Chapter 1: If Statements and What-Ifs.
(from "Complex Code"- a Jungkook x Reader fanfic)
Special Mentions: Jackson Wang
The café was buzzing with soft chatter, clinking cups, and the low hum of the espresso machine. Her laptop screen glowed with lines of code that made less and less sense the longer she stared at it. Across from her, Jungkook sat hunched over his own work, earbuds dangling around his neck, tapping at his keyboard like he was playing an instrument only he understood.
“You’re impossible,” she sighed, shoving her notebook away with a dramatic groan.
Without looking up, he replied, “You said you wanted help.”
“I wanted you to be nice about it,” she muttered, shooting him a glare he didn’t even bother to meet.
His lips twitched, almost like he was fighting a smile. Finally, Jungkook lifted his eyes from the screen—dark, steady, annoyingly unreadable. “I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t care.”
He went back to typing, just like that, as if he hadn’t just launched a grenade directly into her chest.
She blinked, trying to steady herself, cheeks warming as she shifted in her chair. He didn’t notice—or maybe he did. With him, she could never tell.
So she forced herself back to the problem set in front of her, telling herself it was nothing. Just Jungkook being blunt. Just Jungkook being… Jungkook.
But the words stuck, threading themselves into her thoughts as the café sounds blurred around her: I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t care.
It hadn’t started this way, of course. She and Jungkook weren’t exactly friends by choice.
Second semester, a group project had thrown them together with two other students. They’d shown up to the first meeting—polite introductions, shared spreadsheets—before promptly disappearing off the face of the earth. She’d found Jungkook alone in the café two days later, laptop open, annoyance rolling off him in waves.
“Guess it’s just you and me then,” she’d muttered, dropping her notes onto the table.
He’d glanced up at her, half-skeptical, half-amused. “You type fast?”
“Faster than you, probably.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—maybe approval, maybe just his default expression—and that was that. They fell into a rhythm, researching and writing, deadlines blurring until the project was done.
Months later, she found out through mutual friends that their two missing teammates hadn’t actually vanished. They’d just… fallen in love. Or rather, used the project as an excuse to go on dates, leaving her and Jungkook to pick up their slack.
The funny part? She didn’t even mind. Because somewhere along the line, working with him had stopped being a burden and started feeling like a habit she couldn’t break.
They worked well together—not effortlessly, but something close to it. Where others crumbled under deadlines, she and Jungkook seemed to thrive. He was maddeningly brilliant, the kind of genius people whispered about but never got to see in action because his exterior screamed the exact opposite. Leather jackets. Sleeves rolled high enough to show veins but low enough to make her wonder what else lay hidden. That permanent look of disinterest, like he had better places to be.
No one would believe it. No one would think he was the guy who actually explained the trickier equations in a way that made them stick. They only saw the piercings, the tattoos, the scowl. Not the patience. Not the small moments of kindness—like saving a seat, or bringing her favorite snacks, or being awake at 2 a.m. to help her with faulty code like it was a midlife crisis, or defending her in front of a crowd in a way not many friends actually would. She told herself it was nothing—that he was just quietly being himself: generous, big-hearted. Surely he would’ve been that way if it had been anyone else paired with him.
And yet, she was almost selfish about it—keeping that side of him to herself, tucked away in these quiet afternoons.
Soon, she found herself doing her own little things in return, even though they weren’t notice-worthy to him. Thank-yous never felt like enough. She wanted to do more. So instead, she ordered two caramel macchiatos on days she arrived early, because he usually did. She packed extra homemade pasta every other week because he’d once casually tasted and liked it. She pretended to be tired and forced him to pack their bags with her because otherwise he just wouldn’t stop working. She even scribbled thank-you notes or encouragement on chocolate foil wrappers she folded into tiny paper boats—slipped into his stack of things when he wasn’t looking.
Now, an hour into the study session, the tables around them had emptied out, leaving only the two of them and a student curled up in the corner with a textbook. Jungkook was still working—because of course he was. His concentration was relentless, his brow furrowed like the world would collapse if he stopped for even a second.
She’d given up on coding thirty minutes ago and instead found herself watching him. The way his fingers moved with precision across the keyboard. The way his hair kept falling into his eyes until he shoved it back impatiently. The way his jaw flexed when he was thinking hard.
And then her gaze drifted to the faint holes in his right brow and the side of his lip. No jewelry—college rules weren’t exactly piercing-friendly—but they were still there, ghostly reminders of something she wasn’t supposed to notice.
Her mind betrayed her instantly, flashing back to Jackson Wang’s Open House Party months ago.
Back then, Jackson wasn’t the friend he was now. He had radiated rich, spoiled brat vibes, and she had written him off almost immediately. But then he’d handed her an invite like he had to everyone else, insisting, “You should really come. I haven’t seen you out much. This is just an excuse to find people you vibe with. Survival in college alone is hard, I’m sure.”
To her surprise, he’d meant it. That night, Jackson had been welcoming, generous, kind—staying by her side so she didn’t feel out of place. That night marked the start of their friendship.
It was also the night she realized Jungkook was friends with Jackson. And more importantly, he wasn’t just a baby face and a genius mind.
Jungkook had walked in wearing loose denims, a white tank top under a black leather jacket, piercings glinting under the neon lights. His right eyebrow stud, his two lip rings—sharp and glimmering. And when Jackson asked him to help stack soju cartons, he’d take off his jacket, revealing the blooming tiger lily tattoo on his right arm—bold and startlingly delicate all at once. Beside it, a phrase inked boldly: Rather be dead than cool.
When he shifted, she noticed something curling near his clavicle—Japanese art, or maybe a dragon, or maybe entirely something else—its edges disappearing beneath the hem of his top.
And then, when he turned, a “7 ” was visible behind his left ear.
That night, she realized two things —
One: Jungkook was infinitely hotter than her brain could process.
Two: she’d never stop wondering if those were the only tattoos, or if more were hidden under the fabric.
It was the kind of thought that snuck up on her in the most inconvenient moments—between pages of notes, during his casual rants about coursework, or right now—staring at him across the café table.
But she never asked. Because —
(1) tattoos were deeply personal and taking an interest could come across as invasive,
(2) she and Jungkook never talked about things like that—their conversations rarely strayed beyond coursework, snacks or the occasional sarcasm, and
(3) she couldn’t risk him turning those dark eyes on her and asking bluntly, “Why do you care?”
And the truth was, she cared too much.
Her gaze lingered on his lip again, imagining the cool metal against skin, the way it must have felt when he kissed someone.
He had to have kissed someone—of course he had. Girls would kill for even an accidental glance from him, let alone his mouth.
She hated herself for wondering. For picturing the way it would feel if it were her. The slight sting of the metal, the warmth of his lips.
Did the piercing make him kiss differently? Did the girls who’d been lucky enough to find out ever think about anything else afterward? And the tattoos? Were there more? What did each one mean?
So far, Jungkook was more questions than answers. If it were an option, she’d rather study him than coding.
“You’re staring,” he said suddenly, without looking up.
Her spine stiffened, guilt crawling up her skin. “I am not.”
“You are,” he said flatly, finally glancing at her with that infuriatingly calm expression.
“I was zoning out,” she lied quickly, reaching for her iced coffee. It had gone watery and warm. Perfect metaphor for her dignity.
“Sure,” Jungkook said, a hint of amusement breaking through as he turned back to his laptop.
She scowled into her cup. He always did this—called her out with the most casual tone, like he knew exactly what went on in her head.
Later, when the café closed and the two of them migrated to the library, the silence stretched differently. The hum of computers, the faint shuffle of books—it all wrapped around them like a bubble no one else was allowed into.
Jungkook slid a granola bar across the table without looking at her. “You didn’t eat dinner.”
She blinked. “But you too didn't—”
“Eat. I’ve got one for me too.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command, delivered with the same flatness as everything else he said, but it still lodged itself deep, making her chest ache in a way she didn’t want to analyze.
She tore open the wrapper, trying not to think too hard about it.
By the time they packed up, it was past midnight. They walked side by side across campus, the cool night air brushing against her skin. She wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence, but every option felt too small, too obvious, too much.
So instead, she just said, “Thanks for helping me today.”
He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. “I already told you. I wouldn’t help if I didn’t care.”
And there it was again—that same grenade, lobbed casually into her chest.
She tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out too soft, almost shaky. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. With him, she could never tell.
And that was the problem.
Because the whole walk back, one thought looped endlessly in her head: I think I’ve started to like him. But does he even notice me?
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