ouurchids - Tumblr blog

ouurchids · 2 days ago

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⤷ summary : Your flower shop wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Then a tattoo artist with deadpan eyes and sleeves full of stories moved in across the street—and got smacked in the face with your peonies. Now there are window waves, petty bouquets from his ex, shared coffees, sketchbooks, flower meanings, and silences that feel louder than words.You swore it was nothing. He never said it was anything. But something’s blooming anyway.

⤷ pairing: Jungkook x fem!reader. ⤷ rating: 18+ mdni ⤷ genre: flufffff, humor, angst, yearning, opposite attracts, suggestive. ⤷ warnings: mentions of food, cursing, mentions of needle, tons of mention about flowers, grief, death of parents, overwhelmed, bestfriend!jihyo + bestfriend!tae, they alone are a sufficient warning lol, bad attempt at humor?? ⤷ word count: around 12k heheh

a/n : i wrote this fic because clearly therapy is too expensive and jungkook with rolled-up sleeves is free.

this is for the flower girlies, the tattoo boy simps, and anyone who’s ever made prolonged eye contact through a café window and overthought it for three days straight.

reblogs > oxygen.

playlist: ditto by nwj

The morning had already taken one look at you and decided, “Yeah, let’s ruin her.”

Sunlight spilled into the cramped storage room like it had beef with your eyes, spotlighting the exact thing you couldn’t find: the cartwheel.

“Where is that rolling piece of metal trash—” you hissed, yanking aside boxes of seed packets and one very suspicious sack of lavender labeled ‘For External Use Only,’ courtesy of drunk-Jihyo’s late night labeling spree.

The shop smelled like fresh soil, eucalyptus, and regret. Mostly because you’d forgotten to water the basil wall again, and it was starting to look like the botanical version of a hangover.

your foot caught on a bag of fertilizer, and you nearly faceplanted into a tray of thorny succulents.

“Jesus Christ’s left nipple, if I die impaled on a cactus I hope someone makes it a tribute piece.”

“You good back there or are you finally being sacrificed to the plant gods?” Jihyo called from the front, her voice sharp and amused like always.

“I’m wrestling with a demon cartwheel that’s actively hiding from me,” you yelled, popping up with wild hair and a very personal vendetta. “Either that or it grew sentience and fled this capitalist hellscape.”

A snort. A thud. Jihyo casually leaned against the doorway in her signature oversized overalls, one strap off her shoulder and a flower clip in her hair that somehow made her look both terrifying and cute.

“Did you check behind the dead hydrangea?” Jihyo asked, sipping her iced matcha like this wasn’t a crisis.

“That hydrangea is not dead. It’s dramatic. Like you.” You bent down and sure enough—there was the cartwheel, wedged behind a fallen bag of soil and a busted watering can.

“Oh my god, you were right.” you grunted, dragging it out and nearly dislocating your hip in the process.

“Say it louder. Maybe the roses will hear it and finally start respecting me.”

“I’d rather die by begonia.”

With a final heave and a string of whispered curses that would make a nun combust, you yanked the cartwheel free. Dust flew. A spider the size of anxiety scurried off. you coughed, wheezed, and dramatically wiped your forehead with the back of your hand like you were starring in a tragic indie film.

Jihyo watched, unimpressed. “You’re literally a psycho.”

“You chose this best friend life,” hissed you, grabbing a bucket of peonies and flinging it into the cart. “You could’ve ditched me in high school when I made you that floral condom bouquet for your birthday.”

“You hot glued a magnum onto a sunflower.”

“And you cried.”

“I cried because my mom saw it first.”

A loud cackle echoed through the greenhouse ceiling. This was the rhythm of them. Chaos, sarcasm, and a whole lot of weird affection they never really had to explain.

Then you loaded the last of the blooms onto the cart and smacked palms together like you’d just won a war. “Alright. I’m heading out. Gotta replace the window pots with the new batch before the city sends another passive-aggressive letter about ‘noncompliant aesthetic violations.’”

“Grab coffee on the way back?”

“Obviously. Therapy in a cup, courtesy of our mutual emotionally stable barista.”

“Tell Namjoon I miss his arms.”

“I will. But also, no. Because that man has seen me sob into a croissant and I can’t give him more emotional leverage.”

You shoved the cart forward with a dramatic push and strutted to the front, calling, “Back in ten! Unless the peonies mutiny. In which case, I die a martyr.”

“Tell them to take you out quickly. I don’t want blood on the shop floor again.”

The door chimed as you stepped outside, sunlight blinding for a split second before your eyes adjusted to the bright city sidewalk.

The hands moved on instinct as you began unplugging flowers from the mini garden racks lining the store’s outer wall. Petunias, daisies, and snapdragons—each bloom whispered their own little stories, their own scent memories.

As you worked, a silence pressed in. Not uncomfortable—just familiar. Like the kind you settle into after a long day.

you remembered mornings like this with your parents. your dad humming off-tune while arranging seed trays, mom pretending to hate the sound. you missed them like a phantom limb. Not always visible. Always there.

And Jihyo—your soulmate. your anchor. you both have been inseparable since sophomore year when you punched a guy in the hallway for making fun of Jihyo’s laugh. Jihyo bought you a coffee the next day and said, “You’re mine now.”

She never left.

Tugging a particularly stubborn dahlia loose from its crate and groaning, you said “You better not be this dramatic when I re-pot you, you spicy little diva.”

You smiled at the thought of Namjoon waiting at the café a few doors down. Soft-spoken, cardigan-wrapped wisdom with biceps sent by angels. Barista by day, therapist on Tuesdays, secret emotional support system always.

“I’ll need a double-shot existential crisis blend by noon,” you muttered to yourself.

Just as you wheeled the cart around the corner, something snapped.

A horrible, clunky CLANK.

The front wheel of the cart locked into a sewer grate with the force of a divine punishment.

“Oh, no. No. Not today, Satan.” you backed up. Tugged. Nothing.

Then planted one boot against the edge and yanked with both hands.

CRACK. WHOOSH.

Half the flowers flung forward like floral missiles. you barely registered the sound of someone’s startled grunt.

you looked up.

Right into the very confused, very sharp-boned face of a man now covered in flamingo lilies and crushed peonies. He stood stock-still, long black sleeves, dark eyes, and exactly zero expression. And hot.

He blinked. Dead serious.

“Guess I finally got my flowers,” he said.

“Who died?”

you blinked back.

Then narrowed your eyes. “Depends. Do you count as emotionally deceased?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I prefer emotionally hibernating.”

Both of you stared at each other. Then you realized that you had no idea who he was—but hated how unfairly hot he looked in this stupid lighting.

Also? One of your daisies was in his hair.

⸻

The bell above the shop door screamed as it slammed shut behind you, announcing your return like it was reporting a crime.

stormed inside, hair half out of its bun, one boot untied, and flower petals stuck in places flower petals were never meant to be. Your hands flew up as you muttered an impressively creative string of curses under your breath—something about lilies, sewer grates, and how God clearly had a sense of humor.

Jihyo didn’t even flinch. She looked up from behind the counter, one eyebrow raised, iced matcha still perfectly still in her hand.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said casually.

“No.” your voice dry, eyes wide. “Worse.”

“Worse than a ghost?” Jihyo set down her drink and stared harder. “Did the snapdragons finally talk back?”

You dragged the cart to a stop and slapped the leftover flowers on the counter like they’d betrayed you.

“No. I hit a man in the face with lilies.”

Jihyo blinked. “Lilies?”

“Yes. Launched them. Airborne. Full-on floral assault.”

“…What?”

You held up your hands, exasperated. “My cart wheel got stuck. I yanked it, lost control, and the flowers literally flew. Hit this guy square in the jaw. And he just stood there. Didn’t even flinch. Like it happens to him every Tuesday.”

Jihyo was already grinning. “Wait. Was he hot?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Irrelevant.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It is not.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m traumatized.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

Groaning, collapsed onto the little stool behind the counter. “He had the face of a Greek god and the personality of a haunted spreadsheet.”

“So… mysterious and emotionally constipated?”

“Yes. And deadpan. When I asked if he was emotionally deceased, he said he preferred emotionally hibernating.”

Jihyo let out a wheeze. “Who says that?”

“Apparently the man I assaulted with my peonies.”

There was a pause.

Then Jihyo said, very slowly, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Tell me this didn’t happen right outside the tattoo shop.”

You looked up. “Why would you say that like you know something?”

“Because if it’s the same guy I think it is… that would be Jeon Jungkook.”

Then your eyebrows shot up. “Who?”

“Tattoo artist. Quiet. Tall. Hot. Looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast and has never emotionally recovered from middle school.”

“That was the vibe,” you muttered.

Jihyo leaned forward. “Did he have a mole under his lip?”

“I didn’t count his pores, Jihyo.”

“But you noticed the jawline.”

“Shut up.”

Jihyo grinned, and then her expression shifted into something half-serious. “You should probably stay away from him.”

Blinking, you asked. “What? Why?”

Jihyo shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Because he’s intense. And weird. And broody. And… tattoo artists are always dangerous.”

“That’s literally your type.”

“I know. Which is why I’m warning you.”

You frowned. “This is the first time I’ve seen him. How do you even know him already?”

Jihyo sipped her matcha, eyes glinting. “I have my ways.”

“Jihyo.”

“I once followed his Pinterest board by accident and ended up in a group chat with three men named Namjoon.”

“…What?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

You stared at her best friend. “Sometimes I think you’re just collecting NPCs in real life.”

“And sometimes I think you’re one caffeine crash away from full villain origin story, so we’re even.”

⸻

Jungkook stood in the backroom of the studio, glaring at the mirror like it had done something personal.

He plucked the last of the crushed lily petals from his hoodie and held it up with two fingers like it was radioactive. “This was a mistake.”

The shop. The move. The entire city block. All of it.

He tossed the petal into the trash, only for another to fall out of his hair like nature was mocking him.

He muttered under his breath, voice low and biting. “Who gets hit in the face with flowers at nine in the fucking morning?”

And yet here he was. Still smelling faintly of florals. Still trying to forget the look on your face—equal parts shock, sarcasm, and something dangerously curious.

The worst part? He couldn’t even be mad. It was… funny. annoyingly funny. Now that if he thinks about it.

He picked another petal off his shoulder and cursed.

From behind the divider wall, there was a squeaky swivel.

Taehyung’s chair spun around like he was some sort of a James Bond villain.

He leaned back, smirking like a villain in socks. “You look like you just lost a custody battle to a florist.”

“I got ambushed,” Jungkook muttered.

Taehyung blinked. “By who? Garden gnomes?”

“No. A flower cart. And a woman.”

“A woman flower cart?”

Jungkook gave him a dead look. “She flung lilies at my face.”

Taehyung gasped. “Flung? On purpose?”

“No. It was… an accident. I think.”

Taehyung spun his chair again, slowly, thoughtfully. “Was she cute?”

Jungkook glared. “Why does that matter?”

“Because you’re growling, and that’s your ‘I’ve just met someone who might be at my level’ growl.”

“I don’t growl.”

“You definitely growled.”

Jungkook ignored him. “She said something about being emotionally deceased.”

Taehyung chuckled. “Sounds like your soulmate.”

“She insulted my tattoos.”

“Definitely your soulmate.”

There was a beat.

Then Jungkook turned, squinting. “Wait. How do you know what she looks like?”

Taehyung blinked, all innocent.

Jungkook stepped forward. “Taehyung.”

Taehyung lifted something from his lap—a flower. One of her flowers.

Jungkook stared at it like it was a bomb.

“You went to the shop?” he asked, eyes wide.

Taehyung shrugged. “It’s literally right across the street. You expect me to just ignore it?”

“You bought it?”

“I took it.”

Jungkook looked personally offended. “You stole a flower?”

“I left a ten,” Taehyung said. “Under the cactus. It counts.”

“That’s not how capitalism works.”

“It’s exactly how capitalism works.”

Jungkook rubbed his temple. “You’re unbelievable.”

Taehyung grinned, twirling the flower between his fingers. “You know, this place isn’t that bad. You’re already making enemies. That’s how you know a neighborhood is worth staying in.”

“I didn’t make an enemy.”

“Oh? So when are you asking her out?”

Jungkook threw the lily petal at him.

Taehyung ducked.

It hit the chair.

⸻

The new order came in just as you were dragging a bag of potting mix across the floor and losing a mild argument with a rogue fern. The bell dinged from the laptop. You wiped your hands on your already-dirty apron and walked over to check.

One custom bouquet.

Delivery included.

Okay. Nothing weird so far.

You clicked the order open and read through the notes.

“Color preference: white, yellow, pink. No red. He doesn’t deserve red.”

That made you blink.

Then came the request for the note card.

‘Hope your tattoos age better than your personality. You used to be hot, now you’re just annoying. Love, Somin.’

Then blinked again.

Then you read it aloud, slowly. “Hope your tattoos age better than your personality… You used to be hot, now you’re just annoying…”

You stared at the screen, expression blank.

“Damn.”

From across the shop, Jihyo looked up from her sketchpad. “What?”

“Got a breakup bouquet.”

“Oh? What’s the message?”

You turned the laptop toward her.

Jihyo squinted. Read. Let out a low whistle. “Yikes.”

“Right?” you muttered, grabbing a tray of carnations. “This one’s bitter as hell.”

“What’s the name?”

“Somin.” you scrolled down. “And it’s going to… Jeon Jungkook.”

shit.

Jihyo looked up again, fast. “What?”

You turned back to your best friend, slowly. “Jihyo.”

“Don’t say it.”

“It’s the guy.”

“What guy?”

“The one I hit in the face with flowers this morning.”

Jihyo blinked. “No way.”

“I’m not joking. It’s him.”

“That’s insane.”

“I know.”

You both stared at each other for a second.

Then Jihyo said, “Okay, but also. Of course.”

She started pulling the requested flowers into her arms. Daisies, pink carnations, yellow tulips. Pretty, harmless-looking things. Which only made it worse.

“No red?” Jihyo asked.

“Apparently red is too respectful.”

“Sounds like she wants him to feel ugly while surrounded by beauty.”

“She literally wrote ‘you used to be hot’ in the note. Like, that’s so rude.”

“But also funny.”

She wrapped the stems quickly, tying them together in a white paper cone with yellow tissue inside. Neutral, warm tones. Nothing romantic. Nothing angry. Just soft enough to sting.

“Honestly,” you said while curling the ribbon, “he didn’t look like a guy who dates.”

“You said he was hot.”

“He is hot, but not in a healthy way.”

Jihyo made a face. “What’s unhealthy-hot?”

“The kind of hot that looks like he listens to ambient noise playlists and ruins birthdays.”

“Oh. Brooding hot.”

“Exactly.”

Then you clipped the note card on the front and stepped back.

The bouquet looked great. Perfect even. But something about the whole thing rubbed at you. The name. The face from this morning. The way he hadn’t flinched. And now this?

Who was this man?

Who dated someone like that, and then broke up so badly they needed to be dragged through bouquet?

He really didn’t look like the dating type. He looked like the type who said “we’ll see” and meant “you’ll never hear from me again.”

The more you thought about it, the less surprised it was that it ended messy.

“Want me to deliver it?” Jihyo offered.

“No. If I’m going to be part of this weird post-breakup ritual, I want to see it through.”

“You’re weirdly invested.”

“I just want to see if he looks shocked.”

“Why would he? He probably gets hate mail in his smoothie orders.”

You picked up the bouquet carefully and grabbed the shop keys. “Be back in ten.”

“Take your time. Text me if he cries.”

“I won’t. But you’ll sense it.”

—

The inside of the studio was quiet. Too quiet.

As you stepped past the glass door, the contrast hit her. Where your shop was all warm wood and green life and things that needed care, this place felt still. Dark walls. Exposed metal shelves. Glass cases. Ink bottles lined up like a science lab.

There was art, too—framed sketches pinned on the walls. Mostly black and grey. Some flowers, some birds, one full back piece of a koi fish mid-motion. But everything was… controlled. Clean. Balanced.

It was almost too perfect.

Minimalist. Precise. Like whoever ran this place had a deep need for order, even if the tattoos themselves were full of movement and mess.

You took a step further in, bouquet still in hand.

The smell was different here. Ink. Alcohol wipes. Metal. Nothing soft. Nothing sentimental.

It made you wonder, again, how someone like that got involved with someone like Somin.

The buzzing of the tattoo machine cut out.

And a second later, he appeared—Jeon Jungkook, in the same black sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed off whatever was left of this morning’s disaster.

You held the bouquet out before he could say anything. “Delivery. From someone named Somin.”

His face didn’t move, but something flickered in his eyes. A recognition. And maybe a sigh too quiet to hear.

He looked at the bouquet like it was a trap.

You waited.

He took it.

Then added, because you were still curious, still wondering what kind of guy stood in a place like this and dated a woman who wrote that kind of message:

“So… who is she?”

He looked at you. Eyes steady. Voice flat.

“None of your business.”

Well. That was that.

You were about to turn and leave when another voice called from the back.

“Ex,” Taehyung said, popping his head out from behind the corner like he’d been waiting for the moment. “They dated for a bit. She’s a stylist. Wanted to start a brand together. It didn’t work out.”

You glanced over at him.

He was dressed in a button-up that looked like it hadn’t been ironed once in its life, half-unbuttoned like he lived in an indie movie. Long hair, open smile. Something about him screamed “I paint at 2am and text you memes while shitting.”

“She was a bit much,” Taehyung added, casually. “He was worse.”

Jungkook sighed and dropped onto the low stool by the counter.

You looked at the two of them again—Jungkook with his blank expression and hands that looked like they were made for detail work, and Taehyung who was very clearly the opposite of all that.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence. “This is your studio?”

Jungkook nodded without looking at you.

Letting your eyes wander again, you looked at The shelves. The organized mess. The monochrome everything.

It didn’t feel cold, exactly. Just guarded. Like it was built to keep things separate. Clean.

“He doesn’t like color,” Taehyung said, watching you look around.

“I can tell.”

“He says it’s distracting.”

“It is,” Jungkook muttered, flicking the note card back and forth between his fingers.

“But he still draws in color sometimes,” Taehyung added, grinning. “He just doesn’t let anyone see it.”

That made you glance back at Jungkook.

He met your gaze briefly, then looked away.

“I should go,” you said, stepping back. “Good luck with the… flowers.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. His silence was louder than most people’s reactions.

And as you pushed open the glass door, bouquet-less now, you thought—not about the breakup, or the drama, or even Somin’s perfect insult.

You just thought about how someone who surrounded himself with sharp lines and cool tones still had lilies in his hair this morning.

By the time you got back to the shop, your shoulders were tight and thoughts were on loop.

You pushed open the door and let it fall shut behind harder than you meant to. The bell gave a half-hearted jingle like even it was too tired to care.

Jihyo didn’t look up right away. She was perched on the stool behind the counter, sipping the same iced matcha she’d been nursing for the past hour like it held ancient wisdom. Her phone was in her other hand, fingers scrolling lazily.

But her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the door click.

She studied your face for maybe three seconds.

Then she raised one eyebrow and said, “You look like someone just told you your plants are fake.”

Blinking you ran a hand through your hair. “Worse.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

Jihyo leaned forward, setting her cup down. “Okay. Who died?”

You dropped her tote bag on the floor and walked over to the stool across from her, sitting down like your bones had turned to dust.

Jihyo waited, eyes fixed on you, already halfway smiling.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you asked.

“Absolutely. Now spill.”

You leaned back and crossed her arms. “His studio is… weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Not bad weird. Just… different. It’s really clean. Black walls. Metal shelves. Everything is organized to the point of it being almost clinical. But the artwork is insane. It’s beautiful, like detailed and emotional, but the place itself doesn’t match it. It feels like someone trying really hard not to feel anything.”

Jihyo stared. “You were only in there for two minutes.”

“I absorb energy fast.”

“You’re not a sponge.”

“No, but he might be. A dense one.”

Jihyo snorted.

You kept talking, like you needed to get it all out before it sat too long in your head. “And when I walked in, he didn’t even look surprised. Just took the bouquet and read the note like it was a lunch menu. Like, ‘oh, here’s my side of emotional damage today.’

“He really didn’t react?”

“Barely. When I asked who Somin was, he told me it was none of my business.”

Jihyo sat up straighter. “He said that?”

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t slap him?”

“Didn’t seem worth it.”

“Huh.” Jihyo tilted her head. “Okay but… he’s not wrong. You did kind of ask a personal question.”

“I was delivering a breakup bouquet with the emotional weight of a concrete block. I think I earned the right to ask.”

“Fair.”

You paused. “Then Taehyung chimed in.”

Jihyo gasped. “Taehyung?”

“His studio partner. Has long hair. Probably owns at least three mesh shirts.”

“God I love mesh-shirt men.”

“He said Jungkook and Somin dated. Said it ended messy. Said Jungkook was worse.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Jihyo looked almost smug. “I could’ve told you that.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“Because I’ve seen him.”

“But you said you didn’t know him personally.”

“I don’t. But he walks past the shop sometimes. Goes to Namjoon’s cafe. He’s the kind of guy who always wears headphones and looks like he’s calculating the emotional ROI of saying hello to people.”

“That is… specific.”

“I have a gift.”

You stretched your arms above your head and let them fall dramatically. “I don’t even know why this is bothering me. I’ve delivered worse messages than that.”

Jihyo leaned forward again. “It’s bothering you because the guy you slapped with lilies now has a face and a story.”

“It’s not bothering me. I’m just… confused.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course you are.”

you sighed.

Jihyo smirked and stood up, walking over to the mini fridge. “Want iced tea?”

“Please.”

She grabbed two cans, handed one over, and plopped back down.

After a sip, you spoke again, quieter this time. “You know, it’s weird. When I walked into his studio, I was expecting something grungy. Messy. Chaotic artist vibes. But it wasn’t like that. It was… careful. Almost empty. Except for the art. And even that was tucked away like he didn’t want people to notice it.”

Jihyo looked at you with something softer now. Not teasing. Just curious. “You think he’s lonely?”

you shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just likes things quiet.”

There was a pause. Then Jihyo asked, “Did he say anything else?”

Looking at the ceiling, you sighed and continued, “He asked if Somin used pink carnations. And when I said yes, he said that tracked. Then he said she spelled something wrong.”

‘’And?”

“I told him I fixed it.”

Jihyo grinned. “You’re such a menace.”

“I didn’t want my shop associated with grammatical errors.”

“You should embroider that on an apron.”

There was a moment of silence again. The kind that settled between both of you easily. Like this was just another normal day. Another weird customer story. Another coffee run waiting to happen.

Except it wasn’t quite normal.

You couldn’t shake the feeling from earlier. That glance. The smell of ink and metal. The way he didn’t ask who you were, or why you were there, or what you thought of the bouquet. He just existed in the silence like he was used to being left alone in it.

And maybe that was the part you couldn’t stop thinking about.

⸻

The days passed the way late summer always did—slow, a little sticky, quiet in that not-quite-comfortable way. The flower shop settled into its usual rhythm: morning arrangements, weird online orders, walk-ins asking for “whatever looks like forgiveness.”

And once in a while, you saw him.

Not in a movie way. Just… glimpses.

Sometimes Jungkook would walk past the shop without looking in, headphones in, hood up even though it wasn’t cold.

Once, he was standing at the corner by the bus stop, arms folded, waiting.

Another time, he was unlocking his studio door across the street, early in the morning, before the rest of the world had stretched its arms and pretended to care.

Both of you didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod or wave or even make eye contact.

He was just there. Occasionally. Like a streetlight you didn’t think about unless it flickered.

You didn’t talk about him either. Not to Jihyo. Not even to yourself.

But you noticed. Quietly. Stupidly. Like your brain was filing away sightings you hadn’t asked for.

It was one of those thick, grey-cloud afternoons when the air felt like it might rain but hadn’t decided yet. The kind of weather that demanded caffeine and gossip.

You and Jihyo pushed open the front door of Namjoon’s café and were immediately hit with that warm, toasted smell that always felt like a hug.

Common Grounds, as the chalkboard sign called it, looked the same as always. Cozy lighting. A rotating display of weird local art on the walls. A single speaker near the counter playing a low, lo-fi playlist that sounded like it belonged in a coming-of-age film.

Namjoon was behind the counter, wiping it down like it had personally wronged him.

When he saw them walk in, he smiled like they were regulars at a bar and he was secretly keeping all their trauma tabs.

“Afternoon,” he said, setting the cloth aside. “You both look like you’ve survived something.”

Jihyo stepped up first. “We survived four back-to-back customers asking for ‘boho neutral’ wedding florals.”

“Which means beige,” you added, “but they won’t admit it.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You want sympathy or sugar?”

“Both,” Jihyo said. “Iced matcha for me. Extra syrup.”

Then you stepped up next. “Can I get an iced americano with oat milk?”

“Sweetener?”

“Surprise me. But not in a ‘give me diabetes’ way.”

He chuckled. “So nothing with lavender.”

You pointed at him. “Exactly.”

As he moved to prep their drinks, you rested her elbows on the counter and watched him work. Everything Namjoon did was calm. Measured. Like his brain had already made peace with the chaos of the world and decided to just keep brewing coffee until it stopped spinning.

Jihyo leaned against your shoulder. “If he wasn’t a barista, he’d definitely be a monk.”

Namjoon looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”

“Good.”

He slid the iced matcha across first, then reached for the espresso machine.

“Things still slow at the shop?” he asked you.

You shrugged. “Busy enough to keep me from overthinking. Not busy enough to keep Jihyo from reorganizing the entire stockroom.”

“I color-coded the succulents,” Jihyo said proudly.

Namjoon didn’t even blink. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve accepted that.”

Her drink arrived next, and they thanked him in unison before heading to their usual table by the window. It was small, slightly uneven, and always had one chair that squeaked—but it was theirs.

Jihyo and you sat down, the quiet buzz of the café settling around you like background music. Outside, the wind pushed gently at the shop signs, and somewhere, a dog barked exactly once.

It was a good moment.

Then Jihyo froze mid-sip.

She set her cup down slowly and leaned in.

“Don’t turn around.”

You blinked. “That’s never a good start.”

“No, seriously. Pretend I said something interesting and make a face.”

You stared. “You have never said anything interesting in your life.”

“Just do it,” Jihyo hissed. “Okay now. Very casually. Turn around.”

You turned your head like you were just adjusting the loose strand of hair.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Ordering at the counter. Shoulders squared, head slightly tilted as he scanned the menu like he hadn’t been here before.

Taehyung was next to him, chatting with Namjoon like they were old friends. He leaned on the counter, grinning at something Namjoon said, while Jungkook looked… still.

Not tense. Just—quiet. Like always.

You blinked and turned back to Jihyo, expression unreadable.

Jihyo raised both eyebrows. “Well?”

You took a sip of your coffee. “Weird seeing him here.”

“He comes sometimes. I’ve seen him twice before.”

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

“You never asked.”

You rolled your eyes and looked down at the cup between your hands. “He looks… normal.”

Jihyo shrugged. “He is, probably. Just the moody, internal kind of normal.”

You sat there for a few more seconds, sipping their drinks, neither saying much. The conversation had stalled, but not in an uncomfortable way. Just enough to make you glance up one more time.

Jungkook was still there.

You both hardly just returned to the comfortable silence between two people pretending not to think too hard about someone behind them, when a voice interrupted them. Loud. Bright. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait.”

Taehyung.

You didn’t even need to turn around. His energy had that unmistakable stamp of disruption ahead.

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for your drink like you might need it as a shield.

Taehyung’s voice kept going. “Are you serious?”

Then he was standing at the side of your table, blinking between the two of you with the wide-eyed awe of someone who just found a childhood friend in a cereal aisle.

“I knew I recognized you,” he said, pointing at Jihyo. “You’re the one who posted that video about the bouquet arrangement that looked like a roast chicken. That was you.”

Jihyo blinked. “It was a turkey.”

“I knew it.”

Then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he turned around and grabbed Jungkook by the wrist, who was halfway through picking up his coffee.

“Come here,” Taehyung said. “Come here right now. Look at this.”

Jungkook looked like he’d rather evaporate. “I just want to sit—”

“Look at this,” Taehyung repeated, ignoring him. “This is the florist’s best friend.”

Jungkook glanced at you. Then at Jihyo. Then back at Taehyung, visibly unimpressed.

“I’m so glad you dragged me for this,�� he said flatly.

“Shut up. You love it.”

“Deeply.”

Taehyung pulled a chair and dropped into it without asking. Jihyo, looking only mildly stunned now, laughed softly and scooted over to give him space. Jungkook followed slower, reluctantly, settling into the chair across from you like he’d been given a seating assignment at a wedding he didn’t want to attend.

There was a long pause.

You looked at Jungkook.

He looked at you.

No one said anything.

Then Jihyo turned to Taehyung, eyebrows raised. “So. What made you watch the bouquet video?”

Taehyung shrugged. “I was high and thought it was a cooking tutorial.”

Jihyo let out a small laugh. “It was a turkey.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Taehyung said.

“You should. I cried.”

The two of them were off after that, bouncing off each other like old friends even though they’d just met. Somewhere in the middle of trading flower shop horror stories and dramatic customer encounters, Taehyung gasped.

“No. No way.”

“What?” Jihyo asked.

“You posted that chart of flower colors and what they say emotionally, right?”

“Yeah…” she replied slowly.

“I printed that and taped it to Jungkook’s drawer.”

Jihyo stared. “The one that said ‘red = lust, pink = you might care but don’t want to admit it’?”

“That one.”

Jungkook sighed, lifting his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“Is that why he glared at my tulip sketch last week?” Jihyo asked, smirking.

“Probably.”

“Unreal.”

Without warning, Taehyung jumped up. “No, you have to see what he did with the petals last week. You’ll die. Come on.”

He grabbed Jihyo’s sleeve without hesitation.

“What?” she blinked, caught off guard.

“Come. It’s two doors down. It’s insane. You’ll love it.”

“I haven’t even finished—” she started.

“You can bring the cup.”

Jihyo gave you one last amused look as she stood up. “Pray for me.”

“Not likely,” you muttered.

And just like that, the two of them disappeared through the café door, mid-sentence, mid-laugh, like they’d been doing this forever.

You blinked at the space they left behind.

Then turned your head slowly to Jungkook, who hadn’t moved.

You sat in silence for another moment.

And then finally spoke. “Are they always like that?”

Jungkook exhaled. “Only on days that end in Y.”

That cracked something. Not a full smile, not quite. But a tiny shift in the quiet.

You looked over at him again. He was still dressed the same—black sweatshirt, simple jeans, hair tucked behind one ear now. But there was something softer in the way he leaned back, eyes not quite as guarded as usual.

“You work with him every day?” you asked.

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” he said, then added after a pause, “but he’s good. Keeps things from going still.”

You traced the rim of her cup with her thumb. “I get that.”

They fell quiet again, but it didn’t feel awkward. It just felt like two people sitting next to each other in a city that kept moving around them.

Jungkook was the one to speak next. “So… the flower shop. That’s yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You always run it alone?”

You shook her head. “Jihyo helps. It was mine and my mom’s originally. We started small, just arrangements and houseplants. Then she got sick. I took it over.”

He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t expect him to. The silence was enough.

“I kept it because it felt like something alive,” you said. “Something that needed hands. It made the grief quieter.”

He was still for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, “That makes sense.”

You looked up at him.

“I get that,” he added, voice calm. Sincere.

You didn’t answer right away. There was no need to fill the quiet with anything more.

After a while, you asked, “What about your shop?”

“I started out doing graphic design,” he said. “Did a few illustrations. Got bored. Tattooing felt closer to the skin. Like it meant something.”

“And now?”

“Now I do a lot of cover-ups. Custom work. Things people don’t want to explain.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Some things are easier to wear than say.”

You nodded slowly, letting the thought sit.

“What about your tattoos?” you asked. “Any of them have stories?”

“A few.”

He didn’t elaborate. you didn’t push.

Both sat together for a while after that. Not talking. Not planning to.

And you realized you didn’t mind the silence this time. Not here. Not with him.

Jungkook looked over once more. “I didn’t say thanks earlier. For the flowers.”

You tilted your head. “You mean the breakup bouquet?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“You’re welcome. It was petty. But it looked good.”

“Most things that hurt do.”

You looked at him, really looked this time.

And after a moment, you said softly, “That’s true.”

Neither of you got up. Neither of you rushed it.

For the first time since that ridiculous cart wheel got stuck in the street, it felt like you weren’t on opposite sides of something.

Just two people.

Sitting still, together.

⸻

It was close to midnight when you gave up trying to sleep.

The room was dark, warm from the day’s leftover heat, one window cracked open to let the wind in. Your sheets were half-tangled around your legs. The pillow was slightly too warm on one side, and flipping it didn’t help.

You turned again, then sighed. Pulled the covers up. Kicked them off.

And still—your mind stayed awake.

It wasn’t even a big deal. That’s what you kept telling yourself.

You’d run into each other. Talked a little. Shared a few quiet minutes at the café while Jihyo and Taehyung acted like they’d known each other since birth. That was it.

People do that all the time. Talk. Sit. Share space.

It didn’t mean anything.

Except maybe it did. Just a little.

Not because of what he said.

But because of how it felt.

Still. Settled. Real.

You stared at the ceiling.

He hadn’t said much. But what he did say had landed. Soft and steady. Like he meant every word, even the short ones.

And the way he listened…

You noticed that. The way he wasn’t looking for a reaction. Just listening like it mattered. Like it was something rare.

You turned again and stared out the window.

He looked different in that space—Jungkook. Not like he did in the shop doorway or walking past your window. At the café, he looked like a version of himself he didn’t show often. Less guarded. More human.

And when he asked about your mom, he didn’t ask to be polite. He asked like he knew what kind of ache that was.

You sighed again and rolled onto your side.

What did it mean? Probably nothing.

But your brain—always louder at night—kept going back to that quiet.

To him sitting across from you.

To the way he didn’t try to fill the silence.

He was just there.

And maybe that was the part that stayed with you.

Not the words.

Not the tattoos.

Just… him.

There.

The next morning started like any other.

The shutters creaked when you opened them. The basil wall looked vaguely offended at being watered late. The playlist on your phone shuffled into something soft and wordless.

And the city outside felt… the same. Rushed and restless, like it always did.

You tied her apron without thinking about it. Labeled the first few orders. Rearranged the sunflowers by height. It was the kind of quiet morning that usually felt routine. Automatic. No thinking required.

Except today, you couldn’t stop thinking.

The café. Last night. The silence with Jungkook. Not heavy, not tense. Just… quiet in a way that felt shared.

You didn’t know what to make of that.

Didn’t know what it meant, if anything. You were not the type to read too much into moments. But something about the way he’d listened—really listened—had lingered.

Not that you expected to see him again.

You dusted off a shelf and stood back to look at the placement. Something about it felt crooked. you adjusted it again.

The bell over the door chimed.

You didn’t look up at first.

“Be right there,” you called, brushing your hands off on a apron. “Give me two seconds.”

When you turned, you almost didn’t recognize him.

Not because he looked different. He didn’t.

Same all-black hoodie. Same quiet posture. Same unreadable expression.

But he looked… out of place. In your shop. In this space.

You blinked.

Jungkook stood near the entrance, one hand still on the door handle, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or turn back around.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Then you asked, carefully, “Need something?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

He let go of the door and stepped in a little further. His eyes moved across the shelves—slowly, like he was taking in everything at once.

“I was just… walking,” he said finally. “And I ended up here.”

You watched him. “Okay.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

“Also okay.”

Jungkook looked at a small pot of white daisies near the front table. Picked one up, then set it down again. His hands looked a little unsure, like they weren’t used to being surrounded by things that could bruise or bend too easily.

He looked back at you. “Is this always how it smells in here?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean like eucalyptus and wet soil?”

He nodded once.

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

Another beat passed.

He didn’t leave.

You leaned on the counter. “You want tea or something?”

His eyebrows pulled together slightly, like the question confused him.

‘’I have ginger and mint” you added.

He gave a slow blink. “Mint’s fine.”

You moved behind the small kitchenette, dropping a tea bag into a chipped mug with a leaf painted on the side. Jungkook stayed where he was, still quiet, still glancing at everything like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You handed him the mug.

He nodded his thanks.

You leaned against the counter beside him. “So… you ended up here.”

“Yeah.”

He sipped the tea. Didn’t react. “This is good.”

“I stole it from Namjoon’s shelf.”

That got a small exhale of air. Maybe a laugh. Maybe not. You didn’t press it.

Both of you stood like that for a while. Not speaking.

Then he turned slightly. “It’s peaceful here.”

You looked at him. “It usually is. Mornings are calm. Sometimes too calm.”

He nodded.

You watched him for a moment. “You don’t seem like someone who just walks around.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why today?”

He looked down at the tea, like the answer might be floating at the bottom of the cup.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just… felt like coming.”

You didn’t say anything. Let the quiet settle around them again.

He looked back up. “This shop. It was your mom’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What was she like?”

You hesitated, but just for a second. “Kind. Smart. A little dramatic. She liked doing things with her hands. Hated mess, though. Always had to clean as she worked.”

Jungkook smiled, small and brief. “Opposite of me.”

“I can tell.”

You reached for a nearby watering can and slowly started checking the smaller potted herbs. Jungkook didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, watching you work like he hadn’t been around this kind of stillness in a while.

“You ever wish you’d done something else?” he asked suddenly.

You paused. “You mean besides the shop?”

“Yeah.”

You thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. I used to like writing. Poetry. But after she passed, I couldn’t focus on anything else. The shop needed me.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

You looked up. “What about you?”

He hesitated, then said, “I started tattooing because I didn’t like how quiet my head got when I stopped drawing.”

You didn’t answer, but your hands slowed.

He continued, voice lower now. “It gave me a way to fill the silence. Something about putting something permanent on someone else—it felt like I could leave proof. Even if it was just lines.”

You looked at him. “That’s a good reason.”

“Not always. Sometimes I think I just needed somewhere to put the mess.”

There was a quiet between you then, deeper than the ones before. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy enough to feel real.

You finally said, “I think we all do. That’s why I kept the shop. It gave me something to carry that wasn’t just grief.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood that on a level he didn’t talk about out loud.

Glancing over, you whispered. “You want to see something?”

He looked at you. “Sure.”

You led him toward the back, where the tiny greenhouse window was cracked open, letting in light. A hanging pot of morning glory vines stretched toward the sun, stubborn and wild.

“My mom hated these,” you said. “Said they were too clingy. Always reaching. But I liked them. They don’t know how not to try.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at the flowers. Then at again at you.

You turned back around, pulling your hair away from your face with one hand. “You don’t have to explain why you came. Just—if you ever feel like showing up again, it’s fine.”

He watched you for a moment longer.

Then said, “Okay.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He didn’t stay long after that. Didn’t try to. Just finished the tea, set the mug on the counter, and walked out quietly, like he was part of the space now.

But after the door shut and the bell rang out behind him, you stood in the middle of the shop for a minute longer, your hand still curled around the watering can.

He’d come in for no reason.

And for some reason, that meant more than you could say.

⸻

Time didn’t shift all at once. It wasn’t sudden.

It moved the way seasons did. Softly. Slowly. In pieces you didn’t notice until everything felt different, and you couldn’t remember exactly when it changed.

You and Jungkook didn’t become friends overnight.

Not even close.

But you stopped being strangers.

There were days when you glanced up from rearranging a shelf and caught him walking past the shop, a takeaway coffee in one hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Sometimes he looked in. Sometimes he didn’t.

And then one day, he did.

He gave you a small nod through the glass. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

You nodded back.

That became the new thing.

Some mornings, when your window was open and the breeze carried in the smell of soil and jasmine, you saw him across the street, unlocking the studio door. If he noticed you, he lifted a hand in a silent wave. You waved back without thinking.

Neither of you mentioned it.

It just became part of the day.

⸻

Sometimes he stopped by the shop without warning.

Once, he leaned against the counter and watched while you trimmed a bundle of delphiniums for a bouquet.

“What do those mean?” he asked, pointing.

You looked up. “Delphiniums?”

He nodded.

“Positivity,” you said. “And dignity.”

“Why dignity?”

“They stand tall.”

Jungkook looked at the flowers again. “Huh.”

You expected him to walk off, but he stayed. That day, you taught him more.

Snapdragons for strength. Sweet peas for goodbye. Camellias for admiration. Yellow roses for friendship, white for new beginnings, red for love.

He didn’t say much. But he listened. Every word.

When you stopped to grab a new bundle of stems, you glanced back and saw him still looking at the flowers like they were trying to tell him something.

⸻

He returned the favor in his own way.

One afternoon, when the sun dipped low and the shop was closed for the day, you locked up and turned to find him across the street, arms folded outside his studio.

“Got something to show you,” he said.

You hesitated. “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

You followed him inside. The shop looked the same as always—quiet, neat, controlled. But in the back, he pulled out a flat drawer from one of the cabinets and set a large sketchbook down.

He opened it.

And you forgot what you were supposed to say.

The drawings weren’t what you expected. Not sharp or aggressive. Not cold.

They were detailed. Intricate. Precise. But full of movement. Like they had breath. Life.

Florals. Wings. Symbols. One snake wrapped around a peony stem. A koi fish with trailing petals in its scales. A human heart, stitched with vines.

You turned one page. Then another. Then another.

“These are all yours?” you asked.

He nodded.

You looked up at him. “You’ve tattooed these?”

“Most of them.”

You went quiet again, flipping to a design of two hands reaching toward each other, one inked in fine lines of roses, the other in thorns.

“I didn’t expect this,” you said softly.

He leaned against the workbench. “What did you expect?”

You thought for a second. “Something colder. Something sharper. I don’t know.”

He didn’t look offended. Just thoughtful.

“People assume that a lot,” he said.

“They’re wrong.”

He gave a short nod. “So were you.”

You didn’t disagree.

He showed you the machine next. Nothing flashy. Just what he worked with. How it ran. He told you about technique. Needle depth. Line work. Shading. Color saturation.

You watched his hands. How careful they were. How steady.

When he handed you the machine—not on, just to hold—you took it like it was something fragile.

“You’re really good,” you said after a while.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away.

But there was something in the way he looked at you then. A quiet kind of acceptance.

“Thanks,” he said finally.

⸻

Another time, it was your turn again.

You had been growing something rare for weeks. A small climbing vine in the back greenhouse window that had only just begun to bloom. The petals were pale blue, nearly translucent, curling at the edges like frost.

You texted him : It bloomed.

He didn’t ask what you meant. Just showed up ten minutes later.

You led him to the back and pointed to the plant without saying a word.

He crouched down to look closer.

“Blue passionflower,” you said. “Almost impossible to get to bloom this time of year.”

He glanced up at you. “How’d you manage it?”

“Patience,” you said.

“Lots of water?”

“No. Patience,” you repeated. “It needs time. Quiet. Not too much attention.”

He looked at the flower again.

You both sat down on the steps just outside the greenhouse. You didn’t talk for a while. The kind of silence that didn’t stretch too far or weigh too heavy.

Eventually, you did talk. About small things. About music. About why you used to write but didn’t anymore. About the first tattoo he ever gave. How he messed it up slightly, and the guy still said it was perfect.

You told him how the shop still didn’t feel fully yours, some days.

He told you he sometimes drew things he’d never ink on anyone, just to keep them for himself.

You asked if he had any regrets.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

⸻

You never labeled it. Whatever was happening.

You didn’t meet up on purpose.

You didn’t text much.

You didn’t make plans.

But you noticed when he wasn’t around.

And he started pausing outside your window a little longer each day.

Some things didn’t need to be said.

Some things just grew. Quietly. Steadily. Without asking permission.

⸻

It wasn’t a decision, not really.

There was no moment of staring across a candlelit room, no grand realization, no whispered confessions or accidental kisses that tipped everything over.

It just…..happened.

You and Jungkook started seeing more of each other.

Not just by accident or out of convenience. You started showing up on purpose.

Jihyo noticed it first.

She didn’t say anything right away. She just started watching you a little differently when you talked about your day or when you instinctively wiped your hands on your apron before stepping out for a break across the street.

She gave you looks. The kind that said she knew more than she let on.

Taehyung wasn’t any more subtle.

The second time Jungkook stopped by the shop with a coffee for you and didn’t even explain why, Taehyung popped his head in five minutes later with a grin so wide it looked painful.

“Anything blooming in here?” he asked loudly.

You had almost thrown the watering can at him.

⸻

You started going to the café together.

Sometimes you walked in separately and ended up sitting together.

Sometimes he’d already have a drink waiting for you, and you’d pretend not to be flustered.

Sometimes he’d order last, mutter your usual to Namjoon without asking you, and you’d wonder how he’d remembered.

It was easy.

Easier than you expected.

There were still silences, but they weren’t empty anymore. They were full of little things. Shared glances. Amused smirks. The occasional brush of his knee against yours beneath the small café table.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

⸻

Jihyo was worse now.

She stared at your phone when it buzzed and raised an eyebrow when Jungkook’s name appeared.

She started asking loaded questions like, “You seeing each other again?”

And then, “Do you like him?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Which wasn’t true.

You did know.

You liked the way he listened.

You liked the way he noticed things without needing to say them out loud.

The way he always stood close but never crowded. The way he leaned in when you talked like your words were the only ones in the room.

You liked his hands. His sketches. The quiet focus in his eyes.

You liked him.

That was it.

There were moments.

Little ones.

Like the time you reached across the table to grab a napkin and your fingers grazed his.

Neither of you moved for a second. Then he turned his hand slightly and let your fingers stay.

Or the time you sat outside the shop on the steps after closing and he reached over, casually brushing a smudge of soil from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, then looked away like he hadn’t just made your pulse skip.

There was flirting, too.

Not the loud, obvious kind. Just something softer. Quieter. A certain tilt to his voice when he said your name.

The way you rolled your eyes when he teased you, only to glance back and find him already watching you.

And when you caught him doing it, he didn’t look away.

⸻

One evening, the four of you ended up at the café together. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jihyo.

It wasn’t planned. Just one of those things that happened.

The sun had dipped low, and the light outside was golden and drowsy.

You were all laughing at something Taehyung had said—something ridiculous and probably untrue—when you turned to Jungkook.

He was already looking at you.

He didn’t smile, not really. Just something smaller. More real. A look that said he was glad to be there, in that moment, with you.

And without thinking, your hand rested lightly over his on the table.

He didn’t flinch.

He turned his hand over and linked your fingers with his.

Just for a second.

Then Jihyo fake-gagged, Taehyung whooped dramatically, and you pulled your hand back while trying not to smile like an idiot.

But the air between you had shifted. You could feel it.

He felt it too.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it.

Not yet.

You didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, it was enough to just sit next to him.

Sometimes, it was enough to walk beside him in silence and know that he’d glance over every now and then.

That he’d wait for you to catch up.

That he’d never rush you to say anything you weren’t ready to.

You didn’t know where it was going, not exactly.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to control it.

It felt like something living.

Something growing.

And you were okay with that.

It was late. Later than either of you planned to stay.

The shop was closed. The café lights had gone out an hour ago. The street had quieted to a hush, and the moon was sitting fat and low above the rooftops.

You were sitting on the steps outside your shop again, the same ones you’d sat on weeks ago when you showed him the blue passionflower. Except this time, he was already there, leaning back with his arms propped behind him, long legs stretched out, gaze half on the sky and half on you.

“You always sit like that?” you asked, nudging his boot with yours.

“Like what?”

“Like the ground personally offended you.”

He tilted his head toward you, deadpan. “It did.”

You laughed—soft, the kind that curled in your chest and didn’t bother hiding.

He looked at you for a second longer, then turned away again, but not before you saw the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.

There was music playing faintly from someone’s window above. Old jazz, maybe. Soft horns and low piano. It filled the space between you the way your conversations used to. Easy. Slow. Something unspoken that didn’t need to be named.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” he said after a while.

You raised an eyebrow. “That a complaint?”

“No,” he said, and then he looked at you again. Really looked. “I like it. It’s… you. But softer.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just let it settle somewhere in your chest, warm and slow.

A breeze slipped past, and you shivered slightly.

He noticed.

Without saying a word, he shrugged out of his hoodie and offered it to you.

You took it.

Slipped it on.

It was soft, worn, and it smelled like his studio—ink, clean wood, something like bergamot. It hung off your frame, sleeves way too long, and you tugged them over your hands.

He watched you do it, eyes trailing across your fingers.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said.

“What thing?”

“Staring like you’re thinking too hard.”

He paused. Then—“I do think too hard.”

You didn’t expect that answer. It made your throat tighten, just slightly.

You shifted, turning toward him.

Your knees touched.

He didn’t move.

So you didn’t either.

“I like that you listen,” you said suddenly.

He looked over.

“You don’t just hear things,” you continued. “You remember them. Even the things I say by accident.”

There was a beat.

Then he spoke. Quiet. Measured.

“You know what I remember most?”

You raised your chin. “What?”

“The first time you smiled at me.”

Your breath caught.

“It was real,” he added, like that mattered. Like that made it.

You blinked once. Twice.

And then, before you could think it through, you reached over—hand grazing his wrist first, then resting gently on top of it.

He looked down at your hand.

Then back at you.

And when he leaned in, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden.

It was slow.

Measured.

Like he’d waited long enough.

Like you had, too.

His hand came up to your face, fingers brushing along your jaw before slipping behind your neck. His touch was steady. No rush. Like he was giving you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect. A little tentative. A little breathless.

But it was warm. Honest.

Real.

You exhaled against his mouth. His thumb moved along your cheekbone. You kissed him again, softer. Surer. And this time, he smiled into it.

When you finally pulled back, neither of you said anything for a long time.

He just looked at you.

You looked right back.

Then, almost lazily, he said, “You’re still wearing my hoodie.”

You smirked. “Yeah?”

“Keep it.”

“Why?”

“So you have to come back and return it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only about you.”

Your heart thudded. Loud. Loud enough to feel in your throat.

So you kissed him again.

Because finally—

you could.

After the kiss, you didn’t go back to the shop.

You didn’t go anywhere.

You just found yourselves climbing the rusted fire stairs beside his studio, the metal warm beneath your palms, the night air wrapped around your shoulders. Neither of you said anything. Words felt like too much.

The rooftop was quiet. Still. The city buzzing somewhere below, but far enough away to feel like it didn’t belong to either of you.

You stood at the edge, side by side, your fingers brushing now and then.

Then again.

Until he took your hand and didn’t let it go.

The sky above was a navy bruise, scattered with faint stars. The kind of summer night that didn’t cool down even after the sun dipped. You could still feel the heat off the pavement, off the metal railing, off the way he looked at you.

“You always bring girls up here?” you asked lightly, trying to breathe normal.

Jungkook glanced at you with that slow, unreadable expression. Then he leaned in just slightly, so close his mouth brushed the edge of your ear.

“Only the ones I want to kiss again.”

You turned to him fully this time. “That so?”

He nodded once. Like it wasn’t even a question.

His other hand came up, fingertips trailing along the inside of your arm. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But your entire body locked onto it, like it meant more than it should.

You looked at him—really looked—and you realized just how close you were.

There was nothing innocent in his eyes now.

That softness was still there, yes. The part of him that listened. That learned flowers. That stood in your shop quietly, watching you with the kind of attention most people didn’t have the patience for.

But there was something else, too.

Something darker. Needier. Less restrained.

It sat right at the corner of his mouth. In the way his gaze dropped slowly to your lips, then lower, then back again.

You said nothing.

But you didn’t move away either.

And that was enough.

His hand slid to your waist, dragging you closer. One step. Then two. Until you were flush against him. Until there was no space left. Until you could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, the slow drag of his breath as he tilted his head and kissed you again.

This one wasn’t sweet.

It was hungry.

Hot.

The kind of kiss that stole the thoughts right out of your head. That pulled a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. That left your hands wandering without permission—across his chest, up his neck, into his hair.

His hands found your hips. Firm. Familiar. Possessive in a way that made your legs feel shaky.

He pulled you even closer.

You let him.

The night felt hotter now.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this wasn’t going to stop at kissing. Not tonight. Not with the way his mouth moved down your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you inch by inch.

Not with the way you gasped when his fingers pressed just a little tighter at your waist.

Not with the way your body arched into his without even meaning to.

He paused only once.

Looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he was asking a question without saying it.

You gave him the answer with the way you pulled him down again.

With the way your hands slid under his shirt.

With the way you whispered his name like it was already yours to say like that.

And under the navy sky, on the rooftop that held your laughter and your silences and all the moments in between—

He kissed you like he knew exactly what you needed.

And you let him give it to you.