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⤷ summary : Enemies for two years. Neighbours by sheer cosmic cruelty. Now your hot coworker just moved in with your gym-obsessed, garbage-bag-juggling nemesis — and Jungkook’s suddenly very invested in your love life. The tension is high. The walls are thin. Your sanity? Hanging on by a bicep, because now Jungkook’s looking at you like you’re his next bad decision.

⤷ pairing: Jungkook x fem!reader. ⤷ rating: 18+ mdni, Part : 1 | 2 | 3 m.list ⤷ genre: smut, fluff, humor, e2l, sexual tension. ⤷ warnings: mentions of unaliving or stabbing, mentions of self harm, mentions of garbage???, stuck in an elevator, jungkook has cat name ‘punctures’, catdad!jungkook, besties!yoongie, bestie!jimin, love traingle??, jealousy, hottie!taehyung, reader is a simp (cant blame her) forgive me if I forgot something. ⤷ word count: definitely more than 11k i went crazy for the 1st part TT.

a/n: Funfact: this was written before inks and petals lol. Also this fic will be divided into 2 parts , so this is the first part though i planned on uploading it altogether I realised I still had a lot of work to do with 2 and the last one. soooo, here you go enjoy!!

The morning started with a cold coffee and your sudden urge to stab a bitch.

You stood by your kitchen island, clicking the already-dead pen with the same intensity people usually reserved for punching walls. Yoongi sat at your counter, half-sprawled on one of the bar stools with a breakfast burrito in one hand and an expression that hadn’t changed since 2018.

“Do you think if I stab him in the thigh with this, it’ll legally count as self-defense?” you muttered, tossing the pen onto the counter with a dramatic clatter.

Yoongi didn’t even look up. “Only if he charges at you first. So bait him with a protein bar. He looks like the type.”

You snorted, reaching for your mug. “God, I hate him.”

Yoongi chewed, paused, then finally asked in his usual deadpan, “Is this the part where I remind you hate is just lust with unresolved paperwork?”

“I will set you on fire.”

He shrugged. “Fair. But your eyes twitch every time you say his name. That’s sexual tension, babe.”

You gave him a look. “Yoongi. He left raw chicken in the hallway last week. A whole tray. Just sitting there. Leaking.”

Yoongi finally cracked a grin. It was subtle. More of a twitch at the corner of his lips. “Protein offering to the garbage gods. He’s spiritual like that.”

You pointed a threatening finger at him. “Stop defending him. You own a convenience store. You’re legally not allowed to encourage biohazards.”

Yoongi took another bite of his burrito, unconcerned. “Legally, I’m only required to restock ramen and keep the ice cream freezer functional. Everything else is vibes.”

The man had a point.

You sighed and leaned your weight against the island, glancing at the stack of drafts you were supposed to be editing.

Your job at the magazine was chaos wrapped in cute fonts and pastel Excel sheets. But nothing came close to the ‘dumbbell stuck up his ass’ that lived in Apartment 7B across the hall.

Jeon Jungkook. Gym trainer. Problem. Possibly demon. Definitely the reason your hallway smelled like Febreze and sin on most days.

Two years of being neighbors and your mutual hatred had evolved like a Pokémon.

It started with him stealing your designated parking spot (that you paid for) and when you confronted him, he just leaned against his stupidly shiny car, looked you dead in the eye and said, “Oh, sorry princess. Want me to draw you another with a crayon?”—and it snowballed from there.

He played his music too loud. You once shut off the power to his unit from the maintenance panel in revenge. He retaliated by signing you up for daily protein shake samples. You retaliated harder by pretending to be his landlord and threatening eviction.

It was the ‘Cold War of Apartment 7A and 7B.’

Yoongi reached for his coffee lazily. “So. Still planning on throwing something at him?”

“If he breathes in my direction today, yeah.”

“Atta girl.”

You both moved toward the door, Yoongi gathering his things while humming something off-tune. He adjusted the beanie on his head, slung his bag over his shoulder and opened the front door—only to stop short.

You peered over his shoulder.

There he was.

Jeon Jungkook. In all his morning menace glory. Messy hair, black hoodie, shorts, mismatched socks, and three garbage bags clutched in his arms like he was hauling the corpses of his enemies.

He muttered under his breath as one of the bags slipped from his grip. “Stupid slippery bastard… who triple bags cat litter, what the hell…”

Yoongi raised a brow and didn’t move. “Who bit your ass this morning, darling?”

Jungkook froze mid-crouch. He looked up, eyes narrowing into slits as he caught both of you watching him from the doorway.

“What are you two staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a man take out the trash?” he snapped.

“Frequently. Just not one who is trash,” you said sweetly.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then he scowled. “You’re lucky I’m holding biohazard material or I’d throw hands.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “Oh no, not the kitty litter fists.”

Jungkook glared daggers. You gave him your best fake smile and shut the door.

Yoongi exhaled slowly. “God, I love that you live across from that. It’s like a sitcom that forgot it’s supposed to end.”

You laughed, locking the door behind you. “I don’t even need cable. I just need Jungkook to trip over his own ego.”

As you both headed down the stairs, Yoongi nudged your shoulder. “So. You gonna ask him out, or do I have to fake date you just to make him jealous?”

“I will pour instant coffee into your gas tank.”

He grinned. “Still not a no.”

Yoongi tossed his empty coffee cup into the passenger-side bin with practiced ease, then slumped into the passenger seat of your car like someone who had lost all will to fight gravity.

You followed right after, pulling your seatbelt across with a sigh that felt deeper than it should have for 9:22 a.m.

The car hummed to life with a soft growl as you pulled out of the parking spot—your parking spot, the one Jungkook had tried to illegally colonize like some smug, protein-packed explorer.

Yoongi leaned against the window, his breath fogging up the glass. “Okay, serious question.”

You glanced sideways. “This should be good.”

“Why don’t you just move?”

You frowned. “Move?”

“Yeah. New place, new hallway, fewer protein shakes showing up in your mailbox by ‘accident.’ I’ll help you find one. I’ve got connections. One of my regulars manages three buildings and owes me for letting him steal Snickers bars last year without judgment.”

You scoffed. “You also let that old lady shoplift gummy worms, so that’s a low bar.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Justice is selective.” Then, more seriously, “I’m serious. If it’s really eating at you, why stay?”

You kept your eyes on the road, fingers tightening just a bit on the wheel. “Because I’m not in the headspace to pack up my whole life and start somewhere else just because an asshat with an undercut doesn’t understand hallway etiquette.”

Yoongi gave a small hum of acknowledgment.

“That’s fair.”

A beat passed in silence. Then:

“He does have a pretty undercut, though.”

“I will drive us into a tree.”

“I said pretty. Not that I like it.” He paused. “Though, technically, I’d still be the hottest guy in your life.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin that snuck onto your face. “You’re literally held together by sarcasm and instant noodles.”

“And yet,” he said smugly, “still top-tier.”

You pulled up in front of his convenience store, parked sloppily, and leaned across to unlock the passenger door. He didn’t move immediately.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “Just tired.”

“Is that code for ‘Jungkook breathed too loud again’?”

“Always is.”

He gave your shoulder a quick squeeze, then stepped out with a dramatic grunt. “Go sell your soul to capitalism, sweetheart.”

“You too, king of overpriced gum.”

He shut the door with a wave, disappearing into the warm hum of flickering fluorescent lights and humming fridges. You took a second to breathe. Just a second. Then shifted gears and headed for your office.

---

Your magazine office sat in a modest building with pastel walls and vintage posters of outdated fashion ads. You made your way up the stairs with the kind of existential exhaustion only a Jungkook morning could trigger.

Inside, you were greeted by the smell of coffee, printer toner, and the sound of someone humming the chorus to a song that peaked in 2015.

And there he was.

Park Jimin.

Your work husband.

Your platonic soulmate.

Your partner-in-petty.

He was perched on the edge of your desk like a Barbie doll who somehow became human and was now judging your entire vibe. Dressed in a cream sweater tucked into slacks, his earrings sparkled like he was born with a Sephora loyalty card in his bloodstream.

“You look like sin and sleep deprivation,” he said without a hello.

You dropped your bag onto your chair. “Morning to you too, darling.”

He squinted. “Did the hallway demon haunt your dreams again?”

“If by ‘haunt’ you mean 'try to juggle garbage bags like a raccoon in gym shorts'—then yes.”

Jimin gave a high-pitched gasp, the kind that only meant one thing. “Jungkook?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you sound excited?”

“I’m not,” he said way too fast. “Why would I be?”

You folded your arms. “Jimin.”

He picked at invisible lint on his sleeve. “Just because he’s a menace doesn’t mean he isn’t... well... extremely gym-toned. In a criminal kind of way.”

You grinned. “So you admit it. You want to climb him like a jungle gym.”

“I hate you,” he said, blushing to his ears. “Besides, I only met him once.”

“Exactly. That one time you dropped by my place, and he came knocking because he ‘lost’ his cat.”

Jimin pursed his lips. “That cat’s name was—what was it?”

“Punctures.”

“Right. Punctures. Because why name your pet something normal when you can choose dysfunctional.”

You sat down and opened your laptop. “To be fair, the cat did vanish and then reappear under my couch like a poltergeist.”

Jimin giggled. “And Jungkook had the audacity to look innocent while asking if you’d seen his 'angel boy’—as if the devil himself didn’t live in his abs.”

You shook your head, smiling despite the headache pulsing behind your temples. “I swear, even his cat has a superiority complex.”

Jimin leaned his chin on your desk. “So what did our muscle monster do today?”

You sighed dramatically. “Glaring. Garbage. Snarky princess jokes. And the usual refusal to acknowledge personal boundaries.”

Jimin twirled a pen between his fingers. “Sounds like a slow Tuesday.”

You both laughed, the kind of laughter that came from shared suffering.

He tilted his head and smiled softly. “You gonna be okay?”

“Eventually. Just gotta outlive him.”

Jimin raised a perfectly shaped brow. “You sure it’s hate and not the slow-burn-to-lovers pipeline?”

You gave him a look so withering it could melt paint. “Don’t start.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

The sound of a coffee cup being set down gently on the counter nearby pulled both you and Jimin from your spiraling commentary.

“Morning, angels,” came the deep, honey-smooth voice that never failed to send a jolt right through your central nervous system.

Kim Taehyung.

Tall, devastatingly pretty, with a face sculpted like someone up there was in a very good mood when they made him. Loose white shirt tucked into black pants, a chain around his neck that glittered in the morning light, and that signature sleepy smile that had ruined your last three office meetings.

You straightened up a little in your seat. Not enough to be obvious. Just… respectable.

Jimin, of course, caught it immediately. He turned his head slowly toward you, smirking like the traitor he was.

“Hey, Tae,” you said, doing your best to sound cool and casual. “You’re in early.”

Taehyung gave a lazy shrug as he set down a file on his desk. “Wanted to get a few things sorted. Also, the coffee here is stronger than my will to live.”

Jimin clapped his hands. “That makes all three of us.”

Taehyung’s eyes flicked back to you. “By the way, I meant to ask—do you have a minute later? I need help checking some layouts for the travel section. Thought of you immediately. You’ve got an eye for aesthetics.”

You blinked once. Twice. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. I can make time after lunch.”

He smiled again. Slow. Soft. A little smug. “Perfect. I’ll owe you one.”

Jimin wiggled his eyebrows behind him, mouthing, “Eye for aesthetics, huh?” You barely resisted the urge to kick him under the desk.

As Taehyung opened his laptop and began clicking through tabs, he added, almost absentmindedly, “Oh, and I’ll be on leave the day after tomorrow. Just two days. I’m moving into a new place. Need to set everything up.”

You looked up. “Oh yeah? Where to?”

“Same building I’m already in,” he said, sipping his coffee. “But I’m moving into a different unit. One of the tenants is looking for a roommate. Said he’s got a spare room.”

“Nice,” you replied, a little distracted by the image of Taehyung with moving boxes. Sleeves rolled up. Hair messy. Probably with a pencil behind his ear and a couch stubbornly stuck in the hallway. “Hope your new roommate’s not a serial killer.”

Taehyung laughed. “If he is, I just hope he’s polite about it.”

Jimin tilted his head. “What unit is it?”

Taehyung paused for a second. “Uhh. Seven... B, I think?”

You and Jimin froze at the same time.

But only Jimin’s eyes widened in realization. Yours were still catching up.

“Seven B?” you repeated slowly, the number not quite settling in your head yet. “That sounds... familiar.”

Taehyung nodded. “Apparently it’s a gym trainer dude. Said the last roommate moved out because of a job shift or something.”

You blinked again. “Gym trainer...”

Taehyung smiled. “Jungkook, I think his name was?”

You choked on air. Jimin let out a snort so violent it sounded like a dying kettle.

“Wait. You’re moving in with Jungkook?” you asked, your voice rising just slightly.

Taehyung looked amused. “Yeah. Why? You know him?”

Jimin slapped a hand over his mouth, clearly enjoying this a little too much. You stared blankly, brain short-circuiting.

“I know him,” you said slowly. “He’s my neighbor.”

Taehyung blinked. “Oh. Small world.”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Tiny. Cramped. Suffocating, even.”

He tilted his head. “Should I be worried?”

You waved a hand. “No. Not unless you enjoy your hallway smelling like pre-workout and passive aggression.”

Taehyung grinned. “Sounds like a party.”

Jimin leaned in close to your ear, voice hushed but gleeful. “Oh, this is going to be *so good.*”

You groaned. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

The day of Taehyung’s move-in came faster than you expected.

You had already told Yoongi two days before, while standing behind the counter at his store. His only response had been a muttered, “Jesus,” followed by a five-minute rant about karma having a personal grudge against you.

What you did ignore less was how you and Jungkook had not mentioned it. Not once. Not in the elevator. Not during that brief moment last night when he passed you in the hallway carrying a carton of eggs like it personally offended him.

Not even when you both reached for the same packet of garbage bags in the building supply closet and nearly ripped it in half out of mutual pettiness.

Radio silence.

Jimin, of course, had no such filter.

“Oh you’re cooked,” he’d giggled, doubled over beside the office printer, one manicured hand on your shoulder. “He’s going to walk into your life every morning smelling like Jungkook and testosterone and you’re gonna suffer. I’m gonna make popcorn.”

You flipped him off and changed the subject.

Now you were combusting for real.

Taehyung was holding a box, arms flexed with the effort, veins visible under his skin like the universe had turned up the detail settings just to mess with you. His hair was slightly damp from the heat outside, and there was a little smile on his lips like moving into a potential frat-boy war zone didn’t faze him at all.

He looked like a painting.

And he was standing right in front of Jungkook’s open apartment door.

You were officially the main character in your own nightmare.

“Need help with that?” you blurted before your brain could intercept.

Taehyung grinned. “I would never say no to help from a beautiful woman.”

You wanted to melt. Or combust. Or vanish into the drywall.

Unfortunately, none of those things happened.

Instead, you took a careful step closer, mentally rehearsing a facial expression that didn’t scream please notice me instead of the loud man you’re about to share a couch with.

“Big box,” you said.

“Big arms,” Taehyung replied, flexing slightly with a smirk that bordered on criminal.

Your gaze dropped.

You regretted it immediately.

Taehyung’s biceps were straining against his t-shirt, golden skin glowing under the building’s hallway light. He adjusted the box, muscles shifting and pulling like they had absolutely no business being attached to a man who alphabetized his playlists.

You blinked. The trance broke.

Because just then, the temperature dropped about ten degrees.

And Jeon Jungkook walked out of his apartment.

Sweatpants. Tight black tank top.

Hair messy. Eyes sharper than broken glass.

He looked between you and Taehyung.

His gaze landed on you.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asked.

Not hi. Not oh look, it’s my hallway nemesis. Just that.

Your spine straightened on instinct.

“Helping,” you said.

“Helping,” he echoed, tone skeptical. “You two know each other?”

You opened your mouth. Taehyung beat you to it.

“Yeah,” he said brightly. “We work together. She’s the only person in editorial who doesn’t make me want to scream. Well, most of the time.”

Your stomach twisted.

Jungkook tilted his head.

“That’s sweet,” he said, voice pure sarcasm. “Real heartwarming.”

Taehyung blinked once, glancing between you and Jungkook. Something flickered behind his smile. Curiosity. Maybe suspicion. But he didn’t say anything.

“I’ll go put this down,” he said instead, slipping into the apartment with his box, leaving the two of you in the hallway.

He turned and disappeared into the apartment, leaving you and Jungkook in the hallway. Alone.

You didn’t speak.

He didn’t either.

You stared at each other like two chess players silently daring the other to make the first move.

Then your eyes flicked downward. Black tank. Veins. Shoulders. Everything about him was tight and firm and unfair. Even the sweatpants were offensive. Your gaze lingered a little too long.

You realized it too late.

His mouth twitched. “You checking me out, neighbor?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. “Please. I was debating whether or not your face has always been that punchable.”

He took a step closer.

You didn’t move.

Another step.

Now he was right in front of you. You could smell his body wash and the faintest trace of aftershave and probably your impending doom.

He leaned down slightly, voice low and sharp. “Stay away from him.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near my roommate. I don’t want you bringing over baked goods, I don’t want you giving him your tragic little smiles. Just—don’t.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said. “Or maybe you’re just desperate enough to bounce to the next set of arms that walk by.”

Your jaw tightened. “At least he doesn’t slam doors at 2 a.m. and treat the hallway like a personal wrestling mat.”

“At least he doesn’t leave three-day-old Pad Thai in the trash chute.”

“That was one time.”

“Try four.”

The air crackled. You hadn’t even realized how close you were until your shoulders touched. Your breath hitched. His eyes flicked to your mouth.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re actually insane. It’s not like that. I would rather step on a plug barefoot than flirt with your roommate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you were staring at his arms like you were about to crawl inside his ribcage and live there.”

Your nostrils flared. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you were monitoring my eyeballs now.”

He tilted his head. “I notice things. Like how you get real quiet when someone hotter than me walks by.”

You shoved his shoulder. “You are not my type.”

He didn’t move. “No?”

“Not even close.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not—oh my god—”

“Get a life,” you snapped, storming into your apartment and slamming the door shut behind you.

Jungkook’s voice called faintly through the wall.

“Enjoy your view, sweetheart!”

You flipped off the air and screamed into a cushion.

Jimin was right.

you were going to combust.

It had been four days since Taehyung moved in.

And somehow, in that painfully short span of time, your life had managed to go from mildly annoying to biblical plague levels of emotionally unstable.

Every morning was a personal test of endurance.

Because every morning — without fail — you saw him.

Not Jungkook.

The other him.

Kim Taehyung.

Your coworker. Your walking Greek statue of a crush. Your poetic little mistake-in-the-making.

Now also: Your neighbor. Your hallway torment. Your reason for walking out of your apartment in sunglasses and a moral crisis.

It always happened the same way. You’d step out of your apartment with your tote bag slung over your shoulder, caffeine-deprived and already regretting existence — only to find him standing there in front of 7B’s door. Half-zipped hoodie, tousled hair, coffee in hand, eyes crinkling with that boyish smile that made your IQ drop about 20 points.

“Morning,” he’d greet, voice low and warm and just slightly flirty. The kind of tone that made your stomach twist and your dignity combust.

You’d wave. Maybe mumble back something like “Hey” or “Morning,” which sounded perfectly normal until you replayed it ten minutes later and realized you had smiled like an idiot and then walked into the elevator wall.

Today was no different.

You opened your door just as Taehyung did, and you had exactly three seconds to prepare yourself.

Too late.

His hair was damp. Still wet from a shower. A few strands clung to his forehead. He was wearing grey sweats — criminal — and a dark green shirt that looked very lived in and very illegal.

“Morning,” he said again, all casual confidence, like he hadn’t just appeared in slow motion with soft lighting and background music that only played in your personal hell.

You gave him a tight smile. “Hey.”

He glanced at his phone, then at you. “You heading to the office?”

“Yep.”

He shifted his coffee to his other hand. “Want to go together? I’ve got my car downstairs. I don’t mind driving.”

Your heart stuttered. Your brain did not process that like a normal human.

“No, it’s fine,” you said too fast, waving him off. “I like walking. It keeps me humble.”

He blinked, amused. “Humble?”

“Yeah. You know. Reminds me that life is a grind. Makes me less likely to throw myself at anyone with biceps.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

You internally screamed.

He smiled at you again — that gentle, warm smile like he didn’t know he’d just offered a ride to a person actively trying to avoid developing a full-blown obsession.

You nodded at him. “See you at work.”

Then you turned and practically ran for the stairs.

⸻

By the time you got outside, you were out of breath — from the stairs, sure, but mostly from holding in a scream.

This was hell. Not a metaphorical one. Actual, emotional hell. You had a man with the face of a Renaissance painting asking if you wanted a ride to work and you said no because his roommate was a protein-fueled menace with an attitude problem and a jawline that could cut glass.

You were unwell. And possibly cursed.

You stared at your reflection in the building’s front door as you adjusted your jacket.

Your hair was frizzy. Your shirt had a weird crease.

You looked like someone who had definitely turned down hot guy carpooling due to unresolved neighbor trauma.

Worse — Taehyung was so genuinely nice it made everything worse.

You couldn’t even be mad at him for existing.

You were just mad that the universe had the audacity to shove him into Jungkook’s apartment like it was a sitcom plot twist.

And now you had to play it cool at the office.

Pretend like you hadn’t just seen the man who made you physically dizzy.

Pretend like Jimin wasn’t going to read your whole energy the moment he laid eyes on you.

Pretend like you didn’t still hear Jungkook’s voice from four nights ago when he muttered, “Stay away from him.”

You shut your eyes and whispered to yourself as you crossed the street:

“Thirst is temporary. Pride is forever. Thirst is temporary. Pride is for—”

A car honked. You almost walked into a light pole.

Cool. Great start to the day.

⸻

Next stop: your office. And you already knew Jimin was going to have opinions.

But right now, you had bigger things to survive: your crush. Your enemy. And the very thin walls that separated them.

⸻

You had just finished rewriting a sentence for the seventh time when the door to the office flew open with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for K-pop finales and divine interventions.

Park Jimin walked in like he owned the place.

Technically, he didn’t.

But spiritually? Emotionally? In terms of ‘vibe authority’?

Absolutely.

“Guess who overslept because someone set my alarm to Taylor Swift’s All Too Well ten-minute version and I thought it was a dream sequence?” he announced to no one in particular.

You looked up just in time to catch him tossing his bag onto his chair like a runway model doing the emotional baggage walk.

“Jimin,” you deadpanned, “do you have any idea how quiet and terrifying it is here without you?”

He gave you a pitying look. “Did you miss me? Or did your internal monologue get tired of monologuing alone?”

“Both,” you muttered, then glanced at his outfit. “Also, why do you look like a Pinterest board for fall romance?”

He struck a pose, dramatically adjusting his oversized sweater. “Because heartbreak is couture. And also because I live with crippling main character syndrome.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother hiding your smile.

He plopped into his chair and sighed, dramatically, as if simply existing in a capitalist world was too much effort.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Head tilted.

Eyes narrowing.

You braced for it.

“I know that face,” he said slowly. “That’s your ‘I’ve just had an internal crisis and am pretending I haven’t’ face.”

You blinked innocently. “I do not have a crisis face.”

“Oh, honey,” he scoffed. “You have a gallery of crisis faces.”

You opened your mouth to respond — but of course, he wasn’t done.

“So.” He leaned in conspiratorially, elbows on the desk like a gossiping oracle. “What happened? Did the hallway himbo say something dumb again? Did his tank top offend your moral compass? Did you finally snap and throw a protein shake at his head?”

You stared at your screen, debating how much to share.

Jimin stared at you. “Is this about Taehyung?”

Your eye twitched. “Why would it be?”

“Oh my god.” He gasped. “It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “I am going to spontaneously combust.”

Jimin clapped his hands like a delighted psychic. “See? This is why I come to work. Forget my salary. This is entertainment.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You know he offered to drive me to work today?”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “And you said…?”

“I said no.”

He gasped like you had personally slapped him with a designer shoe. “You said no to Taehyung? Are you okay? Did Jungkook give you a lobotomy?”

You groaned louder. “I said no because he’s Jungkook’s roommate. It’s complicated.”

Jimin paused.

And then — he smiled.

It was the kind of smile that meant something deeply chaotic was about to leave his mouth.

“So, speaking of your protein-powered hallway nemesis…”

You straightened. “What about him?”

“I saw him this morning.”

Your stomach did a thing it had no right to do. “Where?”

“Corner café. With someone.”

You blinked. “A girl?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Could’ve been a relative. Could’ve been a situationship. Could’ve been his tax accountant.”

You tried not to react. You really did.

But Jimin saw right through you.

“Ooooh,” he sang, tapping his chin. “That’s the face of someone who does not, in fact, hate Jungkook as much as she claims.”

You turned slowly toward him. “If you don’t stop talking in dramatic one-liners, I’m going to stab you with my clicky pen.”

He gasped. “Violence? In this economy?”

You huffed and sat back in your chair, arms crossed.

And then, quietly: “Do you think he was on a date?”

Jimin didn’t answer immediately.

He studied you — not playfully this time. Not teasing.

Then he leaned in again, voice softer. “Do you want him to be?”

You hated that the question made your heart stutter.

You didn’t know.

You weren’t supposed to care.

You were supposed to loathe him — passionately, poetically, completely.

But lately…

You were starting to wonder if hate and want had ever really been that different.

Jimin smiled gently, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then looked away.

“I don’t know what I’m in,” you admitted.

Jimin leaned back, arms folded. “Well, whatever it is — it’s gonna be messy.”

You laughed under your breath. “Aren’t all the best stories?”

He winked. “Especially when they involve a man with biceps and unresolved emotional repression.”

—-

You should’ve been relieved to leave the office.

End of day. Done with deadlines. Done with pointless meetings and coworkers who typed with the aggression of war generals. The city lights were dimming outside your windshield as you sat in the driver’s seat, hands limp on the steering wheel, waiting for your thoughts to shut up.

But they didn’t.

Because somewhere between replying to emails and dodging Park Jimin’s painfully accurate psychoanalysis, your brain had quietly entered panic mode.

About one person.

Again.

Jungkook.

You sighed, pressing your head back against the headrest as your reflection stared back at you from the rearview mirror — tired eyes, lips pressed, the faintest wrinkle forming between your brows.

Why were you so… preoccupied?

It had been a year.

A whole year of this bizarre dance between you and him.

You’d moved into that apartment across from 7B assuming the worst part would be the creaky plumbing and fluorescent hallway lighting.

You were wrong.

The worst part was the man next door.

Jeon Jungkook.

Infuriating. Loud. Built like a Greek tragedy with a protein shake addiction.

And yet — you noticed when he wasn’t around. You replayed arguments. You saw his stupid smirk in your sleep.

why him?

Why now?

You leaned your head against the driver’s seat for a second before putting your keys into the ignition, sighing hard through your nose like that might settle the ache in your chest.

You’d gone a whole day without seeing him — and that should’ve been a good thing.

It wasn’t.

And it wasn’t just him either. There was… Taehyung.

Your new neighbor. Your new problem. Gorgeous, charming, too-pretty-for-this-world Taehyung, who moved into Jungkook’s apartment just yesterday and already fluttered something inside you that you weren’t ready to name.

Was that what this was?

The sudden awareness?

Was it because the man across the hall who once irritated you into oblivion now had a new variable in your life? A second heartbeat you could hear through the wall?

You weren’t sure.

You hated that you weren’t sure.

One thing you did know: Jungkook hadn’t crossed your mind like this before. At least not with this much force. Not with this twist in your stomach or the echo of his voice running laps in your head.

You pulled into the lot, a little more irritable than when you’d left the office. The lights from the building flickered against your windshield. You killed the engine and stepped out with a sigh, bag slung over your shoulder like it was dragging you down more than it should.

Your phone buzzed.

“At your place. You better have snacks or I’m stealing your toaster.”

Yoongi. You blinked. Right. He had a spare key.

Of course he did.

Why wouldn’t your grumpy part-time philosopher best friend just materialize inside your apartment like a cryptic raccoon?

You started typing back a dry “i just arrived, donut demon” but you weren’t really looking where you were going.

You stepped inside.

The doors closed.

And then your stomach dropped.

Because something felt… off.

The air. The silence. The way your skin prickled like something was just behind you.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Jungkook.

Hood up, arms folded across his chest, standing in the back of the elevator like he lived for dramatic re-entrances into your life.

You screamed.

He blinked at you, deadpan. “Really?”

You backed up into the corner. “What— why are you everywhere?!”

He raised a brow. “I live here.”

“You— you could’ve said something!”

“I figured you had eyes,” he said flatly. “That was my mistake.”

You gritted your teeth. “Are you stalking me?”

“Are you serious?”

You glared, shifting as far away from him as physically possible in a 4x4 metal box. “I need to start carrying holy water.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I need to start using the stairs.”

You went silent. So did he.

The space between you was heavy. Awkward. Breathing felt like effort.

You focused on the elevator buttons, staring at the glowing floor numbers like they were responsible for your heart rate. You’d never been this aware of another person’s presence before — like his heat was something crawling up your spine.

Why is he everywhere lately?

Why does his silence feel so loud?

Why do I care if I don’t care?

You bit your lip.

Jungkook cleared his throat.

And then — just like that — everything went dark.

The elevator stopped.

The hum of motion halted.

The overhead lights flickered once… and went out.

You froze.

Silence.

Heavy, solid silence.

Then:

“…did that really just happen?” he asked.

You blinked into the dark. “Shit.”

You fumbled for your phone, immediately unlocking it.

“Texting your emotional support cryptid?” he asked dryly.

“Yes,” you snapped. “Yoongi’s in my apartment.”

“Convenient.”

You didn’t answer. Because in the next moment — the elevator jolted.

The floor dipped. The walls creaked. You lurched forward on instinct, a breath caught in your throat as your weight shifted.

Straight into Jungkook.

His arms caught you fast — steady, firm — one hand on your waist, the other instinctively braced against your back.

You were pressed up against him.

Warm.

Solid.

Too close.

You both didn’t move. Breaths uneven. Chests rising and falling in tandem.

You couldn’t see much. Just outlines. Shadows.

But you knew exactly where his face was.

Exactly how close his lips were to yours.

His hold didn’t loosen. And for a second, you didn’t want him to.

“…Let go,” you whispered, unsure if you meant it.

His voice came low. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Still, he didn’t let go.

The elevator was dead still.

You could feel his breath.

You could hear his heart.

It was… steady. Strong.

You felt small. But not weak.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you said, barely a whisper.

“Like what?” he murmured.

“Like i’ll break.”

“You won’t,” he said, almost too fast.

You almost laughed. “That sounded real convincing.”

“I could say the same to you,” he muttered. “You’re still in my arms.”

You hesitated. “Because I was about to fall.”

“And now?”

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t move.

The silence thickened again — not awkward this time. Tense. Loud.

You knew this moment would stick. The kind of moment that lived in your bloodstream long after it passed.

And then — without a word — his hand slid up slightly.

Not invasive. Just deliberate.

His fingers brushed the side of your arm — slow, cautious — like he was trying to memorize something. A shape. A feeling.

You swallowed. “Why are you—?”

Before you could finish, the lights flickered.

The elevator shuddered once.

And then — it moved.

The hum returned. The floor number ticked up. The weight of what just happened hit both of you all at once.

You pulled away first.

Too fast. Too guilty.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

When the doors opened, you didn’t wait.

You walked out like your shoes were on fire. Practically sprinting down the hallway toward your apartment, your heart thudding too fast, your thoughts screaming over one another.

You opened the door, slammed it behind you, and pressed your back to it like you could keep the feelings out that way.

Yoongi sat on your couch, hoodie half-zipped, a bag of chips open in his lap.

He didn’t even look up.

“Who licked your brain?” he asked flatly.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there — dizzy, breathless, and one wrong word away from combusting.

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