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iamgonnagetyouback · 4 months ago

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I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised you—quietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love A/N ಇ. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,524

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.”

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

#ivywrites!#spencer reid one shot #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #criminalminds #spencer reid x self insert

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jungkoode · 1 day ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 26

pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9,4k | warnings: here genre: roommates/e2l, fwb, fuck buddies, emotional slow burn, smut

“pumpkin & phoenix”

"Caring for someone means learning the language of their damage—understanding that premium cat food isn't about the cat, that yellow post-it notes carry more weight than dissertations, and that watching someone prepare for a date feels different when you can taste their name on your tongue."

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↪︎author's note : This chapter is… layered. Y/N thinks she's being a good wingwoman, helping Tessa navigate her crush on Jungkook while simultaneously offering herself as relationship advice because, hey, she knows him well enough, right? Except here's the thing: she doesn't. Not really. She knows how he tastes at 3 AM and which buttons to push to start an argument, but she has no idea what his career aspirations are. Tessa does. Tessa knows he wants to make documentaries, that he's drawn to raw, unflinching perspectives. The disconnect is brutal, and it's supposed to be. Because this is what happens when you build intimacy through conflict and sex instead of conversation—you end up knowing someone's scent better than their dreams. And the tragedy? Y/N realizes this while actively pushing him toward someone who might actually be good for him. Because despite all, she genuinely believes Tessa would be better for Jungkook than whatever chaotic thing they have going on. That's growth, by the way. Painful, selfless growth that nobody asked for.

The Taehyung section serves multiple purposes here—it shows us Griffin's backstory (and by extension, Jungkook's recent trauma), establishes Taehyung as more than just an antagonist, and demonstrates how care shows up in unexpected ways. Taehyung memorizing ingredient lists, spending fifty dollars on cat food, driving across the city—these aren't grand gestures. They're quiet acts of love disguised as irritation. Then the yellow post-it note is deliberate emotional currency. Jungkook doesn't do gratitude—we've established this. But he left her a note. Three lines acknowledging that she did something that mattered, and more importantly, that she didn't complain about doing it. For someone who shows love through arguing and control, accepting help gracefully is character development. For someone who typically deflects appreciation with sarcasm, expressing genuine thanks is vulnerability. And Y/N is weirded out because it's not like him to write it. That's why she keeps it, why she stares at it, why it makes her chest feel weird. The hair, though. Jesus, the hair. Y/N noticing immediately that he got it cut and styled, recognizing that this is effort for a date, understanding that he's taking her advice about Tessa seriously—it's the moment everything becomes real. He's actually going to try with someone else. And her reaction? Have fun dissecting. <3

17th of September and auburn blinds you before anything else registers.

Not because of the proximity of autumn or its fallen leaves.

No—it's her hair, catching light like a match struck against the earth-toned interior. Your eyes squint on instinct, brain struggling to recalibrate from the drab Tuesday afternoon gray outside to this walking sunset sitting at a window table.

God, she's really pretty. Sickeningly pretty. The kind of pretty that makes strangers trip over sidewalk cracks and professors forget midway through sentences. The kind that probably never had to develop a personality beyond 'pleasant' because nobody ever demanded more.

But you're not a stranger.

You're Tessa's—what exactly? Roommate-of-her-crush advisor? Dating consultant?

Whatever.

You're here now, walking through this brick-walled café with its mismatched mugs and chalkboard menu, feeling immediately underdressed next to her cheerful yellow cardigan that somehow makes her look like a fashion spread instead of Big Bird.

When she spots you, her entire face lights up. Like you're an old friend she hasn't seen in years instead of some girl she met at a party some weeks ago.

She waves enthusiastically, both hands fluttering above her head like little birds.

"Y/N! Over here!" she calls, as if there could possibly be any confusion about where she's sitting in this shoebox-sized café with exactly nine tables.

You muster a smile that feels stiff on your face and give a small wave back.

Social niceties. You can do this.

You've worked retail—this is practically the same thing, minus the name tag and forced corporate enthusiasm.

She's chosen a circular table with three stools: two facing each other, one laden with her bags—a cream-colored tote and what looks like a designer backpack. Smart. Tables are currency in Manhattan cafés, and she's staked her claim effectively.

You drop your own bag on the third stool and slide into your seat, immediately noticing how uncomfortable these wooden stools are.

Good for turnover, bad for lingering conversations about boys.

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Tessa asks, tucking a strand of that impossibly vibrant hair behind her ear. Her smile never falters, not even for a second. "I know it's a bit hidden."

"No, it was fine," you reply, pulling off your jacket. "The maps pin was accurate."

Your senses finally catch up to the rest of you, and that's when it hits—caramel.

Rich, buttery, warm caramel, like someone's making candy nearby.

You glance around the small space, searching for the source. The old man in the corner is eating what looks like standard breakfast fare. The barista is pouring coffee. Nobody has dessert.

It's when Tessa leans forward, menu in hand, throat exposed where her cardigan dips, that you realize.

It's her.

She smells like caramel.

Like freshly burnt sugar and cream.

Like someone bottled a confectionary and made it into a perfume that should be cloying but somehow... isn't.

Oh.

So this is what Jungkook means about you smelling like vanilla? That it's just... there? A constant cloud of scent that follows you around whether you notice it or not?

Your brain unhelpfully supplies an image of him burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, mumbling something about how good you smell.

You shove it away immediately.

Not the time.

"So," Tessa says, passing you a laminated menu card, completely oblivious to your moment of revelation, "I wanted to bring you here because they have these cinnamon rolls that are literally to die for. Like, I'm not even kidding. They make them fresh every morning and they're bigger than your face."

You scan the menu, eyebrows lifting at the prices.

Manhattan. Of course.

"Cinnamon rolls before dinner?" you ask, but there's no judgment in your tone. You're genuinely curious about her sugar tolerance.

She laughs, the sound tinkling like little bells.

"I know, I know. So bad, right? But it's my Tuesday treat. After my Film Theory class with Professor Miller." She leans in conspiratorially. "He talks for three hours straight without breaks. I deserve something sweet after that torture."

"Fair enough," you concede. The coffee section catches your eye—they have a vanilla lavender latte that sounds interesting. "I might stick with caffeine, though. These prices are..."

You trail off, not wanting to sound cheap.

"Oh! I'm treating," Tessa says immediately, waving away your concern. "Consider it a thank you for meeting me."

You hesitate. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to." She smiles again, genuine warmth and no hint of calculation. "Please? Let me get you something sugary and completely unnecessary for a Tuesday afternoon."

Her earnestness makes it hard to say no; makes you understand, just a little, why Jungkook talks to her about Korean cinema instead of dismissing her outright.

"Alright," you relent. "But I'm getting the next one."

You scan the menu again.

"What's good here besides the cinnamon rolls?"

"Their chocolate croissants are amazing. And they do this honey lavender scone that's kind of life-changing." She points to a chalkboard near the counter that lists specials. "Oh! And they have seasonal stuff too. The pumpkin bread is really good."

The waiter approaches—a guy around your age with tired eyes and sleeve tattoos. Tessa smiles at him with the same genuine enthusiasm she's shown since you walked in.

"Hi! We'll have one cinnamon roll to share, and..." She looks at you expectantly.

"Just a black coffee for me, please," you decide, thinking ahead to dinner. "Might as well save room for actual food after this."

"And I'll have a tea," Tessa adds. "Thank you so much!"

The waiter nods and walks away without returning her megawatt smile.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, and Tessa watches as a small smile tugs at your lips when you see the name on the screen.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸'𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖.

You hadn't expected him to text today.

Because that Sunday was... nice. Refreshing to have a conversation that didn't involve arguing about who used the last of the milk or whose turn it was to take out the garbage.

"Boyfriend?" Tessa asks, her eyes bright with interest.

You look up, feeling caught somehow. "What? Oh, no. Just this guy from my department."

"Just a guy who makes you smile like that?" She raises her eyebrows suggestively. "Come on, spill. I shared my crush with you."

You roll your eyes, holding back a small smile. "He's a TA for Modern lit. We had coffee on Sunday. It's nothing serious."

You tap out a quick reply.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚒 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘. 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎?

You're not usually this forward, but there's something about Jason that makes it easy.

He's... uncomplicated. Smart without being condescending. Attractive in that academic way, with his wire-rimmed glasses and the way he gestures when he's explaining something he's passionate about.

And he doesn't live with you. Huge bonus.

"Well, he makes you smile," Tessa observes. "That's a good start."

"Maybe. It's early days."

And he doesn't live with you. Huge bonus.

Your phone buzzes again almost immediately, but it's not Jason this time. The name on the screen makes you instinctively wrinkle your nose.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚙

You stare at your phone, completely baffled.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 2 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 0 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝙽𝙾𝚃. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐…

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍

Your lips twitch with the beginning of a smile, which you quickly suppress. You're not amused. You're not.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘. 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 4 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘. 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚡 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 ≠ 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎. 𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚊 𝙼𝚄𝚉𝚉𝙻𝙴 𝚗𝚎𝚡. 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗.

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at the mental image of Griffin hissing at a vet while Jungkook hovers nearby like an anxious helicopter parent.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚓𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜-𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚙𝚕𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑?? 𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜? 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚡 𝚗𝚎𝚡. 𝚞 𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

"Well, they look like they might get along," Tessa says, her voice pulling you back to the present.

You make a face that lies somewhere between confusion and disgust. "What?"

"They look like they might get along," she repeats, nodding toward your phone. "Your boyfriend and Jungkook."

You nearly choke on air. "Jason is absolutely not my boyfriend, and there's no universe where those two would get along. Trust me."

"Sometimes you just know, though," she says dreamily. "Like, I knew the moment I saw Jungkook in our Korean Cinema class. He was arguing with the professor about Park Chan-wook, and he was so passionate and sure of himself. I thought, 'That's someone who knows what he loves.'"

You nod, trying not to think about how well you know exactly what Jungkook loves—specifically, what he loves doing with his mouth, his hands, and other parts of his anatomy in the dark at 2 AM.

Not. The. Time.

"So I actually made him a playlist," Tessa says, leaning forward with such eagerness her cardigan sleeve nearly dips into her tea. "Is that too much? It's all Korean film scores. I included both the classics and some underground stuff too."

Your eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. A playlist. Not a sexy playlist, not a 'here's what I want to do to you' playlist, but an actual thoughtful collection based on his interests.

Huh.

"That's..." you search for the right word, one that doesn't sound patronizing, "...actually pretty cool."

"I know it's probably silly," she admits, tucking that vibrant hair behind her ear again. "But I remembered what you said about not coming on too strong, so I figured a playlist is casual enough? Like, 'Hey, thought you might appreciate these tracks for your next project' kind of thing."

"No, that's perfect," you nod, suddenly feeling like you're giving actual solid advice rather than the self-serving bullshit you worried you might spew. "It shows you pay attention without being creepy about it. Guys like that—they want to know you get their weird obsessions."

Her face brightens instantly. "Really? Oh thank god. I was worried I was being full cringe-mode."

"Nah. Just don't give him homework."

"Homework?"

"Like, 'You HAVE to listen to this right now and tell me what you think' energy. That's pressure. Just... offer it. Then let it go."

She nods seriously, like you're imparting the secrets of the universe rather than basic dating advice you cobbled together from years of watching your friends and their roommates crash and burn.

"That makes so much sense. No pressure. I can do that."

The waiter returns with your drinks and food, and holy shit. The cinnamon roll is dripping with sauce.

"See? Told you," Tessa says with a hint of pride as she watches your reaction. "Life-altering pastry incoming."

She cuts the roll in half—giving you a portion. You take a bite and nearly moan. It's obscenely good—warm, gooey, with the perfect balance of spice and sweetness.

"Okay, you win," you concede, mouth full. "This is fucking incredible."

She laughs at your reaction. "See? I told you! Worth saving a little room for dinner for, right?"

You nod, reaching for your coffee to wash down the sweetness.

"Jungkook would kill for this," you say without thinking. "He's got this whole baking thing going on."

"Jungkook bakes?" Tessa's eyes widen with interest.

Shit.

You didn't mean to reveal that.

It feels like.. tossing her a secret that doesn't belong to you—like you're giving away this whole dimension of him she hasn't seen yet.

"Sometimes," you say vaguely. "Just to unwind, I think."

She hums thoughtfully. "That makes sense. Creative types need outlets."

"So," you venture, curious despite yourself, "what got you into film anyway? You mentioned your dad was a cinematographer?"

Her smile shifts, softens at the edges.

"Yeah. He worked on indie projects mostly. Nothing you'd have heard of, but he was really talented." She traces the rim of her mug absently. "He had early onset Parkinson's. Had to stop when I was nine."

"That's rough," you say, meaning it.

She shrugs.

"It's okay. We watched movies together all the time after that. It was his way of still being connected to the industry, I think." The cloud passes quickly. "We started with all the classics—Hitchcock, Kubrick. But then he introduced me to international cinema, and that just... opened everything up."

You find yourself nodding, genuinely interested. "And that's how you got into Korean directors?"

"Exactly! Park Chan-wook was my gateway drug," she laughs. "My dad had this bootleg copy of Oldboy that blew my teenage mind. After that, I was hooked."

Huh... So her film knowledge isn't just a ploy to get into Jungkook's pants. She actually knows her shit.

Okay, well. It makes sense if she's in his cinema class or whatever.

That actually explains why they can talk about obscure directors without it being painfully forced.

"Has Jungkook mentioned what he wants to do? After graduation, I mean," she asks, wrapping her hands around her mug.

You pause, realizing with a jolt that you have absolutely no idea what Jungkook's career plans are. Not a clue.

You've never asked. He's never offered.

Somehow between the fighting and the fucking, the subject of his actual aspirations never came up.

"He hasn't talked about it much," you admit, trying not to sound as clueless as you feel. "He's in Film and Media Studies, so I assume it's... film related?"

Great. Super insightful commentary there. Real roommate-of-the-year material.

Tessa nods thoughtfully.

"He mentioned documentary work when we were discussing Herzog. I think he's drawn to that style—raw, unflinching." She smiles. "He has a really distinct perspective. I've seen some of his student projects online. He's got this way of framing things that's just... different."

Oh.

So he's shown her his work. And talked about his future. And compared himself to someone called Herzog, who you're going to Google the second you leave this café.

How… weird?

You've seen Jungkook naked. You've made him cum. You've fought over the remote and the last yogurt and which way the toilet paper should hang.

But you don't know a thing about his actual dreams.

"Huh. That tracks," you say, trying to sound like you're not learning about your roommate's entire career trajectory from a near-stranger. "He does have a way of looking at things differently."

This is surreal. You're discussing Jungkook's artistic vision with a girl who somehow knows more about his life goals than you do, despite the fact that his tongue was literally inside you less than 24 hours ago.

"You know," you say, shifting into advice mode to cover the bizarre disconnect, "I think Jungkook is going through some stuff right now."

Her eyebrows lift. "Oh?"

"Nothing serious," you backpedal, suddenly aware that you don't actually know what his 'stuff' even is.

You've barely gotten anything out of Yoongi—just vague warnings about his ex and the fact that he has 'damage.' You're not about to play telephone with info you don't have.

"Just... life. College. The usual mess."

Tessa's expression softens. "I get that. We're all kind of a mess at this age, aren't we? Figuring things out."

"Exactly. So just... be patient, I guess?" You fiddle with your napkin, feeling like a fraud. "Take it slow."

"I can do slow," she assures you, breaking off a piece of her cinnamon roll. Her fingers come away sticky with frosting. "No rush, right? We're young."

As you watch her lick frosting from her fingertips—completely unselfconscious, totally without guile—you find yourself thinking, objectively, that maybe this wouldn't be the worst thing for Jungkook.

Tessa—she seems normal. Steady. Uncomplicated. Like she probably doesn't start flour fights at 3 AM or call him names when she wants to fuck him.

Your phone buzzes again. You glance down to see another message from Jason.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝙸𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝙸'𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗?

You stare at the text, a small flutter of anticipation stirring in your chest… Because in all honesty, it's been a while since you've been genuinely interested in someone.

And it's so refreshing; Jason's straightforward approach, his evident interest in your mind rather than just what you look like in low lighting.

He'd spent most of the coffee date carefully deconstructing your analysis of 'Lady Lazarus' with the kind of respectful engagement that made you feel genuinely heard.

And fine, yes, he's cute too—in that scholarly way that makes you think of well-worn books and rainy afternoons. Dark hair that falls across his forehead when he's making a point. Green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A smile that transforms his serious face into something almost boyish.

"Wow, multiple texts from this not-boyfriend," Tessa teases, playfully tilting her head to try to see your screen. "He must really like you."

"We just had a good conversation," you say, trying to sound casual despite the little smile that won't quite leave your face. "He's easy to talk to."

"Sometimes that's all it takes," she says. "Chemistry doesn't have to be complicated."

You snort at that.

If only she knew how complicated chemistry could get.

Your brain unhelpfully flashes to Jungkook pressing you against the kitchen counter at 3 AM, his breath hot against your neck as he—

Nope. Not going there.

You check your watch, realizing that between the conversation and the sugar, more time has passed than you realized.

"We should probably head out soon," you say, taking one last sip of your coffee. "I've got class at five."

"Oh! Let me just get the check," Tessa says, waving to the waiter.

True to her word, Tessa insists on paying despite your halfhearted protests.

"Next time it's on me," you say, surprised to realize you actually mean it.

She's... nice. Not in the bland, beige way that usually feels fake, but in a way that's genuine without being exhausting.

"Deal," she agrees brightly, gathering her bags. "Maybe we could catch a film? There's a Wong Kar-wai retrospective at the Angelika next month."

"Sure."

You have absolutely no idea who Wong Kar-wai is, but whatever. Maybe you'll learn something.

You both push through the café's door into the cool afternoon air, still chatting about pastries and also about whether it's wrong to have dessert before lunch, when you spot him halfway down the block.

Taehyung.

He's leaning against the brick wall of a bookstore, scrolling on his phone, looking exactly like the pretentious art boy he is in an oversized coat.

Beside him stands a slender woman with sleek black hair cut in a sharp bob, dressed in an impeccable charcoal pantsuit. Even from this distance, everything about her screams 'I could destroy your credit score with a phone call.'

Your body reacts before your brain can catch up—you duck behind Tessa's slightly taller frame, using her as a human shield.

"What—?" she starts, confused by your sudden movement.

"Shh!" you hiss. "Don't look now, but Taehyung's right there."

But Tessa, beautiful, oblivious Tessa, immediately whips her head around.

"Where?"

"Oh my god, stop being so obvious," you groan, trying to melt further into her shadow.

It's too late. The woman with Taehyung has spotted Tessa and her face lights up with recognition.

"Tess!" she calls out, voice unexpectedly warm for someone who looks like she could fire you with a single raised eyebrow.

Tessa gasps softly.

"Oh! Iri!" She waves enthusiastically, grabbing your wrist with her other hand and effectively dragging you out of hiding. "Come on, I want you to meet her!"

"Wait, I don't think—" you start, but Tessa's already pulling you forward, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks like she might blow away in a strong wind.

As you're tugged toward the couple, you catch Taehyung's expression shifting from neutral to ice-cold recognition. His eyes narrow slightly as they lock onto you, lips pressing into a thin line.

The feeling is entirely mutual. Every interaction you've had with him has been loaded with thinly veiled contempt—like he's perpetually scanning your radioactive wasteland of a soul and finding you wanting.

And now you're being dragged toward him by a human ray of sunshine who appears to be friends with his girlfriend.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You freeze like prey, cowering behind Tessa with a grimace so pained it probably looks like you're passing a kidney stone. There's a car idling at the curb just a few feet away.

Could you make a run for it? Throw yourself in front of it? Anything would be better than dealing with Taehyung's judgmental bullshit right now.

But then—

"Oh, you're Jungkook's roommate, right? Y/N?"

Your head snaps toward the voice so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

The woman—Iri—is staring directly at you with the bluest eyes you've ever seen in your life. Like, illegally blue. Contact lenses blue. Except they're obviously real and what the fuck, universe? Some people get everything.

She's older than your group by maybe six or seven years, which suddenly makes sense.

Judge. Right. Jungkook mentioned that.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," you manage to say, feeling weirdly caught out, like you've been busted trespassing.

Taehyung makes a sound in the back of his throat—a scoff that says more than a five-paragraph essay about how unimpressed he is by your continued existence.

"I'm Irika, but everyone just calls me Iri," she says, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Her nails are a deep wine red, and you suddenly feel self-conscious about your own chipped polish. "Nice to meet you."

You grab her hand, feeling bizarrely intimidated. Her grip is firm, confident—the handshake of someone who's never questioned her right to take up space in a room.

Then she smiles, and her entire demeanor shifts. Where her appearance suggested total condescension and boardroom intimidation, her smile radiates warmth. It crinkles the corners of her eyes and transforms her face from intimidating perfection to approachable beauty.

Behind her, Taehyung is mouthing words at you with all the subtlety of a neon sign: 'What are you doing here?!'

You narrow your eyes, mouthing back: 'That's what I should be asking!'

His eyes dart to Tessa, who's chattering excitedly with Iri about some exhibition they both apparently went to last month, then back to you with clear accusation: 'Why are you with the ginger girl from his party?'

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your skull. You mouth back: 'Her name is Tessa, dickasso, and by the way, she seems well acquainted with YOUR girlfriend.'

Taehyung's left eye twitches. Actually twitches.

You'd laugh if you weren't busy trying to figure out how to extricate yourself from this social nightmare.

"—and Y/N's been so sweet," Tessa is saying, looping her arm through yours like you're longtime friends. "She's been giving me advice on how to—"

Your stomach drops.

Oh god. Oh no. She wouldn't.

"—navigate the whole NYU film department scene," Tessa finishes smoothly. "Since she's close with Jungkook and all."

Oh. Crisis averted.

Wait—close with Jungkook? Is that what she thinks? That the two of you are, what, besties? Does regularly calling someone an insufferable asshat while they bend you over kitchen counters count as 'close'?

Taehyung looks like he just swallowed a lemon.

Whole.

"Close," he repeats flatly. "With Jungkook."

"Well, they live together," Tessa says, all wide-eyed innocence. "They must get along."

Taehyung's eyes meet yours in what might be the first moment of genuine connection you've ever shared: mutual horror at the absolute absurdity of that statement.

"Actually," you start, ready to clarify just how not-close you and Jungkook are on a daily basis, but Iri cuts in.

"How wonderful to finally meet one of Jungkook's roommates," she says, her smile warm and genuine. "Taehyung mentions him all the time, but we haven't had a proper introduction yet."

You blink, momentarily thrown. "You... haven't met Jungkook?"

"Schedules," Taehyung answers curtly. "Busy."

Iri laughs, the sound rich and melodic.

"What he means is, between my court schedule and his art exhibitions, we barely find time for each other, let alone proper friend introductions." She glances at her watch—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that probably costs more than your monthly rent. "Speaking of which, I really need to get going soon. I have closing arguments in forty minutes in lower Manhattan."

"Oh!" Tessa exclaims, perking up like she just remembered something. "That's actually not far from where I need to be. I've got to return some books at the NYU library before they close."

"You're heading downtown too?" Iri asks. "We can walk together."

"Perfect!" Tessa smiles, then her eyes light up with genuine excitement. "Oh, I completely forgot to mention—my grandparents are going to be in Europe over Halloween, and they said I could use their place in Greenwich Village for a party."

Your ears perk up at 'Greenwich Village', because woah, okay. That explains the designer backpack and expensive cardigan—those aren't just splurges, they're everyday basics for someone with grandparents who casually own real estate in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Manhattan.

"It's this amazing brownstone with the original moldings and a rooftop garden," she continues, her enthusiasm building. "I'm thinking of inviting our whole film cohort, plus some people from literature and maybe the other arts programs. You know how everyone mingles anyway."

She turns to you and Iri with equal enthusiasm.

"You should both come! And bring whoever you want—Taehyung, of course," she nods to Iri, "and Y/N, you should bring that guy you were texting! And Jungkook too, of course. I'll probably tell people to bring friends from their programs too—I love when the creative departments mix."

Your stomach tightens at the thought of Jason and Jungkook in the same room.

Not that it matters. It's not like you and Jungkook are… anything. You're just roommates who occasionally fuck. No reason for any weirdness.

Right?

"That sounds wonderful," Iri says, checking her watch again. "But I really do need to get going if I'm going to make it to court on time."

"I'll walk with you," Tessa offers, gathering her bags. "It's basically on my way to the library."

"Let me drive you," Taehyung says to Iri, his voice flat but insistent; not sweet or puppy-like—but almost demanding, like he's telling rather than asking.

Iri laughs and pats his arm firmly. "It's a ten-minute walk, pumpkin. The fresh air will help clear my head before court."

Pumpkin.

PUMPKIN.

P U M P K I N.

You struggle to keep your face neutral.

This intimidating legal powerhouse just called the human embodiment of artistic disdain 'pumpkin,' and the strangest part is he doesn't even seem bothered by it.

"Fine," Taehyung says, the word clipped. "Call me after."

"I will," Iri promises, then turns to you with that warm smile that somehow makes you feel both welcomed and thoroughly examined. "It was lovely to meet you, Y/N. I hope to see you at Halloween."

"Yeah, um, nice to meet you too," you manage, feeling bizarrely like you've just had a job interview.

"Y/N, I'll text you the details!" Tessa calls over her shoulder as she and Iri start walking away, already deep in conversation about something involving an art exhibition.

And just like that, you're left alone with Taehyung.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and thoroughly uncomfortable.

You've never actually been alone with him before. There's always been a Jungkook or a Yoongi or a crowd of people as a buffer.

A tiny, undignified snort escapes you before you can stop it.

"What?" Taehyung snaps, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Nothing," you say, biting back a smile. "Just… 'pumpkin'?"

His glare could wither plants. "What about it, phoenix?"

You roll your eyes at the obvious mockery.

"Original," you mutter.

Your phone buzzes, offering a blessed distraction from this awkward standoff. You glance down to see a text from Jungkook.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚟 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗'𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

Taehyung's gaze flicks to your phone, then back to your face. "That's Jungkook."

It's not a question. It's a statement.

You blink. "How did you—"

"Just text him back that we're not a fucking delivery service," Taehyung cuts you off, already turning away. "I have an installation to finish."

You stare at his retreating back for a second before finding your voice. "Wait, what? How did you know it was about cat food?"

Taehyung stops, shoulders stiff.

"Because Griffin's out of food and Jungkook's too busy with whatever the fuck he's doing to get it himself." He turns back to you with a scowl. "So now I'm supposed to drop everything and take you shopping."

"I didn't ask for a babysitter," you snap back. "I can buy cat food by myself."

Taehyung actually laughs—a short, harsh sound with zero humor.

"Right. And then Griffin will get sick because you bought whatever garbage was on sale, and Jungkook will be up all night with him, and then he'll miss his deadline, and then—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "Whatever. It's fine. I'll just fix everything. It’s my thing."

"It's fucking cat food," you repeat slowly, like you're explaining to a toddler. "I'll just get the expensive brand. Problem solved."

"It's not that simple," Taehyung growls, actually taking a step toward you. "He needs the salmon formula, not the chicken. And it has to be mixed with the right wet food. And it can't be the chunks in gravy, because those make him sick."

You stare at him, momentarily speechless. "How do you know all this?"

He scoffs. "Some of us actually listen when our friends talk."

"I listen," you protest, feeling oddly defensive.

"Clearly," he says dryly, then sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. "Look, my car's parked a couple blocks away. We're going to the pet store, getting the right food, and then I'm dropping you off so I can get back to my actual life."

You're about to argue—about to tell him you're perfectly capable of handling this on your own—but his expression stops you.

There's something in his eyes that isn't just annoyance. It's concern. Genuine concern.

For Jungkook? For Griffin? You can't quite tell, but it's enough to make you hold your tongue.

"Fine," you mutter, falling into step beside him. "But I'm picking the music."

"Absolutely not," Taehyung replies without missing a beat.

As you follow him down the street, you can't help but wonder what strange alternate universe you've stumbled into. One where you're willingly spending time with Taehyung, of all people, on a mission to buy premium cat food for Griffin.

The things you do for… well, not for Jungkook. Definitely not for him. For the cat. Poor innocent Griffin doesn't deserve to suffer just because his owner is an annoying jackass who can't do his own errands.

Right. That's definitely it.

Who knew cats could eat better than college students?

That much is clear from the vast selection of gourmet pet food spread before you like some kind of feline fine dining expo. You're pretty sure premium carrots aren't even a thing for humans, but here's Griffin apparently living his best organic, grain-free, omega-3 enriched life.

"This is insane," you mutter, scanning the wall of options that stretches from floor to ceiling. "There's literally a 'wild-caught salmon pâté with organic sweet potato.' What's next, a wine pairing?"

Taehyung doesn't laugh. Doesn't even crack a smile. He's studying the shelves with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs or choosing a life partner.

"Griffin's stomach is sensitive," he says, reaching for a specific blue and silver can like he's done this a thousand times before. "Most cats can handle the cheap stuff. He can't."

"Why not? And how would you even know a cat's stomach sensitivity?" You scoff, eyeing the variety. "Is there a chart or something?"

"Experience," is all he says, and you watch him check the expiration date on the can.

"How sensitive are we talking? Like, lactose intolerant sensitive, or 'one wrong ingredient and we're at the emergency vet at 3 AM' sensitive?"

Taehyung's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "The second one."

Oh.

That's... not what you expected.

You'd figured Griffin was just a spoiled house cat with expensive taste, not an actual medical case. The way Taehyung handles the cans—checking dates, reading ingredients lists—suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"Since when?" you ask, because subtlety has never been your strong suit.

"Since I've known him." Taehyung places six cans in the basket with the kind of care people use for glass ornaments. "Some cats are just... fragile."

There's something in the way he says 'fragile' that makes you think he's not just talking about digestive issues.

You file that away for later, watching as he moves to the dry food section like he's mapped this store in his sleep.

"So you've been buying Griffin's food for a while?"

"When needed." His answer is clipped, but not hostile. More like he's carefully measuring how much information to give you.

You pick up one of the bags he's examining—some fancy grain-free salmon formula that costs more than your weekly grocery budget.

"Jesus. Forty-eight dollars for cat food?"

"Griffin's worth it."

The simplicity of that statement catches you off guard. No justification, no explanation. Just flat certainty that this orange furball deserves the best, regardless of cost.

"You really care about him," you observe, and it comes out less sarcastic than you intended.

Taehyung's hands still on the bag he's holding. For a moment, you think he might actually open up, might explain why he's willing to spend nearly fifty dollars on cat food for an animal that isn't even his.

Instead, he hefts the bag into the cart. "Jungkook cares about him. So I care about him."

It's such a simple equation, but there's something almost fierce in the way he says it. Like Griffin's wellbeing is non-negotiable, not because of the cat himself, but because of what the cat means to Jungkook.

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. In all your observations of Jungkook—and fuck, you've been doing a lot of observing lately—you've never seen him be particularly anxious about Griffin. If anything, the cat seems like a source of comfort for him. All those late nights when you hear soft murmuring from Jungkook's room, you'd assumed he was on the phone or talking to himself.

Now you're wondering if he was talking to Griffin.

"Griffin's been through a lot," you say as Taehyung leads you toward the checkout.

"What makes you say that?"

"The way you're acting like he's made of glass. Either he's the most high-maintenance cat alive, or something happened to make him that way."

Taehyung stops walking entirely, turning to face you with an expression that's part surprise, part calculation, looking as if he's recalibrating his assessment of your intelligence.

"Griffin's sensitive to... transitions. New places, new people. Takes him a while to trust."

"Transitions?"

Taehyung's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, like he said more than he meant to.

"Yeah. Well." He turns back to the shelves, suddenly very interested in reading ingredient labels. "Jungkook lived in my apartment for the last few months before moving into the new place with Yoongi. And... you."

Wait. What?

Your brain takes a second to process this information. Jungkook lived with Taehyung? Recently? As in, before your apartment?

"He lived with you?"

"Yeah." Taehyung's answer makes him sound like he's already regretting bringing it up. "Griffin didn't handle the transition well. Got sick. A lot."

This is news to you. Jungkook has never mentioned living anywhere else recently. You'd just assumed he'd been apartment shopping with Yoongi, found your building, signed the lease. Normal roommate progression.

But apparently there's a whole chapter of Jungkook's recent history you know nothing about. A chapter that involved Taehyung's couch and a sick cat and circumstances you're definitely not getting the full story on.

"Why did he need a place to stay?"

The question comes out before you can stop it, and immediately you wish you could take it back.

But it's been sitting in your chest since Taehyung mentioned it, this knowledge that there are pieces of Jungkook's life you don't understand.

Taehyung looks at you like you just asked him to solve theoretical physics. "What is this, an interrogation?"

"Just curious."

"Well, don't be."

The checkout line is mercifully short, but as you're standing there watching Taehyung count out exact change for Griffin's gourmet feast, that conversation keeps replaying in your head.

There's something he's not telling you—something about why Jungkook needed a place to crash, why Griffin got sick, why Taehyung looks like he wishes he could take back every word he just said.

"Why do you hate me?" you ask as the cashier—a teenager with multiple facial piercings who looks like she'd rather be literally anywhere else—scans the items with the enthusiasm of someone who's given up on life.

Taehyung blinks, clearly not expecting such a direct question. "I don't hate you."

"Right. You just think I'm a walking disaster who's going to ruin Jungkook's life somehow."

"That's not—" He stops, jaw working like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. "I don't hate you. I just don't trust new things."

"Things?"

"Okay, people who show up in Jungkook's life. They tend to complicate things."

History in that statement. Recent history, judging by the way Taehyung's hands tighten on his wallet.

"And what exactly do you think I'm going to complicate?" you ask, because apparently you're committed to this conversation now.

"Everything." He hands the cashier exact change, dismissing the question like it's obvious. "You live with him. You're in his space every day. That's... a lot of potential for things to go wrong."

"I'm not planning to burn the apartment down."

"People never plan to fuck up," Taehyung replies, pocketing his receipt. "They just do."

The weight of that statement settles over you as you leave the store, Taehyung carrying the bag of expensive cat food like it contains precious artifacts.

You want to ask what he means—who fucked up, how, when—but you can tell the window for personal confessions has firmly closed.

Still, as you walk toward his car, you find yourself thinking about Griffin. About sensitive stomachs and transition anxiety and the way Taehyung handles those cans like they're made of crystal.

"How long did he live with you?" you ask as Taehyung unlocks his car—a decent Mercedes that's somehow perfectly clean inside.

Taehyung pauses with his hand on the door handle, and you can practically see him weighing how much to tell you.

"Few months," he says finally, which feels deliberately vague.

"Must have been cramped."

"He needed a place." The answer comes out defensive, like you've questioned his motives. "He slept on my couch. Griffin too. Neither of them was supposed to be there, technically."

You want to ask more—why Jungkook needed a place to stay, why it was only a few months, what happened before—but something in Taehyung's posture warns you off.

"Must have been rough," you say instead. "For Griffin, I mean. All that change."

"Griffin was sick a lot at first. Stress, probably. New environment, new routine. Jungkook barely slept for the first month, just watching him."

The image that creates—Jungkook curled up on Taehyung's couch, probably too tall for it, keeping vigil over a cat who was struggling to adjust to yet another upheaval—does something strange to your chest.

"Is that why he's so particular about Griffin's food?"

Taehyung starts the car before answering.

"Griffin almost died that first month. Something he ate didn't agree with him, and by the time we got him to the emergency vet, he was..." He trails off, jaw tight. "Jungkook didn't leave the vet's office for three days. Slept in the waiting room, refused to go home. The vet finally had to give him a cot in the back room just so he'd stop scaring the other pet owners."

Jesus. No wonder Jungkook is weird about Griffin's food. No wonder Taehyung memorized ingredient lists and expiration dates.

"That's intense."

"Jungkook was... not okay." Taehyung's voice is neutral, but there's an undercurrent of something that might be residual anxiety. "Griffin was all he had left from... before. Losing him would have been..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You can fill in the blanks easily enough.

Griffin wasn't just a pet to Jungkook—he was a lifeline, a connection to some version of his life that had been torn apart.

Before what, though? Before living with Taehyung? Before the apartment with you and Yoongi?

Mia?

The car ride falls into contemplative silence as you navigate downtown traffic. You find yourself watching Taehyung's profile, noting the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly whenever you hit a pothole that might jostle Griffin's precious food.

"Why do you care so much?" you ask as he pulls up outside your building. "I mean, Griffin's not even yours."

For a moment, you think he's going to give you another non-answer, another deflection.

But then he doesn't.

"Have you ever watched someone you care about almost lose the only good thing in their life?"

The question catches you off guard, because his voice now is unguarded in a way that makes you think this isn't really about Griffin at all.

"No."

"Then you don't get it." He reaches into the backseat for the cat food. "Griffin's not just a cat to Jungkook. He's proof that something good can survive, even when everything else goes to shit."

Taehyung seems to realize he's said too much, because he's suddenly all business again, checking his watch and muttering about his installation deadline.

But as you take the bag of overpriced cat food from him, you find yourself looking at it differently.

Not as an indulgence or a sign of Jungkook's particular tastes, but as evidence of care.

Of vigilance.

Of someone who's learned that the things you love can be fragile, and protecting them requires constant attention to details that might seem insignificant to everyone else.

Taehyung leaves promptly and without ceremony, like this conversation never happened.

But as his car pulls away from the curb, you're left standing on the sidewalk with more questions than answers.

You climb the stairs to your apartment slowly, thinking about scared cats and sleepless nights and the kind of love that shows up in ingredient lists and expiration dates.

Thinking about Jungkook at whatever age he was when his life went to shit, camping out in a vet's waiting room because the idea of losing Griffin was unthinkable.

When you unlock the apartment door, the first thing you see is Griffin himself, perched on the back of the couch like an orange sentinel, watching the door with the kind of focused attention that suggests he's been waiting for exactly this moment.

"Hey, buddy," you say, holding up the bag. "Brought you the good stuff."

Griffin's tail twitches once—what might be acknowledgment, or might just be a coincidence. But as you head toward the kitchen to unpack his expensive feast, you swear he follows you with his eyes.

Like he knows, the way cats sometimes do, that some things are worth protecting at any cost.

You're halfway through unpacking the cans when you spot it. A small yellow square stuck to the side of the coffee maker, folded once. Your name—well, not your actual name, because when has Jungkook ever used that—written in his messy handwriting across the front.

Phoenix.

You pause, can of overpriced salmon pâté still in your hand.

It's not unusual for you and your roommates to leave notes for each other. Yoongi's always sticking reminders on the fridge about bills or cleaning schedules. You've left your fair share of passive-aggressive observations about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.

But this feels… different?

You unfold it, and there's more of his chicken scratch inside:

Thanks for getting Griffin's food. Tae said you didn't complain (much). Means something.

That's it. No signature, no additional commentary. Just acknowledgment that you did something for Griffin, and apparently didn't throw a massive fit about it in the process.

Which. Okay. Fair enough. You could have complained. A lot. About the prices and the specific requirements and the way Taehyung treated Griffin's dietary needs like nuclear launch codes.

But you didn't.

You stare at the note for longer than is probably normal, trying to figure out why it's making your chest feel weird.

It's just basic politeness, right? Thanking someone for doing a favor. Nothing groundbreaking about that.

Except Jungkook doesn't usually do basic politeness.

He does sarcasm and provocation and those annoying little smirks that make you want to either hit him or climb him like a tree. He doesn't do... gratitude.

'Means something'—yeah okay, what the hell is that supposed to mean?

You're still puzzling over it when you hear keys in the front door. Griffin immediately perks up, his whole body shifting toward the sound like a furry radar system locking onto a target.

"Griffin?" Jungkook's voice carries from the entryway, and the cat launches himself off the couch like he's been shot from a cannon. "Hey, buddy. Miss me?"

There's the sound of rustling plastic bags and Griffin's purr motor starting up at maximum volume. You quickly stuff the yellow note into your pocket and continue unpacking cat food like that's definitely what you've been doing this entire time.

Not overthinking a three-line note. Definitely not.

"Nix?"

His voice is closer now, and when you glance up, he's standing in the kitchen doorway with grocery bags in his hands and—

Oh.

Oh shit.

His hair. His hair is different. Still dark, still long enough to flop into his eyes when he moves, but... trimmed. Styled. Like he actually went to a real salon instead of letting it grow into the vaguely unruly mess it's been for the past few weeks.

It frames his face differently now. Makes his jawline look sharper. Makes those dark eyes seem more intense, if that's even possible.

And he smells good. Not just his usual rain-and-something-undefined scent, but that plus something crisp and clean. Aftershave, maybe. Or whatever fancy shit they use at the kind of salon that charges more than your monthly grocery budget.

"Did you get your hair done?"

The question comes out before you can stop it, and immediately you want to take it back.

Because now you sound like you've been paying attention to his appearance.

Which you have been, obviously, but you're not supposed to admit it.

Jungkook's hand automatically goes to his hair, fingers running through the newly-styled strands in a gesture that's probably unconscious but looks annoyingly attractive anyway.

"Yeah, had a thing. Needed to look..." He trails off, like he's not sure how to finish that sentence without revealing more than he wants to.

A thing. Right.

And suddenly it clicks. The hair. The aftershave.

He's taking your advice.

About Tessa.

Holy shit. He's actually going for it. The boy who swore off emotional entanglement, who claimed he wasn't looking for anything complicated, is putting in effort. Real effort. The kind that involves professional hair styling and smelling like he stepped out of a magazine.

It's... actually kind of sweet. In a weird, Jungkook way.

Like he heard what you said about Tessa liking him and thought, 'maybe something good can happen to me for once.'

Maybe he deserves to try dating someone normal. Someone who makes thoughtful playlists instead of someone who argues with him about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.

"Looks good," you say, and manage to keep your voice mostly neutral. "Very... intentional."

He grins at that, and it's the kind of smile that should probably come with a warning label.

"Intentional. I like that."

He starts unpacking his groceries—takeout containers, what looks like ingredients for actual cooking.

"So, speaking of intentional..." His eyes flick to the premium pet store bag sitting on the counter. "Want to explain why you went all the way to Chelsea for cat food?"

Shit. You'd forgotten about the bag. About the logo that basically screams 'I paid way too much for pet supplies.'

"Taehyung insisted," you say, which is technically true. "Apparently Griffin has very sophisticated tastes."

"Griffin has a sensitive stomach," Jungkook corrects, but there's something softer in his voice when he talks about the cat. "But you didn't have to go to the fancy place. The normal pet store would have been fine."

"Tell that to your friend. He acted like I'd commit feline genocide if I bought the wrong brand."

Jungkook's grin widens. "Yeah, that sounds like Tae. He gets weird about Griffin."

"So I noticed." You hold up one of the cans, squinting at the price sticker. "Seriously, though. Twenty-three dollars for cat food? Does this stuff come with a fucking pedigree?"

"It's organic," Jungkook says, like that explains everything. "And Griffin's worth it."

There it is again. That simple certainty that Griffin deserves the best, no matter the cost. The same thing Taehyung said, word for word.

"If you say so." You start loading the cans into the cabinet, trying to ignore the way Jungkook is watching you. "Your cat, your credit card debt."

"Actually, speaking of credit cards..." He pulls out his wallet, which looks suspiciously new and expensive. Another purchase for his mysterious date, probably. "How much did all this cost? I should pay you back."

You wave him off without turning around. "Don't worry about it."

"Nix. Seriously. This stuff isn't cheap."

"I said don't worry about it."

"I'm not letting you pay for Griffin's food." His voice has that stubborn edge it gets when he's decided something is non-negotiable. "What's the damage? Hundred? Hundred fifty?"

"I don't have the receipt."

"Then guess."

You turn to face him, noting the way he's got his wallet out and ready, like he's prepared to throw money at this problem until it goes away.

"Why does it matter? It's done. Griffin gets his fancy food, you get to keep your credit score intact. Everyone wins."

"Because I don't want you paying for my shit."

There's something almost insulting in the way he says it. Like the idea of owing you money is fundamentally unacceptable.

"Right," you say, your voice sharper than you intended. "God forbid you're in debt to the horrible roommate."

"That's not—" He stops, jaw working like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. "I just don't like owing people.

"Well, too bad. Consider it payment for all the times you've used my shampoo."

"I'll buy you new shampoo."

"I don't want new shampoo."

"Then what do you want?"

You swallow at that.

Because what you want is complicated and messy and probably involves him smelling like expensive aftershave while doing things that would make your neighbors complain about the noise.

What you want is to know where he's going tonight.

Whether his hair still smells like salon products or if his usual rain scent is already taking over.

What you want is to stop caring about any of this.

"Nothing," you say finally. "I don't want anything."

Jungkook studies your face like he's trying to solve a puzzle, and you have the uncomfortable feeling that he can see right through your neutrality to the mess of contradictions underneath.

"Come on," he says, and his voice is softer now, coaxing. "There's got to be something. Dinner? Coffee? I could make you one of those fancy drinks you're always ordering at that place you like."

The offer catches you off guard.

Not because it's generous—though it is—but because it suggests he's been paying attention. That he's noticed what you order, where you go, what you like.

Which is weird, because why is he doing that?

"You can pay in my orgasms, dickhead," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to bypass your brain entirely.

Jungkook blinks. Once. Twice. And then that dangerous grin spreads across his face like spilled wine.

"Is that an offer or a payment plan?"

Heat creeps up your neck, but you refuse to back down. "It's an acknowledgment that some things are worth more than money."

"Are they now?" He takes a step closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small. "And how exactly am I supposed to pay in those?"

"Figure it out," you say, grabbing the empty pet store bag and crushing it into a ball. "You're creative."

"Challenge accepted, Phoenix." His grin turns wicked. "Though I should probably warn you—might not be able to keep up that payment plan much longer."

The words hit you like cold water.

Of course. Because he's going to be busy. With Tessa. With whatever normal, healthy relationship dynamic they're going to build together while you're stuck being the messy roommate who propositions him over cat food expenses.

Your lips press together automatically, but somehow you manage to twist them into something that might pass for a smile.

“Good thing orgasms don't have expiration dates then."

And you're already halfway to your room when his voice follows you, rich with amusement and something that might be promise.

"We'll see about that."

You don't slam your door. You close it slowly. Like a mature adult who definitely didn't just proposition her emotionally unavailable roommate in the middle of an argument about cat food expenses.

Like someone who has her shit together.

But you can’t help but huff out the sigh that was building in your chest as you pull that yellow post-it note out of your pocket, smoothing it flat against your desk.

‘Means something.’

What exactly does something mean?

That you’re… what, friends now? That he noticed you didn’t throw a tantrum about spending a small fortune on cat food? That this is his version of a friendship bracelet?

Whatever. Doesn’t matter anyway.

Because Jungkook’s going to be unavailable soon. For sex. He’s finally going to try dating someone normal and healthy who makes him thoughtful playlists instead of sarcastic comments about his protein powder obsession.

And that’s… honestly, it’s fine. It was going to end eventually anyway, right? These things always do.

Roommate hookups have built-in expiration dates.

Someone always catches feelings or gets weird about it or finds someone better suited for actual relationship material.

You’re not losing anything. You’re just… transitioning. Moving on to the next phase of whatever this living situation is supposed to be.

And honestly? Maybe this solves some problems for you too.

No more weird morning-after moments where you have a breakdown wondering if you were too stupid for climbing into his bed.

No more getting distracted by the way he looks when he’s focused on something, or how his voice sounds when he’s half-asleep.

No more complications.

Plus, there’s Jason. Jason with his wire-rimmed glasses and his thoughtful literary debates and his complete lack of any connection to your living situation.

Who smells like expensive cologne instead of rain and something indefinable.

Jason could be good. Really good. Normal good.

Dating good.

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