unforgivable. And then all his friends piled out to watch. It was humiliating.”
Silence stretches for a beat. I brace for sympathy. But when Jae speaks again, her voice is careful, edged.
“Y/N… you almost kissed Taehyung? On your third day living there?”
I sit up straighter, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Jae, he embarrassed me—”
“Because he’s right,” she cuts in gently, but firm. “You just moved in. You don’t even know them yet, and you’re already about to cross that line? What did you expect him to do, clap for you?”
My chest tightens. “I expected him not to treat me like I was some kind of problem in front of everyone!”
Jae sighs. “I get that you’re upset, but from where I’m standing? It sounds like Jimin was looking out for you. Maybe not in the nicest way, but… still. If Taehyung’s his friend, things could get messy fast.”
Her words sting sharper than I want to admit, my throat tightening. “So what, I’m the bad guy now?”
“You’re not the bad guy,” Jae says softly, “but maybe you need to slow down. Give it some time before you go getting tangled up with his friends.”
I flop back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Jae says quietly. “And that’s why I’m telling you the truth.”
Jae’s voice lingers in my ear, calm but steady. “And that’s why I’m telling you the truth.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than anything Jimin said outside. My chest tightens, and for a long moment I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, letting her words sink in.
Because as much as I want to fight her on it, as much as I want to scream about how unfair Jimin was, I know she’s not wrong. It would get messy. It already feels messy. And it’s only been three days.
I swallow hard, my throat thick. “Yeah,” I whisper finally. “You’re right.”
Jae exhales softly on the other end, like she’s relieved. “I know you’re upset, babe. But just… breathe. Give it some time. Don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be.”
I nod even though she can’t see me, pressing the heel of my hand to my eyes. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Good,” she says warmly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The apartment stays quiet after I hang up with Jae, just the faint hum of traffic outside the window and the sound of my pen scratching against paper. I sit cross-legged on my bed, notebook balanced on my knees, and start scribbling a list—not of complaints, not exactly, but rules. Boundaries. Something to keep me from losing my mind in this place. No overnight guests without notice. Shared chores. Respect quiet hours. The words pile up fast, half stern, half desperate, until the page looks like something torn from a handbook.
By the time Jimin comes back, laughter from the stairwell fading behind him, I’m already waiting in the living room. The list is folded neatly in my hands, my chest tight as he kicks off his shoes and glances my way.
“I made something,” I say, standing from the couch before I lose my nerve. I hold out the paper, my voice steadier than I feel. “House rules. Don’t freak out—it’s not just for you. I want you to add your own too.”
Jimin takes the folded paper from my hand, brows lifting like he already knows he’s not going to like whatever’s inside. He flicks it open, skims the first few lines, and lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“House rules, huh?” His voice drips with amusement as he waves the paper lightly. “Wow, you really came prepared to run the place.”
I cross my arms, biting the inside of my cheek. “I told you, it’s for both of us. You can add your own.”
He glances up, his smirk sharp and unkind. “Alright. Rule number one—don’t fuck my friends.”
The words slam into me, sharper than a slap. Heat rushes to my face, my chest tightening as I stare at him, searching for any hint that he’s joking. But his expression stays cool, dismissive, like he just laid down the most obvious rule in the world.
My throat tightens, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. I fold my arms tighter, lift my chin, and meet his gaze head-on.
“You don’t get to police my sex life,” I say evenly, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
Jimin’s smirk slips into something colder, the humor draining from his face. “No,” he says, voice flat, “but I do get to decide if my friends are off-limits. And if you can’t respect that, maybe you’re in the wrong apartment.”
The words hit sharp, deliberate, daring me to push back.
The heat in my chest coils tighter, but I force myself to let it go before I say something I can’t take back. My arms fall loosely to my sides, and I glance down at the folded paper still in my hand.
“Fine,” I say, steadying my voice. “Any more rules, then? Or is that the only one?”
Jimin leans back a little, crossing his arms, his expression still sharp but touched with something smug. “That one’s enough for now.”
I nod once, tight and clipped, and set the list down on the coffee table between us. The distance feels like the only thing keeping the tension from snapping.
Jimin turns around without another word, his footsteps heavy as he heads down the hall. The slam of his bedroom door is just a little too sharp, a little too final.
I stare at the closed door for a beat, irritation clawing up my throat until it spills out before I can stop it.
“Hey, Jimin!” I call, louder than necessary. My voice echoes down the hall. “The dishes are still in the sink. You made the mess, you clean it!”
Silence.
I wait, straining for any sign that he heard me. But there’s nothing—no smart comment, no footsteps, not even a muttered curse. Just the stubborn quiet of someone who’s decided I don’t exist.
The kind of silence that makes me grind my teeth.
I sink onto the couch, glaring toward the kitchen. The stack of dirty plates in the sink seems to stare back at me, mocking.
The silence grates on me until I can’t stand it anymore. I push to my feet.
The kitchen light hums faintly as I step in front of the sink, the smell of stale beer and grease hitting me like a wall. Plates stacked unevenly, glasses sticky at the rims, forks welded with dried food—it’s disgusting.
I roll up my sleeves, jaw tight, and crank on the faucet. The water splashes against the pile with a hiss, suds bubbling up as I slam each dish into the sink harder than necessary.
It’s petty. It’s stupid. But it’s better than sitting there stewing in silence while he hides in his room pretending none of this exists.
By the time the last glass clinks into the drying rack, my arms ache and my shirt is damp from stray droplets. I shut off the water with more force than necessary, the silence of the apartment slamming down around me again.
The kitchen is clean now—my victory, my defeat.
I lean against the counter, staring at the spotless sink, my chest rising and falling hard.
“Roommate bonding,” I mutter bitterly to myself, grabbing my coffee mug from the counter and stalking back toward my room.
