#EnemiesToLoversVibes

[cloudyluun]

Silver Springs | (famous!harry x famous!reader)

Summary: Falling for Harry Styles was never part of Y/N’s plan. As the daughter of Stevie Nicks, she’s spent her whole life running from the spotlight, carving out her own identity in the indie rock scene. But when fate keeps pulling her back into his orbit, resisting becomes impossible.

A slow-burn friends-to-lovers romance filled with stolen glances, whispered lyrics, and a love too big to keep secret forever. Featuring: a dramatic rain-soaked love confession, a very public grand gesture, and enough Fleetwood Mac references to make Stevie proud.

Because some love stories are meant to be legendary.

A/N: Okay, but why was this request everything I’ve ever wanted in a fic?? The slow burn?? The secret relationship angst?? The messy, desperate, I-can’t-breathe-without-you love confession?? And let’s not even talk about that post-confession smut scene because I need a moment. To the lovely soul who requested this, thank you for feeding my drama-loving heart. This was so much fun to write, and I definitely got way too emotionally attached. (Also, I need a rockstar AU in real life ASAP.) ALSO I’m sorry, I definitely overdid the scene dividers oops.

Word Count: 8,5k

Warnings: 

Slow-burn tension that hurts (but in a good way)

Secret relationship chaos

One rain-soaked love confession

One hot, messy, emotional SMUT scene (18+)

Paparazzi stress & PR nightmares

A duet so romantic it might ruin your standards

Fleetwood Mac lyrics used as emotional warfare

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Y/N had been born with the weight of a legacy she never asked for.

From the moment she took her first breath, the world had already decided who she was. The daughter of Stevie Nicks. Rock royalty. A ghost of the past in a modern world. The media had never let her be anything else. They picked apart her features, searching for traces of her mother—the same high cheekbones, the same wild hair. They hunted for echoes of Fleetwood Mac in the songs she wrote, dissecting every lyric, every melody, desperate to find a connection. And when they couldn’t?

They made one up.

Her father’s identity had been a secret from the start, a mystery wrapped in whispered rumors and unanswered questions. Some tabloids swore he had been a rockstar, a fleeting love affair lost in the haze of the ‘70s. Others speculated he had been someone ordinary, someone her mother had chosen to protect from the chaos of her world. Y/N had stopped wondering a long time ago. Her mother had always said, "You don’t need to know where you come from to know where you’re going, baby." And maybe that was true. But sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she wished she knew which parts of her belonged to Stevie Nicks and which belonged to a stranger.

Still, despite the world’s obsession with her past, Y/N had built something of her own.

Her music was raw, poetic—a fusion of indie rock and dreamlike lyricism that belonged entirely to her. She wasn’t interested in stadiums or radio hits; she wanted songs that lingered in the bones, the kind that made people ache without knowing why.

And yet, no matter what she did, the headlines always found a way to reduce her to a footnote in her mother’s story.

"Stevie Nicks’ Daughter Haunts the Music Scene—Can She Ever Escape Her Mother’s Shadow?" "The Princess of Rock ‘n’ Roll: Y/N Nicks Inherits a Legacy of Magic and Tragedy."

She ignored them. Mostly.

But some nights, when the whiskey burned too much and the music wasn’t enough, she wondered if she’d ever just be herself.

The first time Y/N met Harry Styles, she was fifteen.

It was a warm summer night in Los Angeles, the kind where the air was thick with nostalgia, humming with the remnants of a golden era long gone.

Fleetwood Mac was playing at The Forum, and backstage was a haze of cigarette smoke, laughter, and the scent of aged leather. It was a world Y/N had always known, one that felt like home and yet never quite belonged to her.

She had been curled up on one of the velvet couches, her combat boots propped up on a glass table, flipping through an old notebook of half-written lyrics.

Her mother had walked in then, a force of nature even in her sixties, wrapped in flowing black fabric, rings glinting under the dim lights. And beside her—

Harry.

He had been twenty, freshly cut from the boyband machine but still unmistakably him. Messy curls, dimples carved deep into his cheeks, a floral button-up that hung loose over his chest. There was an ease to him, a confidence that most people his age hadn’t yet earned.

Stevie had smiled, her voice all warmth and amusement as she introduced them.

"Harry, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, sweetheart, this is Harry Styles."

Y/N had barely spared him a glance, disinterested in the way only a fifteen-year-old girl could be.

She had looked him up and down, unimpressed, before muttering, "Oh. You’re the boy with the hair."

There had been a beat of silence. Then—

Harry had grinned, wide and unbothered. "And you’re the girl who hates the spotlight."

That had made her pause.

She had finally looked at him properly then, taking in the twinkle of mischief in his green eyes, the way he had spoken to her like he knew her, like he could already see the edges of her soul.

She had hated that.

So she had rolled her eyes, shutting her notebook with a snap. "Yeah? What gave it away?"

Harry had only chuckled. "Just a feeling."

They hadn’t known it then, but that moment—that first careless exchange in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms—had been the beginning of something that would follow them for years.

They had drifted in and out of each other’s lives after that, their paths crossing at industry events, in backstage corridors, in places where music and fame blurred the lines between strangers and something more.

But they had never been close.

Not yet.

That would come later.

And when it did, neither of them would be able to stop it.

It was a city built on illusions, a place where the past and present blurred under neon lights and whiskey-soaked conversations. People changed here, or they lost themselves trying.

Y/N had spent years learning how to exist in the industry without letting it consume her. She had built walls, wrapped herself in the armor of cigarette smoke and sharp words, refusing to let the world shape her into something she wasn’t.

But some nights—nights like this—she felt the weight of it all pressing against her ribs.

She had been in the music industry long enough to know that these parties weren’t really about music. They were about power. Influence. The quiet, calculated dance of networking, where every glance and every handshake meant something.

Y/N hated it.

And yet, here she was.

The party was in the Hollywood Hills, tucked away in a mansion that reeked of old money and new fame. The kind of place where people got too drunk on tequila and promises they wouldn’t remember in the morning.

She had come because she had to—because being seen mattered, even when she wished it didn’t.

She was twenty-five now, no longer the sharp-tongued teenager who had met Harry Styles in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms.

She had grown into herself.

And so had he.

She saw him before he saw her.

Harry was in the center of the room, as he always was, laughter spilling from his lips as he leaned against a marble bar, his rings catching in the dim light.

He looked different now—older, surer, carved out of something stronger.

The curls were shorter, but still wild. The tattoos more visible, inked stories along his skin. He wore a suit, something sleek and expensive, but the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a silver cross against his collarbones.

Even here, surrounded by actors and musicians and people who pretended they belonged, he was the only one who looked like he truly did.

Y/N had spent years pretending she was immune to the charm of men like him.

But as she stood there, watching the way he moved, the way people gravitated toward him, she felt something stir in her chest.

Something she didn’t want to name.

She turned away, heading toward the bar, but it was already too late.

She heard his voice before she felt his presence.

“Well, if it isn’t rock royalty.”

Y/N exhaled, bracing herself, before turning to face him.

Harry was smiling, that slow, lazy grin that had made girls weak in the knees for over a decade.

“Pop star,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow.

His dimples deepened. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

Y/N shrugged, lifting her whiskey glass. “It isn’t.”

Harry’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. “Then why are you here?”

“Same reason you are,” she said, taking a slow sip. “To remind people we still exist.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to remind anyone, love. They never forget a Nicks.”

There was something in the way he said it—something almost… knowing.

She tilted her head, watching him. “And they never forget a Styles.”

His smirk deepened. “Touché.”

The conversation between them felt effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that came with years of shared history, even if most of it had been from a distance.

She had always liked that about him.

That he could meet her wit for wit. That he never backed down.

That night, they danced around the past without ever acknowledging it, teasing each other between sips of whiskey and stolen glances.

He called her "rock princess" like it was a private joke.

She called him "pop star" with just enough mockery to make him laugh.

The undercurrent of something more was there—tangible, electric, waiting to be acknowledged.

But neither of them touched it.

Not yet.

Later, when the party had thinned and the air inside had grown heavy with heat and smoke, Y/N slipped outside.

She kicked off her heels, stepping onto the cool stone of the balcony, and lit a cigarette with steady fingers.

The view of the city stretched before her, a glittering sea of headlights and broken dreams.

She inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine settle in her lungs, humming a familiar melody under her breath—one of her mother’s, an old Fleetwood Mac song that had been stitched into her bones long before she was born.

She didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Still hate the spotlight?”

His voice was softer now, missing the teasing edge from before.

She exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night. “I hate what it does to people.”

Harry leaned against the railing beside her, silent for a moment, as if turning over her words in his head.

Then, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Still the girl who hates everything?”

Y/N smirked, side-eyeing him. “Still the boy with the hair?”

Harry grinned, running a hand through his curls. “I like to think there’s more to me than that.”

Something unspoken passed between them then.

A shift. A breath.

A moment on the edge of something inevitable.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them said a word.

But in the silence, they both felt it.

A crack in the walls they had spent years building.

A spark that had always been there, waiting for the right time to catch fire.

Harry called her three weeks after the party.

It was late—too late for anything that wasn’t trouble.

She had been sprawled across her bed, an open notebook balanced on her stomach, trying to piece together a song that didn’t want to be written, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

She didn’t need to check the name.

There was only one person who would call her at this hour, as if he knew she’d still be awake.

She let the phone ring twice before answering. “You lost, pop star?”

Harry chuckled, his voice low and lazy. “Not lost, no. Just… thought of you.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Oh? Should I be flattered?”

“Dunno.” He paused. “Wanna come to the studio tomorrow?”

That made her sit up.

She knew Harry was working on a new album. The industry had been buzzing about it for months, but he had been careful—secretive, even—about who he let in.

And now, he was inviting her.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before saying, “What time?”

She arrived at the studio the next evening, her guitar slung over her back, dressed in a well-worn Fleetwood Mac t-shirt just to mess with him.

Harry was already there, sitting on the edge of a couch with a notebook in his lap, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the cover.

He looked up when she walked in, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Y/N dropped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like she owned the place. “Didn’t think you actually had a studio. Thought you just wrote love songs in expensive hotel rooms.”

Harry chuckled, flipping the notebook shut. “Maybe I do both.”

The night unfolded in quiet moments and half-sung melodies.

She watched as he disappeared into the recording booth, slipping the headphones over his ears, eyes fluttering shut as the music took over.

And for the first time, she let herself really listen to him.

Harry had always been a good singer. That much was obvious. But there was something about watching him like this—seeing the way he poured himself into every lyric, the way his voice carried a rawness that no amount of polish could hide—that made her breath catch.

He was singing something new, something unfinished.

And as his voice curled around the notes, thick with longing and something unspoken, he looked up—straight at her.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her whiskey glass.

The booth’s glass separated them, but the way he stared at her—intense, knowing, like he could see straight through her—made her feel like there was nothing between them at all.

She swallowed hard, looking away first.

Harry smirked.

One studio session turned into two. Two turned into three.

And then, before she knew it, she was on a plane with him, tucked into first-class seats as his tour swept across the country.

She told herself she was just tagging along for inspiration, a creative escape.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

But the late nights in hotel rooms told a different story.

They fell into a rhythm—drinking whiskey on balconies, trading lyrics like secrets, letting conversations slip into the kind of honesty that only existed between two people who didn’t want to admit what they were to each other.

Some nights, they wrote.

Some nights, they just existed—stretched out on hotel carpets, hands brushing when they passed the bottle back and forth, staring at ceilings like they held the answers to questions neither of them wanted to ask.

She hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected the way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Hadn’t expected the way she wanted to memorize the shape of his laughter.

Hadn’t expected the way she craved him, in the quiet, in the spaces between words, in the way his voice curled around her name like it was something sacred.

One night, she fell asleep in his hotel room.

They had been listening to records, the vinyl crackling in the background, the bottle of whiskey between them half-empty.

She had kicked off her boots at some point, curling up on the couch, his hoodie draped over her shoulders like she belonged in it.

Harry had been mid-sentence when he noticed she wasn’t answering.

He turned, finding her tucked into the cushions, her breathing soft, her hair spilling across her face.

Something in his chest tightened.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, telling himself to let it go.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, brushing her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a second too long.

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

And for the briefest moment, Harry let himself want it—let himself imagine what it would feel like to close the space between them, to taste the whiskey on her lips, to see if she’d kiss him back or push him away.

He hovered there, so close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back.

Shoving a hand through his curls, he let out a quiet curse, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over her instead.

Not now, he told himself.

Not yet.

He sat back, forcing himself to look away.

But even in the dark, even in the silence, he knew.

He was already in too deep.

London was cold, the kind of damp chill that clung to bones and made her wish she was still waking up in different hotel rooms, still stealing sips of his morning coffee, still pretending she didn’t care when he hummed her songs under his breath.

The withdrawal was annoying.

But not unexpected.

She had just finished scribbling notes for a new song when her phone rang.

“You still in town?”

She smirked, setting her pen down. “Didn’t know you missed me so much, pop star.”

Harry chuckled, that deep, lazy sound that made something twist in her stomach. “Not even denying it, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Styles?”

“Dinner.”

That made her pause.

Sure, they had spent weeks living in each other’s pockets—whiskey-soaked late nights, studio sessions stretched into dawn, long looks across dimly lit dressing rooms—but this felt… different.

Intentional.

Like he was asking for something neither of them were ready to name.

Still, she played it cool. “Where?”

“I’ll text you.” A pause. “Wear something nice.”

She showed up to the restaurant in a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and her mother’s old silver rings.

Let him try and tell her what to wear.

Harry was already there, tucked into a quiet corner, a half-full glass of red wine in front of him. His curls were messier than usual, his sweater hanging loose on his frame, and the moment he saw her, his dimples deepened.

“Very fancy,” he teased, flicking the collar of her jacket as she slid into the seat across from him.

Y/N smirked. “If you wanted a date, you should’ve said so.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

The air shifted.

She ignored the way her pulse quickened, instead reaching for the menu. “So. What’s good here?”

They fell into easy conversation, talking about the tour, the highs and lows, the stupid inside jokes they’d collected along the way.

But somewhere between the laughter and the second glass of wine, the mood softened.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers.

Harry tilted his head. “Of what?”

“Being… this.” She gestured vaguely at him, at the world outside the restaurant doors, at the weight of fame that followed them both. “The cameras, the expectations, the pressure. Do you ever just wanna disappear?”

Harry studied her, running his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember why I started. And it’s not about all the noise. It’s about the music. About…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “About moments like this.”

Y/N felt her heart lurch before she could stop it.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smirk. “Sappy.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You love it.”

She did.

That was the problem.

They should have known better.

A quiet dinner in London? No such thing.

The next morning, the headlines were everywhere.

Harry Styles and Rock Royalty: A New Power Couple?

The Fleetwood Mac Connection—Is Y/N Following Her Mother’s Footsteps in Love, Too?

Spotted: Harry & Y/N, Cozy London Date Night or Just Old Friends?

Y/N groaned, tossing her phone onto the kitchen counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry’s name lit up her screen.

She answered without greeting. “Tell me this will blow over.”

Harry chuckled. “It’ll blow over.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” Another laugh. “We could deny it.”

“Obviously.”

“Or…”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

Harry’s grin was practically audible. “Could always lean into it.”

She snorted. “You wish, Styles.”

He hummed. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Her stomach flipped.

Before she could respond, there was a knock on her door.

“Gotta go.” She hung up quickly, shaking off the warmth curling in her chest.

Then she opened the door.

And found her mother standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Y/N barely had a chance to step aside before Stevie breezed past her, silk scarves trailing, the scent of patchouli and incense filling the space.

She made a beeline for the kitchen, plucked Y/N’s phone off the counter, and squinted at the headlines.

Y/N sighed. “Good morning to you, too.”

Stevie hummed, tapping a red-lacquered fingernail against the screen. “So… you and Harry Styles.”

Y/N groaned. “For fuck’s sake, it’s nothing.”

Stevie arched a delicate brow, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that.”

Y/N scowled. “It’s not love.”

Stevie’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Love is messy in this business, honey.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, snatching her phone back. “I wouldn’t know.”

Stevie just laughed, something soft and far too smug in her gaze.

Because she knew.

Long before Y/N was willing to admit it to herself.

She spotted him immediately.

Harry.

Leaning against the marble bar, whiskey in hand, dimples out in full force as he laughed at something Lizzo said. He looked too good, annoyingly good, all effortless charm and understated power in his black suit, his sheer shirt open just enough to tease golden skin and the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Y/N swallowed hard.

It had been weeks since the headlines. Since her mother’s knowing smile. Since she had convinced herself she wasn’t thinking about him like that.

But now, with the golden glow of the chandeliers casting shadows over his cheekbones, his green eyes flicking up to meet hers across the room—she felt it.

The pull. The inevitable, undeniable pull.

She found herself at his side before she could think better of it, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

Harry glanced at her, eyes flicking over her outfit—a silk slip dress in deep navy, barely-there straps, silver chains glinting against her collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers tightening around his whiskey glass.

Interesting.

Y/N smirked, plucking an olive from the garnish tray and popping it into her mouth. “Enjoying yourself, pop star?”

Harry exhaled a laugh, tilting his glass towards her. “Was just about to ask you the same thing, rock princess.”

She arched a brow. “You clean up well.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “So do you.”

Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a slow sip of her drink.

They fell into easy conversation, but the teasing was sharper tonight, laced with something dangerous. He was closer than usual, his knee brushing against hers, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist when he reached for his drink.

And every time she laughed, his eyes flickered to her lips.

Sometime after midnight, when the party was loudest and the drinks were strongest, Y/N felt the walls closing in.

She had spent the last hour with his hand on the small of her back, his voice low in her ear, his eyes dark and unreadable whenever she so much as looked at someone else.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

So she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

Harry blinked, surprised, but let her lead him through the crowd, up a grand staircase, and through a side door that led to the rooftop.

The city stretched out below them, glittering in the darkness. The muffled bass of the party throbbed beneath their feet, but up here, the air was crisp, cool against flushed skin.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. “Y’finally had enough of all that?”

Y/N scoffed. “I just needed to breathe.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think about it too, don’t you?”

Her stomach clenched.

She turned to him, arms crossed. “Think about what?”

Harry took a step closer. “This.”

Her heart hammered. “Harry—”

“I think about you too much,” he admitted, voice quiet but firm, like he had been holding it in for years.

The air crackled between them.

Y/N’s nails bit into her palms. Her voice was steady when she said, “Then do something about it.”

Harry moved before she could take it back.

His hand found her jaw, fingers tilting her face up to his. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his breath fanning against her lips—giving her a chance to stop it, to pull away.

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to savor the moment. His lips were soft but firm, tasting like whiskey and warmth, like something she hadn’t realized she had been starving for.

And when she kissed him back, something inside him snapped.

A groan rumbled in his throat as he deepened it, his other hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The cold rooftop wall pressed against her back, his body against her front, caging her in.

She melted.

Her fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to make him growl into her mouth. She felt his smirk against her lips before he kissed her harder, licking into her mouth like he wanted to learn every single inch of her.

The city blurred around them.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only the moment they had spent years pretending they didn’t want.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N was breathless, lips tingling, her hands still fisted in his hair.

Harry smirked, eyes dark and hazy.

“Was wondering when you’d let me do that.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her fingers tracing his jaw.

“Shut up and do it again.”

And so he did.

They didn’t talk about it, not really.

They just acted.

And once that line had been crossed, there was no going back.

The secrecy of it all was intoxicating.

It turned the smallest moments into something electric—her fingers grazing his when she passed him a drink, the press of his palm against her lower back as he guided her through a crowd.

They stole kisses behind dressing room doors, in dimly lit hallways, in the backseat of a blacked-out SUV. It was a game neither of them acknowledged but both played with fervor.

It was thrilling.

It was dangerous.

It was them.

Harry had sent her nothing but a single text:

Room 1107. Door’s open.

So she went.

The moment she stepped inside, he was already reaching for her.

His hands were warm as they slid around her waist, pulling her in. His lips found hers before she could even make a remark about his audacity, and suddenly she was backed up against the wall, gasping softly into his mouth as his fingers gripped the hem of her hoodie—the one she had stolen from his suitcase weeks ago.

It smelled like him.

It felt like home.

“Missed you,” he muttered against her lips, his voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something softer, something sweeter.

She smirked, her fingers curling into his T-shirt. “You saw me three hours ago.”

Harry hummed, dragging his lips down the column of her throat. “Still too long.”

She rolled her eyes, but the shiver down her spine betrayed her.

But sleep had other plans.

Y/N woke up tangled in crisp white sheets, her limbs a lazy sprawl across the mattress. The scent of Harry—cologne, whiskey, and something distinctly him—wrapped around her like a second skin.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Her eyes flew open.

Harry groaned into the pillow beside her. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Harry? You up?”

His assistant.

Shit.

Y/N scrambled upright, heart racing. She barely had time to throw on his hoodie before Harry was tugging her off the bed, dragging her toward the closet.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” she hissed.

He just grinned, pushing the door open. “Get in.”

“Harry—”

“In, love.”

She barely had time to flip him off before he shut the door behind her, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, crouched between his suitcases, her bare legs chilled by the cool air inside.

She could hear everything.

The door creaking open.

Harry’s voice, rough from sleep. “Morning.”

The assistant’s knowing tone. “You sound like shit.”

A pause.

Y/N could feel the smirk in Harry’s response. “Yeah, well. Long night.”

Her glare could have burned through the door.

From the other side, she heard rustling—probably his assistant rifling through a bag.

Then—

“Oh, and by the way? If you’re gonna sneak someone in, maybe don’t leave two pairs of shoes by the door next time.”

Silence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Harry, to his credit, barely missed a beat.

“Right. Yeah. Noted.”

The door shut a moment later.

She barely had time to breathe before the closet door swung open, revealing Harry’s smug, dimpled grin.

“Next time,” he murmured, offering his hand to pull her up, “you’re hiding under the bed.”

Y/N smacked his chest.

And then kissed him.

It was meant to be quick—just a press of lips in playful retaliation—but Harry wasn’t one to let a moment slip away. His fingers curled around her waist, holding her there, deepening the kiss. It was languid, familiar, the kind of kiss that tasted like late nights and secrets, like comfort and hunger all at once.

She sighed against his mouth. “I should go.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moved.

It was only when the morning light began creeping through the curtains, spilling over their tangled limbs, that she forced herself to untangle from him. Harry stayed in bed, arm draped over his forehead, watching as she slipped into her jeans and pulled on his hoodie—her own top lost somewhere in the haze of the night before.

His voice was hoarse from sleep. “At least let me get you a car.”

“I’ll call one,” she assured him, raking her fingers through her messy hair.

Harry sat up then, brows knitting together. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, flashing him a small smile. She pressed a last kiss to his cheek, inhaled the warmth of his skin, and slipped out of the room.

And right into a camera flash.

The second she stepped onto the pavement, she knew.

The street wasn’t exactly swarming, but one paparazzo was enough. He was already snapping rapid shots, the sound of the shutter slicing through the dawn stillness like a guillotine. She didn’t run—that would make it worse. Instead, she pulled up the hood of Harry’s sweatshirt, kept her chin down, and slid into the waiting car.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached her apartment.

Maddie: Shit. Have you seen TMZ??

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t even shut the door behind her before she was pulling up the link.

The headline screamed at her in bold print:

Y/N Nicks Spotted Leaving Harry Styles’ Home—Rock Royalty & Pop Prince?

Her pulse pounded as she scrolled. Dozens of pictures. Some from last night when they arrived separately at his house. Some from this morning, catching her in the same outfit.

And then the comments.

Not surprised. The tension in that interview was insane. She’s not even that famous wtf. Fleetwood Mac and One Direction crossover??? Didn’t she date that bassist last year? She’s literally wearing his hoodie. IT’S HAPPENING. Harry can do better tbh.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

She should have known.

By noon, it was everywhere. Entertainment news, gossip sites, even actual journalists weighing in on the implications of her and Harry. She ignored the notifications, silenced her phone, but then came the email from her publicist.

And worse—Harry’s PR team.

We need to get ahead of this. No comment is best for now. We’re drafting a statement.

It was bullshit.

By mid-afternoon, she was at his house.

Harry was pacing the living room, phone in one hand, stress written all over his face. He looked up when she walked in, exhaling heavily. “They want me to deny it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “What?”

“They think—” He dragged a hand through his curls. “They think we can ride it out, wait for something else to distract them. If we say nothing, it dies faster.”

Something bitter lodged itself in her throat. “Say nothing? Or lie?”

He hesitated. And that was enough.

“You said we were in this together,” she said, voice sharp.

“We are,” he insisted. “But you know how this works, Y/N. It’s different for me. The fans.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Oh, the fans.”

“That’s not—” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Harry. I don’t.” She crossed her arms. “Because last I checked, I’m in this industry too. I’ve had my entire existence scrutinized since birth. Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have people picking apart my every move?”

His jaw clenched.

She pressed on. “But I’m not ashamed of you. And I sure as hell don’t want to pretend this isn’t real just because some PR team is scared of a few bad headlines.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said, voice low.

“Then why are you acting like you are?”

Silence.

Her heart hammered.

Finally, she exhaled shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “I want us to stop hiding. Please.”

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was her answer.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, nodded once, and turned for the door.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind her felt heavier than it should have.

It wasn’t dramatic—no slamming, no storming out. Just the quiet finality of leaving.

And yet, it echoed.

She didn’t cry in the car. Didn’t cry when she got home. Didn’t even cry when she scrolled through Twitter and saw her name still trending, the discourse evolving by the hour.

What does Harry see in her anyway? She’s just another nepotism baby. She’s so private—does she think she’s better than his other exes? She’s clearly using him for clout. She’s lucky to have him, but he deserves someone who actually appreciates him.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she locked her phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Let them talk. Let them spin their stories. It wasn’t like the truth mattered.

She went silent.

No Instagram stories, no late-night tweets, no cryptic lyrics. The press called it a calculated move, the fans called it suspicious, but in reality?

She just didn’t have the energy.

She slept too little and drank too much coffee. She ignored calls from her publicist. Ignored texts from mutual friends who wanted to check in but were probably just fishing for an inside scoop.

And Harry?

Harry didn’t reach out.

Not once.

Which, of all the things, hurt the most.

It had been three days.

She was at her mother’s house when it happened.

Stevie had always been able to tell when something was wrong, no matter how good Y/N thought she was at masking it. She hadn’t pried, though. Not yet. Instead, she let Y/N exist in the space, offering quiet company rather than questions.

But Y/N knew she wouldn’t escape forever.

That night, the house was quiet except for the hum of the wind outside. Stevie had gone to bed hours ago, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit living room, the grand piano standing in the corner like it was waiting for her.

She didn’t even realize she was walking toward it until her fingers brushed against the keys.

She sat down.

And she played.

It started as muscle memory, the chords slipping out in a familiar pattern, soft and haunting. The kind of song that lingered in the bones, that carried the weight of something unfinished.

"You could be my silver spring..."

The words came out quieter than she intended, but they were there.

"Blue-green colors flashing..."

Her voice wavered.

"I would be your only dream..."

Her fingers trembled over the keys, the melody filling the empty room.

"You will never be my lover..."

The tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

God.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the pictures leaked, not when the headlines turned ugly, not even when she walked away.

But here, under the weight of this song—her mother’s song—she broke.

She barely heard the footsteps approaching behind her.

But she felt the presence.

A hand, warm and familiar, rested gently on her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop playing.

Stevie sat down beside her on the bench, saying nothing.

She just listened.

And when Y/N’s hands finally fell away from the keys, when her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her mother reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, baby," she murmured softly.

And that was all it took for Y/N to shatter completely.

She turned into her mother’s arms, hiding her face against her shoulder as the heartbreak spilled out in ways she hadn’t allowed before.

Stevie just held her.

She didn’t say I told you so, didn’t say you knew this would happen, didn’t say I warned you, love is messy in this business.

She just let her cry.

Because what was there to say?

Y/N had been willing to fight for this. She had been willing to face the noise, the scrutiny, the world dissecting her every move—for him.

And he hadn’t even reached for her when she walked away.

She had loved him. Had let herself believe, even just for a moment, that they could exist beyond the secrets, beyond the fear.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he was never hers to begin with.

Meanwhile...

Harry hadn’t slept.

He had spent the last three days running on autopilot, going through the motions of studio sessions and meetings, pretending like everything was fine when it wasn’t.

He had tried to tell himself that this was the right move. That letting the story die on its own was the best way to protect them both.

But nothing about this felt right.

He had checked his phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over her contact, but he never typed anything. What could he say? Sorry I didn’t fight for us? Sorry I let the fear win?

He wasn’t sure what finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was the lack of her name in his messages, the absence of her voice. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent years wanting her and only had days before she slipped away completely.

Or maybe it was the video.

It wasn’t even a full clip, just a fifteen-second snippet someone had posted online.

Y/N, at a piano. Playing Silver Springs.

It was grainy, the lighting dim, but he knew her silhouette anywhere.

And he knew what that song meant.

His stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just the weight of the media or the PR teams or the fans that mattered.

It was her.

It had always been her.

And if he didn’t move now, if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose her for good.

The rain was relentless.

It hit the pavement in steady sheets, washing the city in silver streaks and the glow of streetlights. It soaked through Harry’s clothes, plastering his shirt to his skin, curling his hair against his forehead, dripping down his jaw like the storm itself was trying to pull him under.

But he didn’t care.

His heart was hammering, his chest tight with something wild and desperate as he stood in front of her door, fist poised to knock.

This was it.

No more hiding. No more silence. No more pretending like he could live without her.

His knuckles hit the wood. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

He swallowed hard, knocking again, harder this time, rainwater slipping down his wrist.

Still nothing.

His stomach clenched. What if she wasn’t here? What if she didn’t want to be here—what if she had already left, had already moved on—

The door swung open.

And there she was.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair damp, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

She hadn’t been expecting him. That much was obvious.

Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly as she took him in—the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way water dripped from his curls, the way his breath came ragged and uneven.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“Fuck the PR,” he blurted, voice raw. “Fuck the headlines.”

She blinked.

“I love you.”

The words hit the air like a lightning strike, sharp and electric.

A breath. A pause. A crack in the silence.

The rain hadn’t let up.

It streaked down the windowpanes, tapping a steady rhythm against the glass, pooling in the crevices of the street outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and something electric, something on the verge of breaking.

He stood there in her doorway, dripping onto the hardwood floors, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, darkened by the rain, molded to the sharp lines of his chest and the ridges of his stomach. Water curled at his jaw, trailing down the hollow of his throat. His breaths were heavy, ragged, like he’d run here in the downpour, like nothing in the world had mattered more than making it to this moment.

And she—

She just stared.

Chest rising and falling, lips slightly parted, fingers trembling at her sides.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, every unspoken word, every unshed tear, every almost hanging in the space between their bodies.

Her fingers fisted in the damp collar of his shirt.

She yanked him inside.

The door slammed behind them, but neither of them noticed.

His back hit the wood, a sharp inhale punched from his lungs as she pressed against him. Their bodies were a tangle of heat and desperation, a collision of limbs and longing, the storm outside nothing compared to the one building between them.

Her hands slid up, skimming over his shoulders, gripping the nape of his neck, pulling.

Their mouths crashed together.

It was rough. Messy. Clumsy in the way only something utterly inevitable could be.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, and he groaned into her mouth, his fingers threading into her damp hair, tugging just enough to tip her head back. His lips slanted over hers, deepening the kiss, tasting her like he was starved for it.

She gasped when his mouth trailed lower, down the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat. He bit down, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make her shudder against him.

Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but the fabric was stuck to him, refusing to give. Frustration twisted her features.

“Off,” she demanded, voice breathless, thick with need.

He barely pulled back long enough to shove the wet fabric off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a damp slap.

She pressed her palms against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the erratic beat of his heart beneath her touch.

Then, she leaned in, running her tongue over the rain-slicked skin at his throat.

His whole body tensed.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Losing Control

They didn’t make it far.

They stumbled through the flat, hands desperate, mouths never parting, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Her sweatshirt was the next casualty, pulled up and over her head, landing somewhere behind them. His hands were on her skin instantly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of her spine, dragging down, down—gripping the back of her thighs and hoisting her up.

She gasped against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist.

He walked them backward, moving blindly, guided only by instinct and the sound of her breathing, the little whimpers she made when he kissed the hollow of her throat, the way her hips shifted against him.

They hit the couch.

She was weightless for a moment, air rushing from her lungs as he dropped her onto the cushions, hovering above her, chest heaving.

His hands spread over her bare thighs, sliding up, up, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts. He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

“I’ve wanted you since that first night,” he murmured, voice rough, wrecked.

Her breath caught.

A single heartbeat. A moment suspended in time.

Then she was tugging him down, capturing his mouth with hers.

Heat.

That was all she could feel.

The press of his body, the weight of him between her thighs, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed a path down her stomach.

Her nails raked down his back, catching at the waistband of his jeans, tugging. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushed himself lower.

His lips ghosted over her navel, down further, until—

Her back arched, a sharp inhale punched from her lungs, a curse whispered into the air.

And then everything blurred.

A tangle of limbs, clothes stripped away piece by piece, moans swallowed in kisses, bodies moving together, frantic, unrestrained, the storm raging both outside and between them.

He pressed inside her with a shuddering breath, forehead dropping against hers, their hands gripping, clutching, desperate.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice hoarse, raw with something deeper than lust.

She did.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, bodies tangled.

Her cheek rested against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare spine.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but all she could hear was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly—

“You didn’t stop me from walking away.”

He exhaled, his lips brushing over her temple. “I wanted to.”

She glanced up at him. “Then why didn’t you?”

His throat bobbed. “Because you deserved more than that.”

Her heart ached.

She shifted, fingers trailing over his jaw, over the curve of his mouth. “And now?”

His hand tightened on her waist.

“I’m done running.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

And when she kissed him, soft and lingering, he knew—

So was she.

The world could burn. The headlines could scream. The fans could theorize. The PR teams could scramble.

None of it mattered anymore.

Because they were done hiding.

They chose the timing.

They chose the words.

They chose each other.

The cameras were set up in a cozy, softly lit studio, with plush chairs and warm lighting that made everything feel a little less staged, a little more intimate. She sat beside him, their hands resting on the space between them—not quite touching, but close.

The interviewer, an older woman with kind eyes, smiled at them both.

“So,” she began, “I think it’s safe to say the world has been dying to know. What’s the truth?”

Harry exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. He glanced at Y/N, his dimples peeking out as he grinned, then looked back at the camera.

“The truth?” he repeated, voice playful, teasing.

She nudged him, a silent Behave.

He ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m in love with her. Always have been.”

The interviewer made a sound of delight. The world outside exploded.

She turned to Y/N, who was smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

“And you?” the interviewer asked gently.

Y/N looked at Harry.

He was already looking at her.

“I’m in love with him too,” she murmured. “Obviously.”

The arena was packed.

The energy in the air was electric, a chorus of cheers and music and flashing lights. The setlist was nearly done, the concert winding toward its final moments. But before the last song, Harry paused.

“Alright,” he murmured into the mic, stepping back from the center of the stage. “I’ve got something special for you all tonight.”

The crowd roared.

His eyes found her, standing just offstage, watching him with an amused smile.

And then—he extended his hand.

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because, for the first time, this wasn’t just between them. This was in front of thousands.

He must have seen it in her eyes, because he smiled—soft, reassuring, knowing. He wiggled his fingers, beckoning her.

“C’mon, love,” he said. “Duet?”

The audience screamed.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous,” she mouthed.

But she took his hand.

The moment she stepped onto the stage, the noise doubled, an eruption of cheers and chants and camera flashes.

But none of it mattered.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

The first chords of the song played, slow and sweet, the melody wrapping around them like something sacred.

And then—

He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Soft.

Lingering.

Devoted.

The crowd melted.

But in that moment, as the lights bathed them in gold, as their voices wove together, as their fingers stayed entwined—

It wasn’t about the world watching.

It was about them.

Because for once, it didn’t matter who was looking.

They had each other.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[noobiestnoober]

Fallout & Feelings (Sequel to "Matrimony Mayhem") (Carlos X Reader)

What started as a joke—a fake marriage between you and Carlos to boost team morale—has spiraled wildly out of control. Now HQ thinks it’s real, HR’s scheduling couple’s counseling, and the team is planning a surprise reception. But amidst the chaos, one problem grows harder to ignore: you’re starting to like being married to Carlos a little too much. And worse? He might feel the same.

Fake vows. Real feelings. Team-wide delusion. Welcome to the fallout.

Welcome to the Aftermath

There was no escaping it now. By the time Monday rolled around, the HQ announcement board had a digital banner that read: CONGRATS TO THE NEWLYWEDS! 🎉 right above a reminder about proper biohazard disposal. No one questioned it anymore. It had become part of the landscape—right next to the “All-Clear” drill notifications and mission success tallies.

The breakroom TV kept glitching into a slideshow of wedding-themed stock photos with your and Carlos’s faces lazily Photoshopped onto them. You tried to shut it off. Twice. It rebooted itself both times. Someone—likely Jill—had also programmed it to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” every time the coffee machine was used, meaning an emotional Elvis serenade every fifteen minutes.

You could handle the Elvis soundtrack. You could even tolerate Leon’s theatrical interpretation of slow dancing with an invisible bouquet every time you entered the room. But when Rebecca compiled a “training retreat” proposal that suspiciously resembled a honeymoon itinerary—complete with “couple trust-building exercises” and a scenic lake cabin? That’s when it got real.

You could ignore the monogrammed towel set. You could tolerate HR’s weekly “Marital Wellness” check-ins—even when they made you and Carlos fill out compatibility quizzes that sounded suspiciously like dating app surveys. But the part that was really getting out of hand?

You were starting to like it. All of it. Carlos was… good at being fake married. Too good.

He saved the last dumpling for you without asking. He carried your gear even when you didn’t need help. He casually touched the small of your back like it was second nature. He called you “wife” with that relaxed drawl that made it sound less like a joke and more like a fact. And worst of all? He smiled like he meant it when he called you mi esposa.

What had started as a laugh was turning into… something else. The line between fake and real was blurring faster than you could process. Somewhere between the shared meals, the inside jokes, and the casual touches, your heart stopped remembering where the act ended and the truth began.

The Turning Point

It happened after a particularly rough mission. Long hours. A close call. You were scraped up, exhausted, and coming down from the adrenaline high with a crash. Blood on your sleeve, dirt under your nails, and a dull ringing in your ears from the last explosion.

Carlos sat next to you on the infirmary cot. Wordlessly, he reached for your hand and held it. Not for the bit. Not for the team. Just for you. His hand was warm and solid. Familiar. Steady.

“You scared me today,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.

Your throat tightened. “Wasn’t planning on dying, if that helps.”

“Still,” he said again, softer this time. “I don’t think I could handle losing you. Even as a fake wife.”

You turned toward him slowly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and real. The fake wedding ring on your finger felt heavier than it should’ve, like it suddenly meant more than plastic and poor decisions.

“Carlos… do you ever wish it wasn’t a joke?”

He went still. The kind of still that usually meant danger. Except this time, the only thing in danger was your heart. Instead of deflecting, instead of making it weird, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

“All the time.”

Your pulse skipped a beat. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. You just looked at him—and he looked right back, like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Operation: Team Chaos

The team was spiraling. Spectacularly. Jill had set up a Pinterest board labeled “Reception Vibes.” It had categories. Subfolders. Color palettes. She was serious.

Leon was aggressively researching “Best Man speeches for emotionally stunted sharpshooters,” and had started leaving half-written cue cards in random places. One ended with: “...and if anyone objects to this union, speak now or shut up forever, because Carlos will shoot you.”

Chris looked five minutes away from a full bureaucratic collapse. His desk was buried in a mountain of paperwork he’d printed out to “fix this mess.” Every time someone asked what he was doing, he just muttered about protocol breaches and chain-of-command violations while shaking an HR handbook like it was gospel.

Rebecca? Oh, she’d escalated. She drafted an HR-approved marital health form titled “Love on the Front Lines: A Wellness Journey” and began scheduling sessions like a wedding planner on a mission. Her latest suggestion was a “Communication & Conflict Resolution” workshop. Mandatory.

There was talk—actual, serious talk—of a surprise wedding reception at the base cafeteria. Jill had a playlist. Leon was practicing a toast. Someone even requested cake options from the mess hall staff. You didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry.

And amid the chaos, you caught yourself smiling. Because this wasn’t just about the prank anymore. Somewhere in the whirlwind of well-meaning lunacy, the team had started rooting for you. For real.

Carlos caught you on your way to the shooting range, eyebrows raised.

“So, uh… do we fake-renew our vows or actually do it this time?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Let’s survive one more mission first.”

He nodded. “Deal. But next fruit basket? I’m picking the contents. No more weird kiwi jam.”

“Agreed. And I get veto power on towel embroidery fonts.”

He grinned, and it felt different now. Real.

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 11

Authors Note: Hello! Here I am again hahah I'm just getting excited because things are starting to happen and im also ifuhoidsajd lol so here's another chapter!

I might also be writing like a crazy person to distract myself of the fact that they are almost back and the days cannot pass faster hahah

lots of love! Kiki

ps:

hehe sooooo....

Also, for my people who are waiting on Jungkook, patience my young padawans, his time will come. Fear not ;) ---------

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But the light in your apartment is different now — not the pale, unforgiving kind from earlier, but something warmer, stretched long across the floor like the day is trying to leave without making a sound. Late afternoon, maybe. Or early evening. The kind of in-between light that makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower. Dust floats lazily through the air, catching in the golden slant that filters through the half-closed blinds.

It still smells like peppermint. Faint, but still there. Soft and clean and ghostlike. The mug on your coffee table is empty — no trace of warmth left in the ceramic, but the shape of it feels recent. Like someone placed it down gently. Like someone didn’t want to wake you.

The blanket over your legs is still tucked neatly at the sides, folded in at the edges like a quiet gesture you almost missed. You blink slowly, staring at it for a few seconds before it registers — Jimin is gone.

He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t need to. You also hadn’t expected a goodbye, not really. He moves through space like water — he fills it, carries you if you let him, and then leaves without asking for anything. And somehow, what he leaves behind feels more meaningful than words ever could.

The apartment is quiet now. Still.

The kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of the wood under your couch as you shift your weight. Every sound amplified by the absence of another presence.

But it’s not a lonely kind of quiet. Not quite. But a bit lonely, nevertheless.  

You exhale, long and slow, letting your head fall back against the cushion.

There’s a light pressure behind your eyes — the last trace of the hangover, maybe, or just the ghost of the dream you had before Jimin showed up. You can’t remember it now. Just a feeling. A sharpness. That sensation of being underwater without knowing how you got there.

Your limbs feel heavy, but not weighed down. Just… warm. Like you’ve been wrapped in a cocoon you didn’t realize you needed.

And now, you feel the absence.

Your eyes flutter shut again — just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to feel the room. The shift.

It's strange how easy it is to feel when he's gone. You stay there, breathing. Letting the quiet wrap around you, slow and padded, like the world is giving you a little more time before it starts spinning again. Your fingers curl slightly under the edge of the blanket. The couch cushions dip just the slightest beneath you. Everything feels still in a way it hasn’t for days.

And yet…

It’s not just stillness that settles in your chest. It’s something else, too.

A hum you can’t quite place. A presence that doesn’t belong to the peppermint or the folded blanket or even to Jimin’s echo.

You try not to name it. Try not to go there.

But your thoughts are already pulling in another direction.

His direction.

The way Jungkook had looked at you yesterday — not during a conversation, not in any obvious way, just in a moment you happened to glance up — like he saw something he hadn’t expected to see. The way his mouth had twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t. The way he didn’t look away until you did.

You hadn’t thought about it much at the time. Now you can’t seem to stop.

The silence stretches again.

And then — the buzz.

Sharp against the cushion. One short vibration. Then another.

You open your eyes, slowly. Turn your head toward the sound. Your phone is still facedown. Like it knew you wouldn’t be ready.

You reach for it, thumb dragging across the screen. It lights up — too bright at first — and you squint, blinking against it.

Two notifications.

The first one makes you snort softly, right on cue.

[My one and only true love 3:43 PM]: Okay. I’m really giving you a break today.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]: But tomorrow? I want names.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And context.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And height-to-hotness ratios.

You consider replying. You even start to type.

But the second notification catches your eye — and suddenly your fingers pause. [JK 1:12 PM]: Still alive?

Your thumb stills above the keyboard. The words are short. Barely anything. Just enough. But you feel them settle in your chest anyway.

You stare at the screen, heart thumping slightly out of step.

You don’t know why it feels heavier coming from him. Maybe because everything from him feels like it might mean something — even when it doesn’t. Maybe because you still don’t know how much space he’s meant to take up in your day. Or maybe because… you kind of hoped he would text. And now that he has, you don’t know what to do with that hope.

You type back, simple.

[ You 3:46 PM]: Depends who’s asking.

The reply comes faster than you expect. Like he has been waiting near the phone the entire time. 

[JK 3:46 PM]: Just someone who heard you lost a fight to soju.

Your brows lift. So he knows. Somehow. Someone told him. But who?

You hesitate, then reply:

[JK 3:47 PM]: Amazing. Didn’t realize my downfall was public info.

[JK 3:47 PM]: It is now. You set a new record, apparently. Very dramatic.

You roll your eyes. But you’re already smiling. Just a little.

You tap your fingers against the edge of the phone, then type:

[You 3:47 PM]: Glad to know I’m leaving a legacy.

And then — a pause. A longer one.

Not longer then a minute. Just long enough to make you wonder.

Then his message blinks across the screen:

[ JK 3:48 PM]: You always do.

You stop.

You stare at the words until the screen begins to dim, and you tap it once to keep it lit. You don’t reply. You don’t know how.

Because you’re still figuring out what any of this is.

Still figuring out what it means when someone like Jungkook says something like that — not just to you, but about you.

And if you’re being honest with yourself — really honest — you know it’s not just the words.

It’s the way your pulse stutters now. The way your stomach tightens, just slightly. The way you let your phone rest gently on the blanket beside you, like the weight of it might say too much.

You exhale, slow.

Outside, the city is still moving. Somewhere far off, a car honks. Someone laughs in the hallway.

But inside your apartment, it’s just you. And that message. And the strange little ache blooming behind your ribs. ----- The next day at work passed in a strange kind of haze.

The hangover was gone. The peppermint scent had faded from your hoodie, and the apartment felt emptier than it did the night before — though a blanket still folded neatly on the couch gave away that Jimin had really been there. You hadn’t heard from him since, just a message in the morning saying “Hope today’s kinder to you.”

You hadn’t answered.

There was too much noise in your head already — leftover static from dreams, memories, text messages that said you always do. And then there was work. The usual rush of prep before a Run BTS shoot, the whole office tense but pretending to be casual. Scripts, gear, last-minute call time changes. People bumping into each other and pretending it wasn’t on purpose.

By 6:40, someone shoved a clipboard into your hands with a breathless “Can you take this to Studio B?”

You were already halfway down the hall when you realized you didn’t mind the errand.

You didn’t really want to be around anyone. Except when you open the door to the smaller recording studio, it isn’t empty.

Jungkook’s already there.

He’s lounged back on the old leather couch, hoodie hood bunched behind his neck, legs sprawled comfortably. One of his feet bounces in the air, heel tapping the ground. He’s got his phone in hand and one earbud in, but it’s hanging halfway out, like he forgot about it.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s grinning — really grinning — shoulders shaking with that soundless laugh you’ve seen when something online catches him just right. You freeze for half a second in the doorway, not sure whether to step back or knock or just stand there like a forgotten extra.

Then he looks up.

And you don’t know why it feels like you’ve been caught.

“Oh,” he says, still half-laughing. “You scared me.”

“I knocked.”

“You didn’t.”

You blink. “…I thought I did.”

He smiles, and it makes your stomach shift a little too fast.

You hold up the clipboard in your hand. “Dropping these off. Tomorrow’s call sheets.”

He nods and nudges the coffee table with his foot. “You can leave it here. Unless you want to read it out loud. Make it dramatic.”

You roll your eyes but cross the room anyway, placing the clipboard down gently on the edge of the table. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick toward you as you do — just for a second. A blink. But it’s there.

“Did you volunteer for this?” he asks, voice light.

“Why?”

He shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. “I mean, it’s almost 7. Kind of feels like you wanted the walk.”

You glance at him, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Kind of feels like you’re reading too much into it.”

He laughs again — not unkind. Not sharp. Just… amused.

“I’ve been told I do that,” he says shrugging. “Once or twice.”

You hover by the table a moment longer, unsure if you’re dismissed or just lingering. But before you can move toward the door, he speaks again — this time a little quieter, but still casual.

“By the way… thanks. For the whole… mess the other day.”

You blink. “You mean—?”

He nods once. Doesn’t elaborate. Just lifts his hand in a little wave like he’s acknowledging something in the air between you both.

“I didn’t know you knew I helped with that.”

He gives a soft scoff. “Please. You’re the only one who would’ve made the managers sound like a calm older sister who’s also on the verge of quitting.”

You almost smile. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

“I thought so.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not uncomfortable.

He leans forward to pick up his phone, scrolling aimlessly now. You turn toward the door.

“You’re on the schedule at 8:45,” you say over your shoulder. “Try not to be late.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“More like a prayer.”

He huffs another laugh behind you. “See you tomorrow.”

You don’t look back when you leave, but you do catch your reflection briefly in the narrow studio window — the way your shoulders are still a little too stiff, your expression a little too carefully blank.

But your heart?

It’s doing that thing again.

The quiet kind of racing.

------- The studio was already buzzing by the time you arrived.

Staff filtered in and out of the side doors, trailing wires and clipped walkies, the usual pre-shoot chaos humming under every breath. You tucked your phone into your back pocket, tried not to think about the last conversation you’d had with either of them, and slid the call sheet onto the production table like it didn’t weigh more than it should.

Run BTS days always carried a different kind of energy. It wasn’t just content — it was the boys being themselves, half-scripted and half-chaotic. You’d noticed, over time, how even the quietest ones came alive here. Something about being in front of the camera without the full weight of an idol performance made them playful in a way that was rare to catch elsewhere.

You were adjusting the mic list when you heard your name.

“Y/N!”

It was Taehyung, waving dramatically from across the set like you were half a football field away.

“Come settle a bet,” he called.

You squinted. “Do I want to know what the bet is?”

Jimin appeared beside him, grinning like he’d already won. “You absolutely do.”

That’s when you noticed the screen behind them — the large monitor propped up for playback — currently displaying a paused Mario Kart track. Two controllers were sitting on the table, one already gripped tightly in Jungkook’s hands.

“Jungkook challenged me,” Jimin said, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Then he lost. And now he wants a rematch. But I refuse, so he wants to show he can beat anyone else. So we chose you.”

You blinked and pointed at yourself in disbelief. “Me?”

Jungkook, seated in one of the gamer-style chairs with his legs kicked up like he owned the place, smirked. “You talk a big game.”

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never talked any game.”

“That’s what makes you dangerous,” he replied, eyes gleaming.

Someone from the staff handed you the second controller, and it felt suspiciously like a setup — the way all the boys slowly started crowding behind the monitor, how Jimin was suddenly perched on the arm of the couch beside you, offering unsolicited tips.

“Watch the drifts in the third lap,” he murmured. “That’s where he gets cocky.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. “Are you helping me or sabotaging me?”

He smiled, all sugar and mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jungkook chose the track. Something fast. Of course.

When the countdown began, your focus narrowed. Just you, the controller, and the digital chaos on screen. Around you, you were vaguely aware of voices — cheering, laughing, someone (probably Jin) commentating like it was the Olympics.

Jungkook was fast. Annoyingly fast.

But you were patient. Quietly calculating.

And in the last stretch of the final lap, you drifted perfectly around a corner, dodged a red shell, and zipped across the finish line less than half a second ahead.

The room exploded.

Hobi’s laugh was unmistakable as Jin threw his hands in the air. Taehyung screamed something unintelligible. Jimin laughed so hard he nearly fell from where he was sitting on.

Jungkook stared at the screen, jaw slack. Then he turned to look at you.

“That was luck.”

You leaned back, tossing the controller gently onto the couch. “Skill. Coated in humble confidence.”

“Rematch.”

“You’ll need time to recover.” You patted him on the shoulder. 

He huffed, half a laugh escaping before he could stop it. And then he smiled — a real one this time, boyish and bright.

Jimin passed behind you as the camera crew started setting up for the next segment. He didn’t say anything at first — just brushed his knuckles lightly across your shoulder in passing, a touch no one else would notice.

When he came back around, slipping into place beside you as the others were getting miked, he handed you a bottle of water without meeting your eyes.

“You okay?” he asked under his breath.

You nodded. “I think I just made a mortal enemy.”

He smiled. “Nah. That’s just Jungkook’s love language.”

Your stomach flipped — not because of the words, but the quiet way he said them. Like he knew exactly how light to make it. Exactly when not to push.

You looked at him then, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Then the director called for first positions, and the moment scattered like loose change.

Still, when Jungkook passed you on the way to his mark, he bumped your shoulder lightly, a grin tucked half into the corner of his mouth.

“Round two’s coming,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you smiled anyway. -----

The hallway beyond the studio felt quieter than it should. Dimmer, too, the bright set lights replaced by the low ambient hum of backstage fluorescents. You rubbed your fingertips along your temple, trying to will away the strange buzz still dancing in your chest after the shoot.

Your badge swung slightly with each step as you wandered past stacked lighting gear and garment racks. A few of the stylists were packing up, their conversations soft and distant. Most of the boys had already vanished into dressing rooms or out the back exit.

You stepped into the green room without knocking — just enough to drop off the folder you’d been handed. Inside, it was quiet. A jacket draped over the couch, an open water bottle on the table. Jungkook was seated on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable until he glanced up and noticed you.

"Hey," he said, straightening slightly.

You held out the folder. "Call sheet for the weekend. You guys have a rehearsal slotted Sunday."

He set his phone down and took the folder from you, glancing at the cover. "Thanks."

"No problem."

You turned to leave, but his voice followed. "You know... you kind of crushed me today."

You blinked. "At Mario Kart?"

He let out a low chuckle. "I’m gonna pretend it wasn’t personal."

"Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’m just that good."

Jungkook tilted his head like he was considering that. "Dangerously humble. It’s a deadly combo."

You smirked, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make your heart feel a little too aware of itself.

“How’s your recovery from trying to beat Sana in drinking?” He asked casually. 

Your eyebrows shot up. "How do you—"

His grin widened. "Let’s just say... death by soju doesn’t go unnoticed."

You narrowed your eyes, trying not to smile. "I’m going to start interrogating people."

"You won’t need to. I’m very susceptible to guilt. And bribery."

You laughed despite yourself, glancing down at the call sheet again. Something about this was easier than it should’ve been.

Then footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Taehyung appeared, slowing as soon as he saw the two of you. He stopped a few paces away, taking in the scene without saying a word.

You braced for something.

He didn’t disappoint.

"You know," he said, pointing between the two of you, "if you’re gonna stand that close and smile that much, at least try to look a little less obvious."

Jungkook groaned, head tipping back with a dramatic sigh. "Hyung—"

Taehyung raised both hands, backing away slowly. "Hey, hey. Don’t mind me. I’m just an innocent bystander. An observant one. But innocent nonetheless."

Then, just before turning the corner, he added over his shoulder, "Cute, though. Seriously."

You stared after him.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, then looked at you with something caught between amusement and apology.

"He’s going to milk that for weeks."

You sighed. "Guess we’re doomed."

"Could be worse," Jungkook said.

And the way he looked at you — not teasing, not intense, just quietly sure — made it very hard to argue. ---- The studio floor had emptied out more than you realized. One minute you were dodging prop boxes and laughing with Yoshi while the post-filming chaos still lingered, and the next — you were standing by the stairwell with a half-empty water bottle in hand, waiting for the elevator that seemed determined not to arrive.

"You always disappear right before the fun part," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet like a familiar song.

You turned, half startled, half expecting him. He was already walking toward you, hoodie draped loosely over his shoulders, hair still damp from the earlier shoot, and something soft behind his eyes. Like he’d been waiting for a moment alone just like this.

You gave a weak smile. "Didn’t know there was a fun part."

He stopped in front of you, leaning a shoulder lightly against the wall. "There’s always a fun part."

The hallway buzzed gently with silence. A light flickered above you, casting slow-moving shadows. You tightened your grip on the bottle.

"Tired?" he asked, glancing down at your hands.

You shrugged. "A little. I think the last twenty-four hours finally caught up to me."

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than you were saying.

"Thanks for yesterday," you said after a moment.

"You already said that."

You looked up. "Well, I’m saying it again."

He smiled at that, then tilted his head slightly. "Want a ride home? I’ve got time."

You hesitated. For a breath. Maybe two. Then nodded. Why not?

---- 

The city passed in fragments outside the window, a patchwork of late-night haze and quiet. Yellow-tinted streetlights blinked over sidewalks. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly from the windows of half-closed stores. Inside the car, it was warm — too warm — and you didn’t bother removing your coat. You felt the press of it, like a shield. A weight you weren’t quite ready to shrug off.

Jimin didn’t put on music. You didn’t ask. The air between you hummed with an unspoken rhythm, one you couldn’t place.

"You’re quiet," he said, glancing at you as the car slowed at a red light. "I thought I’d at least get a dramatic monologue about the evils of filming variety shows in the cold."

You gave a soft huff, the corner of your mouth twitching. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to perform."

"I’m devastated," he said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest.

Your gaze drifted back out the window. You traced the fog from your breath with a fingertip on the glass. "It’s just been... an intense week."

"I know the feeling," he murmured. His tone didn’t shift. He didn’t offer advice. He just agreed, like it was the only thing worth saying.

"It’s not even anything specific. Just… the internship. The schedule. The pace of it all. Its been almost three months but feels like im here for much longer but at the same time much less. It’s weird." You gave a little shrug, as if brushing the weight off your shoulders could make it lighter. "Everything’s just a bit much sometimes."

He stayed silent. The hum of the car filled in what you didn’t say.

Then, his voice returned, lighter this time. "If it makes you feel better, I’m very impressed by how professional you looked while holding a bag of cucumbers today."

That pulled a laugh from your chest. You shot him a side glance. "Stop."

"Dead serious. Iconic. Might be the most glamorous thing I’ve seen all week."

The light turned green, and he eased the car forward. You leaned into your seat and sighed. Something about him — the way he let the serious and silly fold over each other — always managed to unravel you in pieces. Quiet ones.

"You’re good at this," you said softly.

"At what?"

"Disarming people."

He glanced at you, his smile widening. "You make it sound like I’m a spy."

"Maybe you are. The charming kind. Gets people talking when they don’t mean to."

"Ah," he said, mock-serious. "So I’m dangerously persuasive. Noted."

You lifted an eyebrow. "I’m saying you’re sneaky. Subtle. The kind of person who probably gets away with way too much."

He gasped in mock offense. "I’m wounded."

"You’ll survive."

He turned onto your street, the familiar row of buildings falling into place outside the window. But he didn’t stop in front of yours. Instead, he pulled up further, into a quieter spot shaded by trees and dim streetlight.

The engine ticked as he cut it. Neither of you moved.

You sat in the silence, eyes on your hands folded in your lap, while Jimin’s rested casually on the wheel like he wasn’t in a rush to end whatever this was.

"We’re okay, right?" he asked after a moment. Quiet. Careful.

You nodded slowly. "I think so."

He didn’t speak right away. You could feel his gaze, warm and open.

"You’ve seemed different lately. Not bad. Just… like your head’s somewhere else."

You traced another foggy line on the window. "Maybe it is. Everything just feels different, like something shifted and I haven’t caught up to it yet."

He didn’t press. Just waited.

"It’s not really about the job," you added quickly. "It’s nothing. And also… not nothing. I guess I’m still figuring it out."

His voice was low when he answered. "Want to know what I’m figuring out?"

You turned to him, surprised by the question. "What?"

"How long I can sit here before I do something really dumb."

Your breath caught.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "And it gets harder everytime you look at me like that. "

You didn’t look away. Your fingers tightened just a little in your lap. "Then maybe stop thinking about it."

He waited. A pause that felt like a held breath, long enough to ask without asking.

And then, slowly — like testing the weight of it — he leaned in.

The kiss was light. Barely a whisper between you. A question posed in silence. A warmth you hadn’t realized you were craving. It wasn’t a hot or passionate kiss, but rather something soft, uncertain — like both of you were trying to remember how to breathe through it. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, didn’t burn its way through your chest, but settled there gently, like the warmth of a hand over your heart. It asked nothing but permission. It didn’t shout. It didn’t shake. It just… existed, tender and fleeting. Like a pause between thoughts. Like a secret neither of you had the words to speak yet.

But it didn’t last for long.

Because just as the moment settled — just as the softness of it bloomed in your chest — you pulled away.

The car felt too close now. Too still. Your hand reached for the door.

"I should—"

He nodded.

You stepped out into the cold. The night air stung your cheeks in a way that reminded you where you were. Grounded you.

The door shut behind you. Your boots clicked against the pavement as you walked towards the door of your apartment building.

And then—

Your name.

Spoken low. Firm.

You turned as he caught up to you. 

No hesitation this time.

His hand found the back of your head softly but firmer. His eyes found your mouth.

And he kissed you again.

Fuller. Warmer. Still careful, but more certain — like he’d decided he didn’t want to let you walk away wondering. This kiss wasn’t rushed, but there was urgency beneath the tenderness. A silent insistence that said: I meant that. It carried something heavier than the first — not pressure, but presence. His thumb brushed along your jaw as the kiss deepened just slightly, grounding you where you stood. Your breath caught somewhere between surprise and surrender. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it. The world narrowed. The streetlamp above you flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn echoed and faded. But here — with his forehead resting lightly against yours — everything else disappeared.

You could feel your heart knocking against your ribs, too fast, too loud. Like it hadn’t caught up to what your body was already answering.

"I get to do dumb things sometimes too," he murmured resting his forehead against yours. You were with your eyes closed still trying to process what just happened. 

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t let go either. You didn’t know how long you stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, Jimin’s warmth still lingering on your lips.

The street was quiet. Only the distant hum of a passing car reminded you the world hadn’t completely stopped. But in your body? In your chest? Everything felt like it had come to a sudden, terrifying standstill.

He kissed you.

He kissed you.

Again.

And then he—

He just turned around and left.

No last word. No clever tease. Not even a backward glance.

He walked back to his car like that kiss hadn’t just rearranged your entire central nervous system.

You were still standing there like a glitch in a simulation when the car engine started. It purred low, then faded as the wheels rolled down the block.

Only when the red taillights disappeared from view did you finally move.

You turned slowly, let yourself walk the last few steps to your building, and fumbled with the code on the door twice before getting it right. Your fingers didn’t work properly. Your brain certainly didn’t.

Inside, the air felt colder than you expected. Or maybe that was just your skin trying to forget the way his hand held the back of your head.

You dropped your bag at the entrance. Your coat somewhere near the couch. Your shoes half-on, half-off by the mat.

And then you just stood there.

Completely and utterly flabbergasted.

What the hell had just happened?

You touched your lips. Once. Lightly. Like you could still trace the shape of him there.

This was a joke. It had to be. 

No.

This was your life.

You spun in place, hair swishing with the motion, like pacing would make your thoughts more manageable.

It didn’t.

He kissed you. Again. And it wasn’t some lingering almost-moment. Not some near miss like before. No. It was real. It happened.

And you let it happen.

You kissed him back. Oh God, what have you done? You should’ve kept your mouth shut. Never said anything. To anyone. Ever. In fact, you believe you should’ve just been able to speak ever again. 

You groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch, muffling a scream into the nearest cushion.

What were you supposed to do now? Text him? Pretend it never happened? Throw your phone into the sea? Take a rocket and launch yourself into space and disapear forever?

You rolled over dramatically, now staring at the ceiling, limbs sprawled in defeat.

Should you call Evi?

No.

Yes.

No. Definitely not. She would ascend into a whole different plane of existence if she found out. You could already hear her voice in your head, pitch climbing with every syllable:

“YOU DID WHAT? With PARK JIMIN?! Girl, are you INSANE?”

You covered your face with both hands.

God. This was bad. This was… good? No. Complicated. This was very complicated.

And you were very possibly losing your mind.

You hadn’t even taken your makeup off. Your phone buzzed against your thigh, and you flinched like it had burned you.

But it wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

You lay there for another minute before sitting up and grabbing your phone anyway. You opened your notes app and typed exactly two words:

He kissed me.

Then you stared at them.

Then you deleted them.

Then you opened a new note:

What the fuck is happening.

You closed the app.

Typed Evi’s name in your contacts.

And stared.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

Right?

But why did it feel like your entire body was filled with static electricity?

You groaned again and launched yourself backward onto the couch. You needed to sleep. Or scream. Or invent a time machine.

Anything but this. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, not a message. A FaceTime.

 My one and only true love is FaceTiming…

You screamed.

Not a little gasp, not a startled “oh”—a full-on, sharp yelp that shot out of you like a reflex. The sound echoed off your apartment walls, and you instantly slapped a hand over your mouth.

Your thumb still hit "accept."

Evi’s face exploded onto the screen, perfectly framed and flawless. Hair smooth and curled at the ends, lips lined with something expensive and terrifyingly red. Her brows looked like they were carved by gods.

“Why are you screaming like someone broke into your house?” she asked, calmly sipping from a matcha glass.

You blinked at her. “I thought you were a murderer. Or my boss.”

“Charming. This is the welcome I get?”

“You scared the hell out of me.” 

“You scare easily for someone who’s been hiding a man in her apartment.”

Your soul left your body.

You coughed. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She leaned in dramatically. “I know that look. You’re flushed. Your hair’s doing that thing it does when you’re stressed but trying not to look stressed. Your eyes are twitchy. And unless it’s -3 degrees outside, that red on your cheeks isn’t from the cold.”

You adjusted your phone. “It is cold.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And yet you don’t look frozen. You look freshly kissed.”

You made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a protest—just a long, whimpering exhale.

“Y/N,” she said slowly. “Was someone at your place again since yesterday?”

You said nothing.

“Someone tucked your blanket,” she continued. “Someone made you ramen. Someone bought you Pocari Sweat. You don’t even like Pocari Sweat. You drink it once a year and call it a ritual. And today you are jumpy and blushing. Spill, bitch. ”

You buried your face in your hand. “You are so dramatic.”

“I am your best friend. I’m allowed to be. Was it someone from work?”

“Evi…”

“Was it one of the boys?” Her eyes widened, manic energy building. “Wait. DON’T tell me. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Scratch your nose if it’s complicated.”

You burst out laughing, but it was too late—your fingers had brushed your cheek.

“I KNEW IT!”

“That was not a signal.”

“Too late. Evidence locked in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned at you. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

You stared at her through the screen. Your cheeks still felt warm. Your mouth—God, your mouth—still tingled faintly. Like the memory of his lips hadn’t quite left yet.

She tilted her head. “Was it good?”

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Not a no.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m just saying—if someone kissed me and they were as hot as they sound, I would spiral, like, immediately.”

“Oh, I already spiraled.”

She beamed. “That’s my girl.”

There was a beat of silence, then her voice softened.

“You okay, though?” She dropped the subject just like that. She knew better then to press you. And she also knew when you were not jokinly freaking out. 

You looked away. Then back. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t push. She didn’t fill the silence with noise like she normally would. Just… nodded. Like that was enough.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Of course,” she replied. Then, after a pause: “Can I complain about my neighbor now?”

You blinked. “Absolutely.”

She launched into it instantly. “So this morning? He started blasting Cupid at seven a.m. again. Not even the good version—the sped-up TikTok remix. While dancing. In a tutu. On his balcony.”

You snorted. “Still the same three songs?”

“On a loop. My brain is bleeding. My sanity is held together by two hairpins and a dream.”

You grinned.

She leaned closer to the screen. “I’m serious. If I disappear one day, avenge me. I’ll be the one under the floorboards of his playlist.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

You nodded. “I do.”

“And when you’re ready,” she said, “I want the whole story. Over wine. With snacks. And a cheap galaxy projector.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “Deal.”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you too.” 

She gave you a long look, like she was reading every emotion off your face, then winked and hung up—leaving you in the quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel quite so loud. 

chapter 10 - chapter 12 Masterlist

[burntsecrets]

Flames of the Solstice

Pairing: Zuko x Katara Word Count: 816 Prompt:  For Zutara Week 2024 | Day 6: Festive @zutaraweek Author's Note: Zuko and Katara are in mid-20s in this Warnings: mild fantasy violence, competitive behavior, mild romantic tension, fire usage, and public confrontation

The lanterns swayed in the breeze, their golden light casting a warm glow over the Southern Water Tribe's Solstice Festival. Katara stood at the edge of the bustling courtyard, her arms crossed as she watched the celebration unfold. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mixing with the rhythmic beat of drums. The air smelled of roasting sea prunes and sweet iceberry cider, and the sound of water bending demonstrations crackled like a melody against the night.

"Are you planning to stand there all night, or are you actually going to enjoy the festival you worked so hard on?"

Katara turned, already smiling, as Zuko approached. His crimson scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, though she knew he didn’t need it. The Firelord didn’t get cold. Ever. A fact he reminded her of more often than necessary.

“You’re always warm. You don’t even need that scarf,” she said, nodding at the accessory.

Zuko smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that always managed to fluster her. “It’s not for warmth. It’s because it looks good.” He paused, pretending to inspect the scarf. “Don’t you agree?”

Katara rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop her grin. “You’re impossible.”

Zuko stepped closer, and she caught the flicker of fire sparking to life in his palm. He held it up, the flame small but steady, its light dancing across his sharp features. “Want to warm up? Or are you going to keep pretending you’re fine standing out here in the cold?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not.”

Zuko chuckled softly and extinguished the flame with a flick of his fingers. “Suit yourself.”

Katara took a moment to glance at him. His presence always stood out—his dark hair catching the glow of the lanterns, his confident stance, and the faint ember-like glow that seemed to radiate from him, even in the dimmest light. He fit in here as much as a firebender could at a Water Tribe festival, and yet somehow, with him at her side, it all felt… right.

“I saw you watching the bending games,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Thinking about jumping in?”

“Tempting,” Katara said, her eyes narrowing playfully. “But I’d hate to show everyone up.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Zuko teased, his tone light. “You’re Katara. Showing people up is kind of your thing.”

She gave him a mock glare but couldn’t hide her laugh. “Careful, Firelord. I might take that as a challenge.”

Zuko tilted his head, amber eyes glinting. “Maybe it is.”

The playful tension between them hung in the air, broken only by the cheer of the crowd near the central firepit. A group of benders was showing off, water and earth weaving together in a chaotic, mesmerizing display. Zuko followed Katara’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“Not bad,” he admitted. “For amateurs.”

Katara smirked. “Oh, you think you can do better?”

“I know I can,” Zuko said simply, his voice steady with that infuriating confidence.

She drained the last of her cider and stepped toward the firepit, turning back to toss him a challenging look. “Then prove it.”

The crowd parted as the two approached, their whispers turning to cheers as they realized who was stepping up. Katara pulled water from a nearby barrel, the liquid swirling around her hands with ease. Zuko responded by lighting a flame in his palm, the fire growing brighter and hotter as he stepped closer.

“Ready, Katara?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Always,” she shot back.

The first clash of water and fire lit up the night, the elements colliding in a burst of steam. Katara’s water whip lashed toward him, but Zuko countered effortlessly, fire flaring from his hands. Around them, the crowd cheered louder, but neither seemed to notice. Their focus was locked entirely on each other, the playful competition charged with energy.

Katara’s movements were swift and fluid, a dancer’s grace woven into her bending. Zuko moved with precision and strength, each strike deliberate. For every wave she sent his way, he countered with a burst of flame, the heat brushing her cheeks even from a distance.

As their bending intertwined, it wasn’t just a duel—it was a dance. Fire and water spun together, opposites in perfect harmony. The lanterns above seemed dim compared to the light they created, their movements drawing gasps and applause from the crowd.

When they finally stepped back, both slightly out of breath but smiling, the crowd erupted into cheers. Katara turned to Zuko, her cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from the exhilaration of the moment.

“Not bad,” she said, her voice breathless but teasing.

Zuko smirked, his golden eyes softening as they met hers. “Same to you.”

And in the glow of the festival, with firelight and lanterns dancing around them, the world felt as warm as the fire he carried within.

[authorjielin]

I'm officially back to writing — though let’s be honest, Apocalypse 1984 was already meant to become a novel. But now… I'm going all in with a full webtoon. It's going to be big, it's going to be beautiful, and yes — it'll take time, but the style I've chosen is quick enough that I think I can actually pull it off.

While Apocalypse 1984 is my main project, I also have a few smaller, original stories I might share along the way — something to keep you entertained while the big one brews. And don’t worry, these too will come with illustrations, all in the same visual style you’ve come to know. You know how I draw. You know what to expect. (Yes, even the spicy scenes. Especially the spicy scenes.)

I’ve learned a lot from my time on AO3 — I know what to expect now, and I’m coming back stronger, more prepared, and with a clearer vision.

Let’s do this. 🔥

Fanfiction will be published exclusively on AO3 — while on Wattpad, you'll find the same stories but with different character names.

From now on, I’ll be focusing exclusively on Russell Adler. 😍 I already have the first chapters of several new works ready — all that’s left is to finalize the covers and add some illustrations.

It’s all coming together. And I can’t wait to show you what’s next.

★ AMERICA’S MONSTER You already know what this is — and yes, it's officially coming back. The final chapter is on its way, and it’ll include a teaser for Apocalypse 1984.

#😫AngstAllDay #🚫❤️ForbiddenButDeliciousLove #🔥💢EnemiesToLoversVibes #🧸UnexpectedChildPlotTwist #🤰OopsPregnancyDrama

★ WHEN IRON MEET THE WILD In an alternate Wild West, the world is split between the Iron Men and the Wild Beasts. The Iron Men came with guns, trains, and ambition. The Beasts were here long before them — men and women able to transform into animals, living in harmony with the untamed land now under siege. Shalaqeen is one of the last free Beasts. She takes the form of a mountain lion, a fierce protector of her dwindling tribe. But when she is finally captured, she’s thrown into a world of cages, chains, and cruel performances. Her tamer is Adler — the most renowned beastmaster in the territories, and a man who has never failed to break a creature. But Shalaqeen is no ordinary prize. She refuses to bow. In this war between steel and spirit, perhaps it’s the wild heart that will rewrite the rules.

#EnemiesToLovers ❤️‍🔥#HeFallsFirst🏹 #WildWestAU 🌵🐎#CowboyRussellAdler 🤠

★ OF TREASURES SHE WROTE Evelyn Parker was once a bestselling romance-adventure novelist — until critics tore her apart for the "lack of realism" in her stories. Now, to salvage her career, she’s forced to do the unthinkable: travel to the real-life setting of her latest book… and base her story on a real treasure. The problem? The treasure is legendary. Mysterious. No one’s ever found it. Most don’t come back from looking. But Evelyn is stubborn — and determined to prove them all wrong. Enter Mr. Adler: gruff, antisocial, and one of the very few who’s made it out of the so-called treasure lands alive. He wants nothing to do with a spoiled, rich tourist playing explorer — But she’s got money. And he needs it. Their reluctant partnership is bound to be explosive… and a whole lot more complicated than either of them expected.

#🔥💢EnemiesToLoversFeels #🌍EpicAdventureTime #😂LaughsGuaranteed #💰TreasureHuntQuest #🇻🇳VietnamAdlerVibes

★ AN OMEGA AMONG US In a world where omegas are seen as nothing more than breeding stock, Serah Miller is determined to break the mold. She’s the first omega ever to be hired by an all-alpha corporate firm — a fact that turns heads, sparks gossip, and makes survival an uphill battle. Between sexist remarks, overpowering scents, and egos the size of skyscrapers, Serah is just trying to keep her job and her sanity. The biggest problem? Her boss: Russell Adler. Arrogant, dismissive, and convinced she’s his secretary (she’s not), Adler seems to go out of his way to make her life hell. Unfortunately, when Serah is forced — for her own health — to stop taking her suppressants, she suddenly becomes a target for every alpha in the building. And the only one strong enough to protect her… is the very man she can’t stand. Things are about to get very complicated.

#🐺OmegaverseMagic #💪AlphaAndOmegaDynamics #🏢OfficeAUDrama #🔥EnemiesToLoversForever #👔DaddyAdlerVibes

★ THE RICH AND THE POOR

Mary Gray lives on the edge of society, working grueling shifts as the only waitress in a dusty little café that sees more cobwebs than customers. But she doesn't complain — not when her sick little sister depends on her. Dreams? She gave those up a long time ago. Everything changes when a group of rich snobs strolls into the café one day — and let’s just say, it’s not love at first sight. Especially him: the one with the slick blond hair, sunglasses indoors, and that fake corporate smile that screams “I could buy you and all your ancestors." Did he not like his coffee? Too bad — she made him a fresh one. Three times. The last time… she may have spit in it. And no — she doesn't regret it.

#💸RichAdlerEnergy #☕CaféAUButMakeItTense #💥WittyBanterGoals #✨ModernFairytaleChaos

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 10

authors note: Hello Hello! Im back hehe I was going to post on Sunday but I ended up getting last minute tickets to a concert and didn't have time to do much else 🤭 But I wrote a lot in the past week so we might have more updates, regularly? Maybe twice a week? But no promises. haha

I also think this story will be a bit longer than 20 chapters (even though things will get moving real soon) we are technically half way through lol

Again, I will thank for your comments and kudos. Your comments honestly make my day and I get super excited! hahah

anyway enjoy the calm before the storm :)

Lots of love, Kiki

Ps: We are in the 10's for Yoongi to be out and single digits for the other boys and I might explode. hahaha someone steal them away from there already

After spending your day rotting in bed watching a bad show on Netflix and  some thoughtful consideration — which mostly involved asking your phone’s assistant to flip a coin and then losing — you decided to spend the unexpected days off on Wednesday and Thursday (courtesy of some random holiday you still didn’t fully understand) by going to a karaoke bar with the girls. 

The booth you werere guided to was small so it became crowded, half-lit in neon pink and blue, with the screen flickering lyrics over some K-pop hit from five years ago. You held a mic in your hand but didn’t bother singing—Yoshi had hijacked the current song, yelling dramatically into her mic while Mitsuki and Sana clapped along, eyes glassy with laughter and cheap cocktails.

Yoshi collapsed beside you with a winded wheeze, hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks pink from the effort. “I should’ve debuted,” she panted. “Missed opportunity for the nation.”

“You would’ve traumatized the nation,” you said, amused. The other girls laughed from their seats.

“Okay, okay, but seriously,” Yoshi said with flushed cheeks and a wicked smile, “if you had to choose a member from BTS who would it be?”

Your heart skipped in spite of the music’s volume. You reached for your drink, trying not to react. “I’m not doing this”

Yoshi blinked. “Babe. You are no fun”

Mitsuki piped in from the other side. “I would choose Namjoon. I bet he is a good kisser.”

“He does gives the vibes,” Sana said smugly. “But I bet Jungkook is just a menace.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” Yoshi leaned closer, eyes narrowed like she was about to perform a scientific analysis. “Let me get this straight. We all work for, arguably, one of the prettiest men in Korea, who are not only super friendly but shamelessly flirt with a door if given the chance. We aren’t allowed to do anything but we are allowed to look at them and think about it. Except for Mitsuki, ” Yoshi looks at her with a pity face “You got the pretty girls to look at.”

You shrugged, giving her your best neutral expression. “They’re idols. They’re friendly. That’s their job.”

“Right,” Yoshi said, unconvinced. “And it’s your job to have Jimin light up like a christmas tree when he talks to you or have Jungkook buffer when you walk in the room.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you said, standing up and trying not to let your face betray you.

Yoshi laughed as you walked away. “Denial is a river in Egypt, babe!”

As the night wore on, the energy mellowed. You all ended up sprawled on the floor with fries and snacks between you, phones passed around for selfies and filters. 

Mitsuki had everyone doing a ridiculous quiz: "What type of main character energy do you have?" 

"Y/N, you're totally the quiet one with a dark past who all the love interests fall for," Mitsuki said, giggling.

"So basically… her actual life," Yoshi muttered, nudging you.

"I don’t have love interests," you insisted.

Yoshi gave you a flat look. “Two of the most famous men in Korea literally hover around you like you’re the last Wi-Fi signal in the mountains.”

You hid behind a pillow. “Please shut up.”

“Not until you admit something,” she said, grinning. “You don’t have to tell us who—but you’ve thought about it, right? One of them?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Mitsuki gasped dramatically. “You have!”

“I hate you both,” you said weakly.

Sana, sipping her drink, smiled faintly. “I guess some people attract that kind of attention without even trying. Must be nice.”

The words weren’t biting. Not exactly. But they clung to you anyway, sticky and cold.

Yoshi made a face but said nothing.

The conversation turned to lighter things—embarrassing school stories, fashion disasters, and the time Sana got mistaken for a backup dancer and actually went on stage before security caught her.

You laughed so hard you cried, and for a while, it felt okay. You all for sure had too much to drink. 

But the echo of Sana’s voice—sweet and casual—stuck with you.

By the time the night ended, it was nearly 2 a.m. The karaoke machine had long since powered down, and everyone was scattered between half-empty drink glasses and tangled purses. You were so glad you didn’t work tomorrow. The alchohol at this point making you sway. 

You stepped outside with Yoshi and mitsuki, who walked with you down to the street, wrapped around your arm like you were her lifeline, where a taxi you ordered for them was waiting. Yoshiwas a bit more gone then you. By a bit you mean she could barely keep her eyes open and Mitsuki volunteered to bring her home.  

The city was quieter now. Rain had started, fine and misty, softening the lights and washing the neon in a blurry sheen.

“Want me to stay with you tonight?”  Mitsuki asked gently.

You shook your head. “I think I need to be alone.”

She didn’t argue. Just squeezed your hand. “Text me when you’re home, okay?” She entered the taxi silently after Yoshi and left.

Your ride back was silent. You stared out the window, head leaned against the glass. You werent drunk. Or better, you weren’t drunk enough. 

In the quiet, your thoughts unraveled.

You kept circling back to Jungkook—to the way his voice sounded when he said he liked you, like it was simple, like it wasn’t, actually,  the most complicated thing in the world. He had said it as if it didn’t carry weight, as if it wasn’t dangerous for both of you. You hadn’t stopped him. And the worst part was... you weren’t even sure you wanted to. That look in his eyes had followed you ever since—certain, almost gentle, like he was sure he’d made the right call in choosing you, and that haunted you more than any mistake ever could.

Then there was Jimin. Sweet, steady Jimin—who wasn’t supposed to matter like this, and yet he did. You couldn’t stop thinking about how close his mouth had gotten to yours, how you hadn't moved away, hadn’t even thought to, not until it was too late. You could still feel that moment clinging to your skin, lingering in the space between what almost happened and what you knew shouldn’t. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it had just been the moment, the lighting, the blurred lines between comfort and something else—but the more you repeated that lie, the less believable it became. You hated how easily you'd let yourself exist in the space between the two of them, how natural it had begun to feel—like falling into gravity you weren’t meant to obey. And that scared you more then anything.  Reaching home, you half stumbled into your apartment and just layed on your couch. World spinning you decided you would just rest your eyes for a second before going to bed. 

The air smells like spring. Cut grass and clean laundry. The curtains sway slightly in a breeze you can’t feel. You’re on a worn but familiar couch, your hand cradling a chipped mug of tea that wasn’t there a second ago.

You frown.

Across from you, slouched in the matching armchair with his ankle balanced on his knee, sits Theo.

Your stomach turns.

It takes a moment for your mind to catch up — to recognize the shape of him. But then it hits you. The soft scar above his brow. The way he always bites his thumb when he’s thinking. The hoodie that you claimed as your own.

TheoYour ex. The last person who really got close to your heart.

He looks exactly like he did the day you left — minus the quiet devastation you carried with you at the airport.

“You look good,” he says.

You blink. “What… is this?”

He doesn’t answer directly. Just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You still take your tea like that?”

You glance down. The tea is pale, nearly white. Milk-heavy. Exactly how he used to tease you for drinking it. “I don’t drink it like this anymore.”

He smirks. “You do. Just not around other people.”

Your chest tightens and you don’t answer. The room feels warped — familiar, but not quite right. The light never changes. The air never moves. A memory that never finishes loading.

“You used to sit with me like this all the time,” he says, quieter now. “Sunday mornings. Your legs on my lap. You’d tell me about a book you were pretending to finish.”

You smile despite yourself. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“You never made it past chapter seven.”

You almost laugh. You hate that it feels nice to be remembered like that. That a part of you still craves this kind of intimacy, even if it feels like just in a dream.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” he asks suddenly.

You look up.

You nod. “Outside that café. The one with the blue door.”

He smiles faintly. “You were freezing. I offered you my scarf, and you said, ‘only if I get a kiss too.’”

You flush. “You called me out.”

“You looked smug as hell when I actually did it.”

“You liked that about me.”

“I did.”

Another pause. Long and soft. Like the quiet after a snowfall.

Then he says, “I think that was the last time I really knew you.”

Your breath catches.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

His tone darkens, almost imperceptibly. “I mean… after that, you kept changing. Evolving. Looking further away every time you talked about the future.”

“I told you what I wanted.”

“You told me what you were chasing,” he says. “That’s not the same.”

You bristle. “Why are you here?”

“Maybe your brain brought me back because you still need to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

He stands up, slow and deliberate. Walks toward the window, his hands in his pockets.

“That I didn’t want you anymore.”

The room tilts.

Your voice is barely audible. “You said it you didn’t do long distance.”

“I said a lot of things to make you feel better.” He turns back to you, face unreadable. “But the truth is — I couldn’t recognize the version of you that stood in front of me by the end.”

You stare at him. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s honest.”

“No,” you bite out, standing too. “You broke up with me because I got an opportunity. Because I said yes to a dream that fell on my lap. You couldn’t handle not being my first priority.”

His eyes flash, sharper now. “I wasn’t even second by then.”

“That’s not true.”

“Wasn’t it?” he steps closer. “Every conversation turned into you defending your choices. Your plans. Your schedule. You didn’t want a relationship — you wanted a fan club.”

Your heart pounds. “That’s not what it was.”

“No,” he says. “But that’s what you were becoming.”

You stagger back, your spine hitting the edge of the couch.

“You stopped seeing me,” he continues, voice hardening. “I was a placeholder in your day. Someone to text when it was convenient. You’d light up over your friendship with Evi, how your coworkers would be, your Seoul skyline — but never for me. Not anymore.”

“You didn’t say that,” you whisper.

“Because I knew you’d cry and twist it into my fault. Like always.”

Your breath punches out of you.

“I let you go because I didn’t want to be the villain,” he says simply. “But I was already the leftover.”

You shake your head. “We had something good, Theo.”

“We had something brief.”

The cruelty in his voice isn’t sharp — it’s casual. Like he’s just telling the truth. Like it doesn’t cost him anything to gut you with it.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you stopped being someone I wanted to love.”

The ache that follows those words is so physical you almost double over.

He watches, unfazed. “You were too consumed by what you wanted to become and where you wanted to be. And eventually, I saw it. You didn’t want to share your life — you wanted to star in it. And I couldn’t drop everything to just follow you around.”

You flinch.

“And now,” he says, eyes narrowing, “you’re doing it again.”

“What?”

He steps even closer. “Two men. Both circling. One all charm and sunshine. One who pretends to be disinterested but looks at you like he’s drowning.”

“Stop—”

“You want them both,” he says. “Not because you love either of them, but because they make you feel important.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You don’t love people,” he says coldly. “You collect them.”

Your hands are shaking.

He leans in, his breath almost touching yours. “You act like you’re scared of choosing. But maybe the real problem is that you like the attention.”

You slap him.

Your hand doesn’t connect. The dream flickers, your body frozen mid-motion. Like the world itself has glitched.

He smiles slowly.

“Does it scare you?” he asks, voice soft again. “The that this version of you isn’t lovable too?”

“I am,” you choke out.

“Are you sure abou that?” he asks. You wake with a gasp so sharp it feels like your lungs tear.

Your body jerks upright, soaked in sweat, heart pounding like a fist to your ribcage. The room spins.

Your mouth tastes like stale sugar and regret. Your head pulses violently. And your eyes burn — from tears or sleep or the cruel residue of his words, you’re not sure.

Theo.

His name sits like a rock in your chest. A weight you forgot you still carried.

You grip the sheets, knuckles white.

He had said it wasn’t about distance. He said he didn’t want you anymore. And worst of all, he’d made you believe that might’ve been right.

You press your palms to your eyes until all you see is static. Until the lump in your throat finally swells into something too painful to swallow.

It was just a dream.

It was a wound you never let scab over.

And now it was bleeding again.

The sharp ringing pierced through the fog in your head like a thousand tiny hammers. You groaned, face pressed deep into your pillow, willing the noise to stop. But it kept coming — insistent, nagging, relentless.

Your phone blinked at the coffee table, the caller ID flashing a name you didn’t bother to see right now. Then again. And again.

You slapped the side table blindly, knocking your glass of water over. Cold spilled over your hand, but you barely registered it. The pounding in your skull was a brutal drumline, each beat syncing with the relentless buzzing in your ears.

You fumbled with the phone, trying to silence it, but your fingers wouldn’t obey. Your body felt like it was full of lead and cotton at the same time. The room spun gently when you moved your head even a little, and you let out a low, frustrated sigh.

The calls kept coming.

Eventually, after the seventh or eighth ring, your bleary brain decided it was less torturous to answer.

You swiped and lifted the phone to your ear, voice a hoarse croak. “Hello?”

“Y/N?” The voice on the other end was soft but steady. Familiar.

You blinked against the haze and realized who it was. “Jimin?”

“Yeah.” His voice was calm, but there was something under it — concern? Something deeper. “You okay?”

You wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him about the pounding in your head, the sick nausea twisting your stomach, the regret and exhaustion that felt like a physical weight. But all that came out was a quiet groan, “I’m hungover.” 

There was a pause.

“Are you alone?” A pause.  “Do you need anyhing?”

You stared at the ceiling, trying to think but your hungover and the dream being too much for you to handle at once. “I cannot think right now. Thanks though.” And before you could say anything else, the call ended.

You blinked at the silent phone, your heart thumping a little faster.

20 minutes later your door rattles gently. A single knock.

You open it wearing one sock, an oversized hoodie, and what might still be yesterday’s eyeliner smudged. Your hair is a nest of betrayal. Your breath tastes like crime.

Jimin’s eyes widen just enough to register the disaster that is you, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he holds up a convenience store bag in one hand, and a bottle of Pocari Sweat in the other, like an offering.

“Hangover queen,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Where’s your kitchen?”

You make a noise that might be laughter or weeping. It doesn’t matter. You point toward the inside of the apartment and collapse back onto the couch before you can think twice. The cushions feel like heaven. Then you feel Jimin tug something over your legs — a throw blanket you didn’t even realize was there.

“Why are you like this?” you mumble into a pillow.

“Because I care,” he says with a grin you can’t see but feel in your chest. He walks to your kitchen like he’s been there before — opens cabinets until he finds a clean mug and puts on the kettle. You hear the rustle of ramen packaging. You didn’t even ask.

“Jimin,” you croak.

“Yeah?”

“I think I died in my sleep.”

“You didn’t. Ghosts can’t get hangovers this bad.”

He pads over, kneels in front of you, and presses a cold bottle into your palm. “Sip slowly.”

You obey because he’s crouched like some angelic nurse and you’re too weak to argue. It’s embarrassingly nice — the way he’s just there, not asking questions, not judging, just filling the space like he was always meant to.

You watch him move around your space, humming a little tune as he preps the ramen, cuts open the seaweed packets, and finds chopsticks like it’s second nature. He doesn’t hover, but he doesn’t leave either.

He settles beside you once he’s done, a bowl in each hand. He hands you yours with a pair of chopsticks already broken for you. “I even added an egg. Don’t say I never spoil you.”

You blink at him, the steam from the ramen fogging your already bleary vision. “You’re a saint.”

“Nope,” he says, blowing on his noodles. “But I’m flattered you think so.”

For a long time, there’s just quiet. Just the slurp of noodles, the occasional sniffle, the hum of your heater kicking in. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

He finally breaks the silence. “Rough night?”

You nod. Then, a pause. “Remind me to not try to overdrink Sana”

“That bad, huh?”

You look over. He’s not teasing. His gaze is soft. You nod again, slower this time. You lean your head against the cushion and breathe. “Thanks for coming.”

He shrugs. “It’s me. You don’t even have to ask.”

Your heart folds in on itself a little. You’re too hungover to unpack the meaning. Too grateful to overthink it.

Instead, he steal your half-finished bowl of ramen when you’re not looking.

“Hey!”

“Caretaker tax,” he mumble with a small, wicked smile. And when you just stare at him like he grew two heads, he laughs — really laughs — and you swear, even with your head splitting in two, the world feels a little less cruel.

Jimin gets up with the plates in hand, before narrowing his eyes when you try to get up too. “I’ll fight you if you say you will do the dishes” 

Before you could protest, your phone buzzes again, this time not with a call but with a FaceTime ring that practically vibrates through your skull.

You groan softly. The screen lights up in your hand, and before you can even process what you’re doing, you swipe to accept.

Evi’s face fills the screen instantly, framed in chaos — frizzy bun, hoodie half-zipped, a face mask drying in uneven splotches on her cheeks.

“BABE!” she shouts like a war siren, eyes wide. “Oh my GOD, you’re ALIVE!”

You wince, pulling the phone a little farther from your face. “Please,” you rasp. “Volume.”

“No, no. You don’t get to ‘volume’ me. I have been calling you for hours. Hours, Y/N. I was two missed calls away from reporting you to the embassy.”

You snort. Or try to. It comes out like a cough and a whimper.

Evi squints. “You look like a ghost in a hoodie. Did you fall into a bottle of tequila and climb back out covered in shame?” “Close. It was Soju” you pout. You tilt the camera down just enough to show your position on the couch — hoodie up to your nose, mismatched socks, and the corner of a blanket over your knees.

There’s a dramatic gasp on her end.

“Someone tucked you in?!” she accuses.

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. That’s a blanket tuck. A cared-for blanket tuck. Who’s there?”

You shift the phone away before your gaze can flick toward the figure moving quietly in your kitchen — someone out of frame, but still there.

“No one.”

“Oh, no one came in and took care of your hungover, tragic self back from the brink of death? Made you look slightly less like a corpse that forgot how to moisturize?”

You stay quiet. Evi leans in dramatically, her voice dropping to a stage whisper.

“You do have mystery caretaker energy right now. That’s post-nurture glow.”

You press your lips together, failing to hide the twitch of a smile.

She doesn’t let up. “I swear, if someone cooked you ramen and handed you a sports drink, I’m demanding a meet-cute debrief. Like, was it a Florence Nightingale situation or a ‘you up?’ text turned heroic rescue?”

You close your eyes and sigh. “You’re exhausting.”

“That’s rich coming from the girl who made me call 14 times like I was auditioning for a role in Taken 4: Seoul Edition.”

From behind the screen, there’s a soft clink of dishes being set aside.

You adjust your grip on the phone. “I’m fine, okay? Just hungover. Really hungover.”

Evi narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Fine, I’ll back off. For now. But the second you’re upright, I want every single detail. Who, what, when, and how attractive.”

You nod. “You’ll be the first to know.”

She smirks. “I better be. If I find out you’re being nursed back to health by a secret boyfriend and you didn’t tell me? Friendship over.”

You laugh — a real one this time. Your headache still pulses behind your eyes, but something about Evi’s chaos, her voice, her concern masked with jokes — it soothes in a different way.

“Okay,” she says, calming down a little, though the glint in her eyes doesn’t fade. “Drink water. Nap. Text me later.”

“Promise.”

“I’m putting you on Do Not Disturb in protest.”

The call ends before you can reply, leaving you blinking at the now-quiet screen.

You lower the phone slowly, only to find a pair of eyes already watching you from the edge of the living room.

Jimin’s still there, leaning against your counter, mug in hand.

He says nothing — just gives you a look that’s half amused, half unreadable.

You blink. “You heard all that?”

He nods, lips quirking at the corners. “Didn’t realize I’m now a ramen saint.”

You groan and bury your face back in the pillow.

He just laughs, soft and low, and goes back to stirring the tea he’d made for you both.

And you don’t even try to stop your heart from aching a little.

The pounding in your head had dulled to a manageable throb — the kind that let you lift it without the room spinning in protest. You were halfway through your second mug of peppermint tea — Jimin’s idea — and nestled into the corner of your couch, legs tucked under the blanket he’d draped earlier. 

But now that your head wasn’t splitting open and your stomach had finally decided to stop staging a coup, your brain… had room. And unfortunately, it chose to fill that space with one thing.

That moment in the hallway.

The second his hand had lifted, his breath had slowed, and everything between you had tilted — as if the world had quietly leaned in to watch.

You hadn’t kissed him.

But you hadn’t exactly pulled away, either.

Your phone lay face-down on the coffee table, Jimin’s untouched mug of tea now cooling beside it. He was still there — in the same spot across the couch — casually flipping through something on his phone, one leg tucked up, body half-blanketed from earlier. The gentle hush of the room wrapped around the both of you like cotton.

You picked up your phone again, thumb moving slowly over the screen without really seeing anything. Your thoughts wandered, and before you knew it, your eyes lifted from your screen, drifting over to him instead.

He hadn’t looked up, fingers still scrolling. Then, without breaking his focus, he said, “You’re staring again.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Mmhmm,” he said softly, voice casual but knowing. “That’s definitely staring.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. You looked back down at your phone, trying to focus on the meaningless scrolling. But your fingers slowed, your breath uneven.

“I must look awful,” you mumbled, voice scratchy and too loud in the stillness.

Jimin finally glanced up — just a quick flick of his eyes — and said, “You don’t.”

You swallowed. “You’re just being nice.”

He gave a lazy, soft smile without putting his phone away. “I’m always nice.”

You let out a quiet breath, a small laugh escaping you despite yourself.

Another silence stretched between you — but this one felt warmer, thicker, like a shared blanket instead of a wall.

“I didn’t mean to… ruin your day,” you said, softer this time. “You didn’t have to stay.”

He tilted his head a little, like that thought genuinely confused him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because you didn’t have a good answer. Not one that didn’t make you sound pathetic.

But maybe he saw it anyway — that flicker of doubt, the half-formed sentence you didn’t say — because he set his phone down gently, screen dimming to black.

“You don’t have to apologize for needing someone,” he said.

You looked at him, really looked. And it was almost unbearable, the way he said it — not like an offer, not like a favor, but like a truth. Like something already decided.

“I’m not good at that,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I know.”

And you hated that he did. That he saw through you like that — quiet, without judgment, without pressure. He wasn’t asking for anything. Not an explanation, not a confession. Just... presence. And somehow that was harder.

Your throat tightened. “I think I was going to let you kiss me.”

Jimin blinked — once, slowly — and then his expression softened in a way that nearly undid you.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly.

No teasing. No smug grin. Just that steady, grounding weight of him.

You stared at the threads in the blanket for a moment, fingers brushing over them absently.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

That brought your gaze back to him — not because you didn’t believe him, but because a part of you wanted to. So badly.

“I just…” you hesitated. “Listen, can you imagine the chaos? If anyone knows I’ll be on the first flight out of here, and it will be just a mess. We cannot do anything.”

He nodded again. “That makes sense.”

You blinked. “You’re not going to argue?”

“I’m not here to change your mind,” he said. “I’m here because I want to be. That’s it.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But somehow, that made it feel even more dangerous.

Because he wasn’t trying to win you over.

He was just being here — and that made your chest ache in a different way.

Jimin shifted slightly, curling deeper into the corner of the couch. “You don’t need to have all the answers.”

You looked down at your hands. They were steady now. Not shaking. Not fumbling. Just warm beneath the weight of the blanket.

“Can you stay?” you asked before you could even process it.

Jimin looked over, his eyes soft. His voice was a breath. “Yeah. As long as you want.”

chapter 9 - chapter 11

Masterlist

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 9

64.media.tumblr.com

Authors Note: Hello! The reason I am posting super early this week? I am getting excited to how the story goes hahah I wrote a lot the last couple of days (This time mostly out of order but I put a LOT of stuff down) and maybe this story will be a bit longer? We are almost halfway and I feel like it might take a bit more to have everyone come to their senses, lol Also im eating this slow burn upppp hahahh

Personal side note, Hobi is going to kill me still before his tour ends. I feel like everyone will become slightly more Hobi biased after this tour. 🥵

Lots of love, Kiki

--------------✈︎

Tuesday dawned gray and drizzly—the kind of morning that left the city slick with reflections and the air thick with indecision. Seoul’s skyline blurred into a wet watercolor through the taxi window, and by the time you reached HYBE, your coat was damp around the edges and your thoughts were heavier than the clouds.

You stepped into the building, clutching your coffee like a lifeline. The warmth of the paper cup grounded you, a small, tangible comfort against the chaos spiraling in your chest. Every click of your shoes echoed too loud in the corridor, or maybe you were just hyper-aware today.

The headlines hadn't stopped.

They hadn't even slowed. If anything, the story had multiplied like wildfire overnight, igniting fresh takes and wilder speculations every hour. Ji-a’s agency had released a flimsy statement, something about "close friendships in the industry" that only managed to stoke the embers of the rumor mill. You'd read it while brushing your teeth, and the memory still made your jaw clench. Vague PR speak that offered no closure, just more room for chaos to bloom.

Your inbox had been a battlefield this morning. Between forwarding crisis management memos and reading yet another email where someone tried to sound neutral but came off condescending, you’d nearly deleted everything out of spite. One particularly ridiculous line—"Remain discreet but appear calm and approachable"—had you rolling your eyes so hard you were convinced your eyeballs would get stuck.

So, you buried yourself in work. It was the only thing you had control over.

Tasks became your escape. Highlight. Respond. Reformat. Send. Over and over until the rhythm numbed the restlessness clawing at your insides. It worked. For a while.

Until he showed up.

"You look like you need this."

You blinked.

Jimin.

He stood at your desk, an iced coffee in each hand, dressed down in sweats and a cap like he wasn’t part of the madness. You hadn't even heard him approach.

You blinked again, as if his presence alone reset your brain.

"That obvious?" you asked, voice hoarse with fatigue. You reached for the cup he offered, grateful for the cool condensation against your palm.

He grinned, lopsided and charming, like he had a secret you might want in on. "A little. You’ve been typing the same thing for five minutes."

You glanced at your screen.

Sure enough, the same unfinished line blinked back at you accusingly. You sighed.

"I didn’t even notice."

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just pulled the chair closest to your desk and turned it slightly, so that his knees brushed against yours when he sat. It wasn’t much, but it grounded you, like an invisible tether between chaos and calm.

"You okay?"

His voice dropped as he asked it, low enough that it didn’t belong to Jimin-the-idol or Jimin-the-smiling-office-flirt. Just Jimin, the person. The one who’d somehow become your quiet anchor in all this.

You hesitated.

Then nodded. "Just a lot in my head."

"Want to talk about it?"

Another pause.

You shook your head. "Not yet."

And he didn’t push.

Just sat there. Sipped his coffee. Let you breathe without having to explain why it was hard.

"I don’t know how you do it," you murmured after a moment. "You always show up at the right time. Like you have a sixth sense or something."

Jimin smiled again, softer this time. "Or maybe I just pay attention to you."

"I—uh..."

He tilted his head slightly. "You okay?"

You nodded too fast. "Golden."

He didn’t call you out on it. Just bumped your knee with his, a gentle nudge that said he saw right through you but wasn’t going to make you admit it.

And then, that smile.

The one that should be illegal. Sweet and open and devastating in its quiet sincerity.

He stayed by your desk for another 15 minutes, half looking over your shoulder on what you were doing half lounging on the chair looking at his phone. His presence conforting enough to actually start to be productive.

And just like that, he stood and left, as if he hadn’t just upended your entire morning with a single sentence. You stared after him, coffee in hand, pulse skittering like a skipped record.

Lunch came faster than expected. You weren’t even sure how Jimin managed it—one second you were knee-deep in formatting press notes for the comeback that was sprinting your way, the next he was by your desk, sunglasses on and mask tugged down just enough to show a mischievous smile.

“I’ve decided,” he said with mock gravitas. “You’re coming with me. For lunch. No arguments.”

You blinked up at him. “And if I say I’m busy?”

“I’ll sit here and pout until you’re embarrassed into agreeing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s emotional blackmail.”

He shrugged, shameless. “I’m very good at it.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already tugging gently at your sleeve. “Come on, I know a place.”

Ten minutes later, you were stepping into a tiny traditional Korean eatery tucked between two apartment buildings. It looked barely big enough to seat ten people, but it was warm and filled with the aroma of garlic, simmering broth, and the kind of spices that wrapped around your senses like a hug. Jimin held the door open for you, and the second you stepped inside, you were greeted by two middle-aged women in floral aprons who immediately recognized him.

“Jimin-ah!” one of them gasped, rushing over like he was her long-lost son. “You haven’t come in weeks! Did you forget about us?”

He bowed with a playful grin. “Never, Auntie. I brought a friend today—she works with us.”

You smiled politely, bowing. “It smells amazing in here.”

“You’re even prettier than he said!” the auntie beamed. “Sit, sit! I’ll bring you something special.”

Jimin gave you a triumphant look as you slid into a seat across from him. “Told you. Free side dishes. They love me.”

You laughed. “You weren’t kidding.”

A few minutes later, your table was so full of banchan it looked like a feast. Kimchi, spicy cucumbers, japchae, steamed egg, seaweed salad—more than you could name. The aunties even brought out bubbling hot pots of doenjang jjigae and sizzling bulgogi without waiting for your order.

“I didn’t realize you were royalty,” you said, eyes wide taking all the dishes in.

“I’m just charming,” he said with mock humility. “And sometimes I do the dishes when they yell at their husbands.”

The food was incredible, but you found yourself more focused on the way Jimin looked sitting across from you. His mask was tucked into his jacket pocket, his sleeves rolled up just slightly, collarbones peeking out from the loose collar of his shirt. He was relaxed, leaning back, one hand around his chopsticks and the other resting on the table like he wasn’t a global superstar but just… someone who liked sharing meals with you.

“So,” he said with a teasing grin, “what’s your secret talent? Something I wouldn’t guess.”

You paused, tilting your head thoughtfully. “I can fall asleep absolutely anywhere. Trains, studios, floors, standing up if I have to.”

Jimin blinked. “Wait—like, standing up?”

You nodded, proudly. “I have witnesses.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “That’s not a talent, that’s a survival skill.”

“Same thing,” you said, grinning.

“Remind me never to take you anywhere exciting,” he teased. “You’d probably nap through it.”

You shrugged. “Can’t help it if I’m built for comfort.”

He shook his head fondly, then leaned in a bit. “Alright, my turn. My secret talent... I can untangle headphone wires faster than anyone alive.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your flex?”

“Hey, don’t mock it. Do you know how many lives I’ve saved during rehearsals because someone’s in-ear monitors were a rat’s nest?”

You laughed. “Heroic.”

“I try,” he said with a wink.

You found yourself relaxing more with every passing minute. He was easy to be around, his warmth wrapping around you more effectively than the doenjang jjigae. Still, the voice in your head wouldn’t quiet down—not completely. Is he just like this with everyone? Is he playing? Or… is he playing with you specifically?

“You’re staring,” he said casually, not looking up from his food.

Your hand froze mid-bite. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he teased. “It’s okay. I heard I’m very good-looking.”

You blinked, then let out a startled laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Only sometimes.” He glanced up then, and his gaze held yours a second too long.

Your heart stuttered. Okay. That wasn’t nothing.

“I think the auntie’s going to bring us more kimchi,” he said, switching topics with a grin. “She always does when I’m with someone cute.”

You nearly dropped your spoon. “You—”

“What? It’s true,” he said innocently. “You’re adorable. She’s going to think we’re close.”

“Let me guess. She does that too?”

“Every time.”

Your cheeks were warm now, and it had nothing to do with the spicy stew.

You tried to focus on your food, but your mind was going haywire. He was flirting. Definitely flirting. Right? You weren’t imagining the way his knee brushed against yours under the table, or the way he looked at you like he saw through the entire storm of your life and still wanted to sit in it. Still wanted you to sit here and laugh.

You swallowed thickly. “You’re kind of hard to read, you know.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “Am I?”

You nodded, poking your rice. “You’re always joking. It’s hard to know when you’re being serious.”

Jimin leaned forward then, elbows on the table, voice softer but still threaded with that teasing warmth. “What if I said I’m always serious about the people I choose to spend time with?”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. The noise of the restaurant faded. 

You were about to say something when his expression shifted—just briefly—and you caught a flash of something quieter beneath his grin.

“It’s kind of nice, you know,” he said, voice thoughtful. “Being with someone who doesn’t look at me like the rest of the world does. Not everyone can do that.”

You blinked, the moment stretching. “I don’t think I can see you the way others do. Once you figure out how annoying you actually are its hard to turn back.” You joke at him trying to lighten his mood.

He smiled, softer this time. “That’s what I mean.”

You rolled your eyes and stabbed another bite. “So. Hidden talent questions aside—how do you stay sane with all the noise?”

Jimin tilted his head, thoughtful but not too serious. “I dance. I talk to people who make me feel real. I get bubble tea and send Jungkook terrible selfies until he tells me to stop.”

You snorted, nearly choking on a piece of rice cake. “You annoy him on purpose?”

“Oh, constantly. He pretends to hate it, but he’d be lost without me.”

You smiled despite yourself, chest warming in a way you didn’t know how to explain. Jimin talks like this is normal, like you’re someone meant to hear this. Someone who might just be real enough for him, too.

Before you could respond, the auntie swooped in with a plate of tteok and a wink. “For the pretty couple,” she said in Korean.

You blinked. Jimin just grinned, accepting the plate like this happened all the time.

You cleared your throat. “She thinks we’re—”

“She always does, doesn’t matter who comes here” Jimin said cheerfully. “We’ll probably get free mochi next time too if we keep smiling like this.”

You almost dropped your chopsticks again. “You’re evil.”

“Still adorable though,” he said, and this time, you didn’t bother to argue.

Even as you laughed and played along, a part of your brain whispered Jungkook’s name like a thread woven through your spine. His face. His voice last night. The way he said your name like it meant something. Just for a second, the memory made your chest ache.

But then Jimin nudged a dish closer to you with the back of his chopsticks, and murmured, “You didn’t eat enough of this one. It’s the best part.”

And you realized: maybe it didn’t have to be so heavy. Maybe not every smile had to be weighted with meaning. Not when someone was right in front of you, offering something warm.

You picked up your spoon and pointed it at Jimin. “You’re buying dessert next time.”

He grinned. “Only if you let me pick the place.”

The energy in the studio buzzed like static — bright lights overhead, stylists buzzing around like bees, camera crew setting up quick takes, music playing faintly through someone’s speaker. The set was minimal, just a wide white backdrop and a few lighting rigs, but the presence of two powerhouse groups in one room made it feel a little like chaos bottled in a jar. You stood near the back, earpiece still in from the earlier check-ins, tablet in your hand. Your job now was mostly supervisory — making sure everything stayed on track, that no one wandered too far during setups, and that last-minute requests didn’t fall through the cracks.

You were quietly ticking something off the schedule when Yoshi slid up beside you, holding a small pack of banana milk like it was a sacred object. “Look what I found in the staff fridge,” she whispered, eyes gleaming. “You want it? Or do I get to pretend I’m Jungkook for a few minutes and drink it dramatically?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are never going to let that go, are you?” “Never,” she said, handing it to you anyway. “Besides, I need to keep you hydrated. You’ve been sprinting between people like you’re in a Mario Kart track.”

You sighed and took the drink gratefully. “They’ve changed the filming order four times. I’m just trying to avoid anyone fainting from hunger before they start dancing.” Yoshi mock-saluted. “I respect your service.”

Just then, loud laughter erupted near the center of the studio. Jungkook and Taehyung were squabbling over a pair of sunglasses, both already dressed in stylized versions of their comeback outfits—denim jackets, layers of accessories, their hair styled perfectly. The full glam treatment turned their already unfair visuals into something almost cinematic—Jungkook’s skin practically glowing under the lighting, his lips a soft rose, eyes lined just enough to cut through the glare. Taehyung looked like he’d walked out of a fashion editorial, every movement precise and graceful.

You tried not to stare. You really tried. But even across the room, you could feel Jungkook’s presence like a string tied around your ribs. He hadn’t said anything since last night’s…moment. And you hadn’t either.

It had been easier to ignore the strange throb in your chest when Jimin had looked at you like you were something warm and sweet just hours ago. But now—with Jungkook only a few feet away, tossing his head back in laughter, that familiar dimple showing as he cracked a joke—you felt it again. That subtle ache. That awareness. He hadn’t looked at you once.

“Okay, this is actually kind of iconic,” Yoshi said beside you, breaking your thoughts as she waved toward the chaos. “It’s like watching a crossover episode. BTS and SEVENTEEN in the same TikTok? The internet’s going to melt.” “Only if they can stop play-fighting long enough to film it,” you muttered.

“Hey, you two.” You turned to find Mingyu strolling over, all six feet of friendly charm. He was dressed in soft layers—charcoal gray pants, a fitted knit, silver jewelry catching the light. The stylists had outdone themselves—his hair was slicked just enough to look effortless, skin flawless under the lights, cheekbones catching the glow. His grin was easy, warm. Classic Mingyu.

“Y/N, right?” he asked. You nodded, offering a polite smile. “Hi, yes. Good to see you again.” “We were just wondering if there’s any chance you can turn on the second speakers around? It's nicer with the music a bit louder.”

You blinked. “Uh—yes, one sec.” You turned toward your tablet, already checking inventory. Mingyu leaned slightly to the side to peek. “You’re always this efficient?” “She’s the most organized person here,” Yoshi chimed in helpfully. “If you ever want to not get lost when it’s chaos, stick with her.”

You flushed slightly but smiled. “I’ll have someone come turn the extra speaker in a couple of minutes.” “Thanks,” Mingyu said, then gave you a grin that could probably short-circuit cameras. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

You were about to respond—something diplomatic and not awkward—when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You hesitated for a second before pulling it out. [JK]: Hey. [JK]: Can I ask you something? [JK]: What did Mingyu want?

Your heart stilled. Then sped up like it was trying to make up for lost time. You blinked at the screen, the studio fading slightly in the background. The buzz of idols, stylists, camera crew—all of it grew muffled.

He texted. The first time since he’d said your name like a secret behind a closed office door. The first time since your breath had caught and your voice had barely worked.

“What’s that face?” Yoshi asked beside you, peeking over your shoulder with all the subtlety of a nosy cat. You angled your phone away. “Nothing. Just work.” “‘Just work’ doesn’t make people look like they’ve been zapped by lightning.”

You shook your head, trying to refocus. Mingyu was still talking—something about how SEVENTEEN’s choreo was harder than BTS’s, which had Hobi from across the room raising an eyebrow in mock offense.

But your thumb hovered over the screen, your pulse strangely unsteady. What did he want to ask? And more importantly—why now? The timing, the silence, the whole weight of the unspoken things between you—it all suddenly felt like it was gathering again. And here you were, right in the middle of a very crowded room.

Yoshi tugged on your sleeve. “Come on. They’re starting to line up for rehearsal takes. We should move.” You nodded, sliding your phone back into your pocket, heart still thudding.

The studio lights dimmed momentarily as the first take wrapped, the faint sound of SEVENTEEN’s backing track fading out as a camera assistant called, “Reset!” through the room.

Jungkook was still at the center of it all — dancing, laughing, always moving. His makeup had just a hint of highlight that caught every light in the room, his outfit made to flatter and flex with him, the image of a performer in his element. But even through the layers of energy, people, and performance, you felt it.

Your phone buzzed again in your pocket. You didn’t check it right away.

Instead, you handed a bottle of water to a stylist who looked overwhelmed, then helped reposition a soft reflector screen that had drooped mid-shot. You answered Yoshi’s whispered question about who was scheduled for the behind-the-scenes clips, checked your tablet, and moved around the set like a shadow.

But your heart wasn’t calm. Not really.

When you finally had a second to breathe, you pulled your phone out and peeked. [JK ]: Are you ignoring me? [JK ]: Or are you just busy…?

You inhaled slowly through your nose. The messages were simple. Almost casual. But you could feel it again — that underlying current in his words. The way he was reaching out, unsure, but still trying. You locked the screen again. It wasn’t about playing games. You were working. But you also didn’t know what to say yet. Not when just seeing his name lit something complicated in your chest. Not when you didn’t know what his messages meant.

“Y/N,” Yoshi whispered, nudging you from where she sat beside the lighting rig. “He keeps looking over here.” You didn’t ask who. You knew. “I think you’re driving Jungkook crazy,” she added, sipping her iced coffee like this was a drama unfolding just for her amusement. “This is kind of entertaining.” “He’s probably just trying to figure out what time they’re filming next,” you muttered, flipping through your notes again. “Mmhm. With that face?” she teased. You didn’t look. Not yet.

It was almost an hour later when the final round of takes finished — the studio dimming slightly as the lighting techs powered down the overhead rigs and started packing up.

The members were tired, buzzing with post-filming energy but ready to wind down. Most were peeling off toward the dressing rooms or grabbing snacks. You started reorganizing the paperwork for the next call sheet, fully absorbed — until someone stopped in front of you.

You didn’t need to look up.

You knew his shoes. His height. The way he stood like he was both confident and slightly restless.

“Y/N.”

You lifted your head slowly.

Jungkook stood in front of you, hair slightly damp from sweat, cheeks flushed from the dancing. His jacket was off, revealing the simple black tank top underneath, and the chain around his neck caught the low light.

But his eyes — they were focused. On you.

You blinked. “Hi.”

His tone was casual, but the line between his brows betrayed him. “Why didn’t you reply?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then said simply, “I was working.”

Jungkook stared at you for a second. Like he was waiting for more.

You tilted your head. “Is that not a good enough reason?”

He shifted slightly. “No, it is. It’s just…” He exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh. “You usually reply.”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice even. “You don’t usually text.”

He flinched — barely — but enough.

There it was again. That moment where the air between you felt sharp and soft at the same time. Like something real was just out of reach, and neither of you knew if it was okay to touch it yet.

“You looked busy,” he said finally, like he was conceding.

“I was busy,” you replied with a small smile. “See? No mystery.”

He watched you for a second longer, then nodded once. His tongue playing with the piercings in his lip like he had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

You offered a nod, pretending the tightness in your chest wasn’t growing again.

But just as he turned to go, he paused, looked back over his shoulder.

“Let me know when you’re not busy.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t move for a while. Not even when Yoshi sidled up next to you again and whispered, “Okay. That was hot.”

You just stood there.

Phone still in your hand. His name still on your screen. And that feeling — the one you kept trying to ignore — sitting quietly between your ribs.

You weren’t exactly hiding.

But the hallway was dim and quiet, tucked between the makeup station and the back entrance, away from the noise of idol chatter and crew members wrapping cables. You’d told yourself you needed to breathe, to check the updated notes on the shoot, maybe text Yoshi and see if she wanted to grab something quick before they were called back. But the truth was—

You were stressed out. And rightfully so.

The filming had gone well, technically. TikToks were shot, the members were smiling, the Seventeen boys had joined in for the for some extra takes which made everything extra chaotic — in the way everyone loved. Yoshi was still laughing when she left to chase down a script change someone forgot to print.

But you couldn’t focus. Not really.

Maybe it was the heat from the studio lights still clinging to your skin… or the way Jungkook’s unread texts sat in your phone like stones.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him, hard-soled moving without urgency, without noise. The hairs on your arms stood up before he even came into view.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” Jimin’s voice was soft, like velvet after dusk.

You turned toward him, breath catching.

He looked… unreal.

Still dressed from the shoot, his stage shirt hugged his frame a little too well, the kind of cut that made your eyes trace down before you could stop yourself. Hair styled just messy enough to look like perfection by accident. His eyes lined and shadowed just subtly enough to sharpen the soft angles of his face, the kind of face that was already too pretty for its own good.

He looked like a painting—made for lights and cameras and the hush of people watching.

And he was looking right at you.

“Taking a break,” you offered, voice careful.

“Same.” He leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted in that slow, effortless way he had. “You disappeared after the last shoot.”

“I didn’t mean to.” You lifted one shoulder. “I figured everyone needed time to chill. I didn’t want to hover.”

“But you always hover,” he said, teasing just a little. His smile was playful, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and knowing.

You tried to look away, but he stepped closer and the hallway suddenly felt smaller.

Your gaze flicked back to him — and he was already there, in front of you. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that your breath hitched. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, this time warm and sweet and a little spicy, like cinnamon and late nights. There was the faintest sheen of sweat at his temple, making his skin glow under the dim lighting.

God, he was pretty. You always tried to play it cool around him, but seeing him now—fully in idol mode, all eyes and intensity on you—it was almost unfair how much it got to you. And it wasn’t just the glam. It wasn’t just the liner or the shimmer on his cheekbones or the way his lips looked too soft to be real. It was how he held himself — like he knew how dangerous he looked and was waiting to see what you’d do about it.

“I keep trying to figure you out,” he said finally, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed. “Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, voice softer now. “Because you don’t make it easy.”

“I’m not that complicated,” you said — but even you didn’t sound convinced.

His smile was faint, almost knowing. “You are. Sometimes, you let me in. You laugh, you text back, you look at me like I’m the only one in the room. And then the next … you disappear.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if he was talking about today. Or yesterday. Or every day since you’d started caring too much to admit to yourself.

“I’m just trying to do a good job,” you said quietly. “That’s all.”

Jimin didn’t speak. Just looked at you — long and quiet — until you could feel the tension pulling tight again.

Then he stepped in.

The last inch between you disappeared, and your back met the cool wall behind you as his body angled toward yours. Still not touching. But the air between you was practically electric now.

“I think you’re doing a great job,” he said, voice lower. “But I also think you’re scared.”

Your breath caught.

“Scared of what?” you asked, too quiet.

His eyes flickered from your mouth to your eyes and back. “You tell me.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

His presence filled every space around you. There was nowhere to go — and you weren’t sure you wanted to anyway.

You felt every single inch of the moment stretch between you.

The lights down the hall flickered faintly.

The buzz of a vending machine filled the silence.

And then — his hand lifted, like he was about to reach for your cheek, your hair, anything—

Your lips parted.

You didn’t know if you were going to stop him… or kiss him first.

But just then—

A voice from down the hall.

Laughter. Seventeen’s manager shouting something light-hearted about snacks.

Jimin didn’t move for a heartbeat.

His eyes stayed on yours like he was memorizing you. Like he wanted to burn this moment into the back of his mind.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

Not all the way. Just enough.

Just enough to let you breathe again.

You stared at him, chest rising too fast.

He smiled — not teasing this time. Not smug. Just soft.

“I should go help wrap things up,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t move.

You turned first. Started walking. You felt his gaze trail after you the whole way.

But before you reached the corner, he spoke again.

“Y/N,” he called, and you stopped.

Turned.

He looked at you, illuminated only by the dim light and the way he made everything feel more alive.

“I’m not giving up,” he said.

The words hit you square in the chest.

And then he smiled — that slow, crooked one that had no business being so pretty.

Then he turned the opposite direction, heading back into the studio.

You stood frozen for a long time.

You didn’t know what hurt more — how close he’d been… or the fact that you might want him to try again.

It was way too late for you to be awake. Even if you had the next couple of days off. You hadn’t answered Jungkook’s messages at all. In fact you decided to not reply to anyone right now. Your phone lay facedown beside your pillow, screen dark, vibrations muted — like if you ignored it long enough, the ache in your chest would go away too.

But it didn’t.

Instead, the quiet pressed in harder than ever.

Your room was still and dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the lamp on your nightstand. The kind of lighting that made everything feel more fragile. You were curled on your side, knees tucked in, eyes open.

And all you could think about was him.

Or them.

You hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. Not the plane. Not the coffee. Not the slow, awful, wonderful way your heart reacted to them like it belonged to someone else entirely.

But today?

Today did something to you.

Jungkook had texted.

The first message was polite, harmless. The second, between takes, felt more like him. A little teasing. A little curious. The kind of message that pulled at something warm and stupid inside your chest.

And yet… you didn’t answer.

Not when he was in the middle of a PR nightmare. Not after he called you and layed it out for you that he cared for you—maybe more than he should. Not after all the things he made you feel without you ever really acknowledging them.

And not after Jimin.

God. Jimin.

Your hand curled under the blanket at the memory.

The way he had looked at you. Spoken to you. Gotten so close.

You weren’t prepared for it — the way your pulse reacted. The way your entire body had gone still and tense, like a wire pulled too tight. If that hallway had been one second quieter, one shadow deeper, one person slower to interrupt...

You might’ve kissed him.

You think you would’ve.

And maybe the scariest part is — you wouldn’t have regretted it.

You’d wanted it.

Even now, you could still see him when you closed your eyes. The shimmer on his cheekbones. The curve of his plump mouth when he said he wasn’t giving up. The heat in his eyes when he was close enough for you to taste the air between you.

He was so pretty it was almost unreal.

Too pretty.

Like something out of a dream — or a warning.

You sighed, rolling onto your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling now. Your heart felt split down the middle.

Because you were starting to realize it wasn’t just Jimin.

And it wasn’t just Jungkook.

It was both of them.

Different energies. Different intensities. Different types of gravity pulling you in.

Jimin saw you. Stepped toward you. Flirted like it was a language only the two of you spoke — but with eyes that said he was serious underneath it all.

And Jungkook? He made you ache. In silence. With nothing but a look. With the tension that lived under everything he didn’t say.

And neither of them made it easy.

You reached for your phone, staring at the dark screen for a moment before flipping it over again.

Your thumb hovered. Then pulled away.

You couldn’t do this tonight. Not with your chest already full of too much.

Not when Jimin’s voice still echoed in your ears. Not when Jungkook’s silence said more than his texts ever could.

You turned your face into the pillow, eyes burning, heart heavy.

Because the truth was settling in now, and it was unbearable in its clarity.

It was never going to be just one of them. And you didn’t know if you could survive both. authors notes2: Sooo that was that... I wonder what got Jimin so riled up now when he was just a steady stream next to her 🤔 Share your thoughts on this chapter! I'm excited to read them heheh Anyway, hope you guys have a great rest of the week, and who knows if ill post again before it ends 👀 Kiki

Chapter 8 - Chapter 10 Masterlist

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 8

Authors note: Hey guys! Another week, another chapter!! I was feeling a bit blocked writing this one, but decided to post it as is. Hope you guys enjoy it!!

Also, less than a month to have ot7 back and I honestly I simply cannot freaking wait!!!!! Hope they all finish it safely and get out as soon as possible. Word on the street that Joon is sleeping next to his 'leaving clothes' since D-30 lol

Also, if you would like to have notifications as soon as im done with the chapters, I post first on AO3, so I suggest you follow it there if you want the new chapters ASAP haha

Lots of love, kiki --------------✈︎

The news broke like thunder.

Not the cinematic kind that rolls through the sky in warning—but the kind that crashes down without mercy, right on top of you. Violent. Sudden. The one that leaves your bones rattling. 

Your phone vibrates so violently on the nightstand that it skitters off the edge, landing on the floor with a sharp, accusing thud. It doesn't stop. Just keeps buzzing like it’s trying to wake the dead—or destroy the living. Your groggy limbs don’t want to move, but something in your chest starts to twist, coil, squeeze. You force your eyes open.

5:47 AM.

You blink. Once. Twice. The numbers don’t change.

Who the hell is texting you before sunrise?

For a split second, you almost reach for Evi’s contact out of reflex—ready to half-joke, half-scold her for pulling you into some chaotic rabbit hole this early. But your hand stills before it touches the screen. Evi wouldn’t. Not unless it mattered.

Your fingers fumble over the edge of the bed, blindly searching until your palm grazes the phone’s edge. You squint at the screen.

Twenty-three notifications.

The cold dread begins to bloom before you even unlock it.

The first one, timestamped 4:13 AM, stares at you like a siren in the dark:

[Yoshi 💚]: Are you awake? Check Twitter. NOW.

You swipe down. Another from Evi, minutes later:

[my one and only true love]: girl its blowing out of proportions. I know you’re not PR but I’m sure the bomb is gonna drop in your lap at some point.

Your heart stutters, picking up a strange, off-beat rhythm as you scroll further.

Texts from the girls. Three missed calls from Seo-Jun—which throws you, given how distant he’s been lately. One from your supervisor.

And then Sana, which leaves your fingers frozen on the screen for longer then it should.

[San ✨]: Guess golden boy isn't so golden after all… Dating scandal with Ji-a just dropped. Everyone’s freaking out. Manager wants all hands on deck.

Your blood runs cold.

And then you're moving—sitting up too fast, legs tangling in the sheets, lungs tight as if the air has turned into smoke. Your fingers fly across the screen, launching your browser with practiced speed.

There it is. Headline after headline. Like digital shrapnel.

“Alleged Date: BTS’ Jungkook Spotted on Intimate Night Out with Actress Ji-a” “Golden Maknae’s Secret Romance? Late Night Rendezvous Caught on Camera” “HYBE Stocks Dip Following Dating Rumors of BTS Member”

The breath you suck in trembles through your chest.

The photos aren't explicit. No grand confessions. No stolen kisses in alleyways.

But you know that build. That silhouette. That casual oversized hoodie he wore just last week to the office, sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he always does.

And Ji-a’s smile—it’s the kind that reaches her eyes. Her hand is tucked into the crook of his arm like she belongs there. In another frame, she leans up—her lips brushing what looks like his cheek, but the angle swallows his expression whole.

It could be anyone. But it’s not. You know it’s him.

A sharp ache carves itself into your chest.

You swallow hard, but the knot in your throat refuses to budge. You blink, then blink again, as if that might make the headlines disappear. As if denial could overwrite truth.

He’s not yours.

He never was.

Still—your hands are trembling.

The screen buzzes again. Taking away the haze that had been taking control. 

[Manager Kim]: Emergency meeting at 7 AM. All staff required. Media response team assembling now.

You inhale, long and slow. A futile attempt to calm the chaos clawing through your ribcage.

This isn’t personal.

This is your job.

Your job.

You’re just staff. Intern staff, at that.

You tell yourself this again and again as you set the phone down. As you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. As your bare feet press to the floor.

But the words don’t land. They bounce right off the jagged glass now wedged in your chest.

You get dressed in silence.

Black slacks. Crisp white blouse. You tug your hair back into a low, tight bun. Not a strand out of place.

If you look like you have it together, maybe no one will see the cracks.

The mirror doesn’t lie, though.

Your eyes are red. Swollen in the corners. You look exactly like someone who barely slept, who was sucker-punched by a truth she never wanted to admit.

You stare yourself down for five long seconds.

Then you turn away.

The city blurs past the car window, a gray smear of buildings and movement. Your Uber driver hums along to a soft pop ballad, and your brain doesn't even register the lyrics until the segment changes.

A newscaster’s chipper voice cuts through the radio: “...breaking news in the world of K-pop today. BTS’s Jungkook was spotted late last night with actress Ji-a in what fans are calling a romantic date…”

You almost ask the driver to change the station. The words feel like needles under your skin, but you can’t summon the energy to speak.

You just press your forehead to the window, letting the cold glass anchor you. Ground you. Keep you from floating into the spiral that threatens to pull you under.

You don’t open your phone again.

You don’t want to see the trending hashtags.

Or the edits.

Or the commentary dissecting every inch of his posture, every pixel of her expression.

You already saw everything you needed to.

You felt it.

That silent confirmation that whatever sliver of hope you’d let flicker in your chest—whatever spark there was between you and him that night on the plane, or in the quiet glances at the studio—was nothing more than smoke.

Maybe it had been real for a second. Maybe not.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Now the world had a new power couple to obsess over. And you?

You were supposed to be the ghost behind the curtain. Not even a footnote.

You arrive at HYBE twelve minutes early and walk into a war room.

The energy is electric—tight with tension, exhaustion, and that specific brand of focused chaos that only comes with a PR crisis. Laptops are open. Papers clutter the table. Coffee cups, some half-empty, litter the surface like fallen soldiers. On the main screen, the photos—the ones causing all of this—are blown up in high resolution, each pixel scrutinized to death.

Your eyes lock onto them. Not like you haven’t stared at them for way too long at this point.

“—we need to control the narrative immediately. We have a statement drafted, but timing is everything. The longer we wait, the worse the speculation gets.”

A woman from legal adjusts her glasses. “We also have to consider contract implications. If we confirm a relationship—”

Manager Kim cuts in sharply. “Let’s not jump ahead.” He runs a hand through his short black hair, eyes scanning the table, reading the tension in everyone’s posture. “Thoughts? Anyone?”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not even sure why you open your mouth. Maybe it’s because you’ve been staring at the same three photos for an hour and something about them keeps nagging at you.

You lean forward slightly, keeping your voice light. “It’s just… interesting how conveniently unprovable these are. No face. No tattoos. Even the outfit—yeah, it looks like something he’d wear, but it’s not exclusive. The angles, the hair, the framing—it almost feels intentional. Like someone wanted it to look like him, without ever proving it.”

A few heads turn. You pretend not to notice, keeping your eyes on the screen.

Manager Kim taps his pen against the table once, then looks directly at you. “You’re saying we don’t even need to deny it—because technically, it can’t be confirmed.”

You shrug, casual. “If someone wants to believe it’s not him, there’s just enough doubt to let them. We don’t have to say anything. The public will do it for us.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Manager Kim nods. “We hold the statement. No confirmation, no denial. We circulate this internally—to senior staff, the social teams. Get a few trusted fan accounts to point out the lack of facial ID. Let the doubt spread organically. Let the public talk itself out of it.”

“But sir,” someone from PR chimes in carefully, “the fans are already—”

“They’ll speculate no matter what,” he says firmly. “Silence is not admission. It’s refusal. And we’re not playing a game we can't win.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple around the table. The head of PR is already scribbling notes.

You sit back in your chair, trying not to overthink it. You hadn’t expected anyone to actually listen to what you said, let alone use it. But Manager Kim throws you the smallest glance—barely there, but unmistakably approving.

And suddenly, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

He turns to security. “Increase protection for all members. Especially Jungkook. No press contact, no comments. Adjust schedules only if absolutely necessary. We need to show this doesn’t touch us.”

The meeting moves on—action items, timelines, roles. You take notes automatically, keeping your focus on logistics: extra guards, backdoor exits, minimizing visibility. You bury yourself in the tasks. It’s easier than thinking about everything else.

An hour later, the meeting begins to thin out. Someone from the team walks over, clutching a folder.

“Y/N,” she says, “can you take these revised security protocols to the members? They’re in the practice room.”

You stay long enough to answer a few questions about exits and the new silent protocol for building arrivals. Jin nods seriously. Yoongi doesn't look up. No one asks about Jungkook.

You don’t either.

Your voice is even, measured, as if your pulse isn’t climbing with every second you stay in the room. As if your bones aren’t buzzing like live wires beneath your skin. You can still feel the aftershock of the meeting upstairs—the sharp, clipped tone of voices deciding how to erase the truth without technically lying. Your own voice, echoing in the room when you hadn't meant to say anything at all.

And then Manager Kim's approval, the way it had cut through the static.

Now here you are. Delivering orders about protection and secrecy to the very people who need shielding from the world—and maybe, in some way, from each other.

As you excuse yourself and are halfway down the hallway, you hear Jimin’s voice call after you.

“Y/N.”

You stop mid-turn. “Yeah?”

He jogs lightly to reach you, slowing as he gets close. His face is unreadable—his usual brightness dimmed, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

“Did you see him?”

You don’t ask who. The question thuds in your chest like a dropped weight.

“No,” you answer. “Not really.”

Jimin nods like he expected that. “He’s in the small studio. Said he needed air but didn’t want to leave the building.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches too long, not awkward, but full of things neither of you says.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

His gaze lingers on you—not sharp, not suspicious. Just… searching. Watching you like he’s weighing whether to ask more or let you go.

Then, softer, “You should… uh, go talk to him.”

You nod. Not because you understand, but because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’ll… bring him a copy of the protocols,” you manage, lifting a few spare sheets from the folder. It gives you something to carry. A reason. A script.

Jimin doesn’t smile. He just hums. “You don’t have to talk to him, you know. If it’s easier.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Nothing about Jungkook is ever easy.

With Jimin, things slip into place. His warmth is effortless. The way he notices without asking, how he makes you feel seen without the pressure of being understood.

Jungkook is different.

You can never tell if he’s trying not to feel or feeling too much. He’s quiet in ways that leave room for your own noise, but when he does speak—it sticks. Like he doesn’t talk unless he means it. Like everything matters.

He never pushes. He doesn’t chase.

But he makes you want to walk toward him anyway.

And that’s what makes it hard.

You nod again and turn, the walls of the hallway closing in around you. Each step toward the small studio feels like a dare. Like walking toward a cliff's edge in the dark—knowing something waits on the other side, but unsure whether it will catch you or let you fall.

When you reach the door, your hand hesitates on the handle.

There’s no sound inside. Not even music.

You knock.

No answer.

Another beat. Then, softly, you push the door open.

He's there, in the sofa, laying face down and one arm hanging off, hoodie pulled low. A water bottle sits untouched beside him. His phone is face-down. His body language is closed off, locked down like he’s trying to disappear into the cushions.

Your breath catches.

You should say something. Announce yourself. But you don’t.

Because for a moment—for a single, gut-wrenching moment—you just look at him. You let yourself see him. Not the idol. Not the subject of a PR meeting. Just the boy who sat beside you on a plane, who laughed at your jokes before either of you realized where this would all lead.

Your bones shake—not from fear this time, but from restraint.

He shifts then, sensing you. His head turns slightly. Just enough to glance over his shoulder, but not enough to face you fully.

You hold up the pages. “Security protocols,” you say, your voice softer than it should be. “They need you to review them.”

His eyes flick down to the paper, then back to you. He doesn’t reach for them.

He doesn’t speak.

The silence between you stretches, drawn tight like a thread caught between two pins. His face is pale. Tired. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Someone who’s been watched too closely for too long.

You swallow hard. “They’re not asking you to say anything,” you offer. “No comment. No confirmation. Just… let the noise pass.”

Finally, he speaks.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

His voice is low. Rough.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his face a little more. You can see his profile now—the slope of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his eyes.

“I didn’t think… going out for dinner with someone would matter this much.”

The ache in your chest sharpens. “It’s not your fault.”

He huffs, almost a laugh. “That’s what they all say, right? When it becomes your fault anyway.”

You want to step closer. You don’t.

He finally looks at you fully sitting up, and it’s worse than you expect. Because he doesn’t look angry. Or defensive. Or even embarrassed.

He just looks disappointed.

So you place the papers on the nearest table and nod. “I’ll let them know I gave these to you.”

You turn to go.

“Y/N.”

You took a tentative step forward back at him. "Are you... I mean... do you need anything?”

A hollow laugh escaped him. "Need anything? No. I think I've got everything covered.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. There were a thousand things you wanted to say, questions you wanted to ask. But none of them were your right.

"I should go," you finally murmured, moving for the door. 

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. The contact sent electricity up your arm, and you froze, eyes wide as you looked up at him.

"Do you believe it?" he asked, voice low and intense. "What they're saying?"

Your pulse hammered against his fingers. "It's not my place to—"

"I'm asking what you think," he interrupted, eyes searching yours with an urgency that made your breath catch. "Not what your job says you should think."

You hesitated, acutely aware of his grip on your wrist, the warmth of his skin against yours. "I think... I think it doesn't matter what I believe."

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? Frustration? You couldn't tell.

"It matters to me," he said quietly.

Your heart stuttered. "Why?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze dropping to where his fingers still circled your wrist. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he released you.

"Forget it," he muttered, stepping back. "You're right. It doesn't matter."

The sudden distance between you felt like a physical ache. You wanted to reach for him, to pull him back. 

Instead, you said, "I should get back to work."

He nodded, already turning away. "Yeah. Me too."

You watched him walk past you toward the practice room, shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. Just before he disappeared around the corner, he paused, glancing back at you.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—his expression softened into something so vulnerable it made your chest hurt.

Then he was gone.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of activity. As Manager Kim had directed, no official statement was released. Social media exploded with speculation, as expected. Fans trended supportive hashtags. Reporters camped outside the building. Security was doubled.

Through it all, you moved on autopilot, completing tasks with mechanical efficiency while keeping your emotions carefully locked away. You didn't see Jungkook again. Didn't seek him out. Didn't allow yourself to wonder where he was or what he was thinking.

It wasn't until evening, when the office had finally emptied and the crisis management had shifted to overnight monitoring teams, that you allowed yourself to breathe.

Your apartment felt emptier than usual when you finally returned home, the silence pressing in from all sides. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and moved through the darkened rooms without bothering to turn on the lights.

In the kitchen, you poured yourself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing. 

You set the glass down harder than intended, water sloshing over the rim. This was ridiculous. You were acting like a lovesick teenager, not a professional adult with responsibilities and boundaries.

Whatever Jungkook felt—whatever that is—it couldn't matter. Not in the real world where he was a global superstar and you were a temporary intern who would be gone in seconds if compared to the timing of their life. 

Your phone buzzed on the counter, pulling you from your thoughts. Probably Yoshi or Mitsuki checking in. They'd been texting all day, offering support and distraction in equal measure, even though you don’t want to admit why they would do so. This doesn’t impact you at all. 

You picked it up, glancing at the screen.

Your heart stopped.

[Jungkook]: Are you awake?

You stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Three simple words that somehow felt monumental.

The response was immediate.

[Jungkook]: Can I call you?

Your pulse raced. This was crossing a line—a line you'd been carefully maintaining for weeks. A line that protected you both from complications neither of you needed.

The phone rang seconds later. You answered on the second ring, breath caught in your throat.

"Hey." His voice was rough, lower than usual.

"Hey," you echoed softly.

Silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you knew how to say. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven, as if he'd been running. 

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "For texting so late."

"It's fine." You moved to the living room, sinking onto the couch. "I wasn't sleeping."

Another pause.

"I wanted to explain," he began, then stopped. "No, that's not right. I need to explain. About the photos. About Ji-a."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"I know." His voice softened. "But I want to give you one anyway."

You closed your eyes, clutching the phone tighter. "Why?"

The question hung between you, simple but loaded with meaning.

"Because," he said slowly, as if choosing each word with care, "I can't stand the thought of you believing something that isn't true."

Your throat tightened. "Jungkook..."

"It's not what it looked like," he continued, a note of urgency entering his voice. "Ji-a and I... we have history. We used to... see each other. But it wasn't serious. It was never serious."

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. The confirmation of their past relationship wasn't surprising, but it still stung in ways you hadn't expected.

"She called Sunday night," he went on when you didn't respond. "Wanted to meet. I thought... I don't know what I thought. That maybe if I saw her, I could stop thinking about—" He broke off abruptly.

"About what?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of his breathing.

"About you," he finally said, so quietly you almost missed it. "I can't stop thinking about you."

The world seemed to still around you, everything narrowing to the sound of his voice in your ear and the thundering of your heart.

"Jungkook..." Your voice faltered. You didn't know what to say—what you could say. This was too much, too fast, too complicated.

"I know," he said quickly, as if sensing your panic. "I know this is crazy. I know I shouldn't be saying any of this. But after today—after everything—I just... I can’t keep pretending."

You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself. "I don't understand. Why would you go see Ji-a if...?" You couldn't finish the question.

He exhaled slowly. "Because I thought it would help. I thought if I was with someone else, maybe I could forget how I felt about you. But it didn't work. It just made everything worse."

"That's..." You struggled to find words, emotion clogging your throat. "That's a lot to process."

"I know." His voice softened with regret. "And I'm dumping it all on you at once. I'm sorry."

You both fell silent. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of everything he was saying. Jungkook—Jeon Jungkook—couldn't stop thinking about you? It seemed impossible, like something from a dream you'd wake up from any moment.

You took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say. This is... complicated."

"I know."

"You're you, and I'm me, and there are a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea."

"I know that too."

You closed your eyes, gathering courage. "And I'm only here temporarily. I go back in a few months."

"I know," he repeated, quieter now. "But none of that changes how I feel."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. Part of you wanted to tell him that you felt it too—that impossible pull, that connection that had been there since the plane. That you thought about him constantly, that seeing those photos had hurt more than you could admit.

But the rational part of you knew better. Knew that opening that door would only lead to pain for both of you.

"I don't know what you want from me," you said finally, your voice small.

"Nothing," he answered immediately. "I don't expect anything. I just... I needed you to know the truth. About Ji-a. About me. About how I feel. I hate waiting to see how things turn out and I’ve been doing it for too long with you. Its been driving me crazy not talking things out."

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Thank you for telling me."

Another silence fell, this one heavier than before. You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. Frozen into whatever it is that is stirring inside of you. 

"It's late," he said softly. "We should both get some sleep."

You heard his quiet exhale—disappointment, maybe, or just resignation. "Yeah. You're right." After a beat you added "Jungkook?"

"Hmm?"

You hesitated, then said, "I'm glad you called."

It wasn't much—nowhere near the confession he'd given you—but it was all you could offer right now. A small acknowledgment that his words meant something to you, even if you couldn't return them in kind.

"Me too," he murmured. Then, after a pause: "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, JK."

The call ended, but you sat there for a long time afterward, phone clutched to your chest, his words echoing in your mind.

"I can't stop thinking about you."

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to let yourself feel everything you'd been suppressing for weeks. But the reality of your situation loomed large—he was Jeon Jungkook, and you were just... you. Temporary. Transient. Already counting down the days until you'd leave.

Getting involved would only end in heartbreak. For both of you.

So why couldn't you stop smiling at the memory of his voice, soft and vulnerable, admitting he couldn't get you out of his head?

You fell asleep on the couch, still fully dressed, torn between hope and fear, joy and dread—and the growing certainty that whatever line you'd been trying to maintain had already been crossed, whether you were ready to admit it or not. Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 7

Authors note: Heya people! Im back on Friday as promised! This chapter follows JK over the weekend and I just felt it could be fun to know a little more about how he feels about things and maybe his reasoning about all the stupid shit he does. anyway, hope you enjoy it!

Lots of love,

Kiki

Saturday afternoon

12PM

He hadn’t meant to scroll. Really.

He was just waiting for the water to boil, standing in the kitchen with his hood up, tapping his phone like it was a nervous habit. It wasn’t even late afternoon—barely 12—but his house was quiet, and he was alone.

Taehyung had gone out. Jin spent the morning texting someone with a dumb smile on his face. The rest were scattered.

And Jungkook… Well. He was just bored.

That’s what he tells himself when he opens Instagram.

And what he keeps telling himself when he accidentally sees your story.

It’s nothing dramatic. He tells himself. Just a blurry shot of a café table. A coffee mug, a paper napkin doodled on, and a hand—yours, probably—holding a spoon. The corner of someone else’s hoodie sleeve is in frame.

It’s light. Normal. Probably meaningless.

But his brain catches on that small square of fabric.

He knows that hoodie.

He knows it because Jimin wore it the day before.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

He locks his phone and sets it facedown, turning back toward the boiling water like it matters more than the pulse behind his ears.

Why does that bother him?

Why should it?

He has spent his time close enough to you. Smiled, made jokes. Even though sometimes all he wanted was to go back and kick the shit out of the guy who had touched you in the club. And — more often then not— wipe that smile of Seo-Jun’s face.

He also knows you and Jimin are close. Everyone’s seen it. The playful way you guys act around eachother. The way Jimin always seems to make you laugh—And the way he wished he could too.

It’s not like he has a claim on you. It’s not like he wants one.

Jungkook swipes a hand through his hair and grabs the ramen from the cupboard, annoyed at himself for even thinking about it this much.

But then, it gets worse. He thinks back to when  you show up at the studio with that same soft smile Jimin always manages to put on your face. You're holding an iced americano in one hand and a folder in the other, and when Jimin sees you, his eyes light up like he’s been waiting all morning just for that.

And you—

You bump his shoulder with yours, say something under your breath, and laugh when he tugs your hood up over your head like you’re a little kid he needs to protect from the cold.

You don’t even notice Jungkook watching.

He’s across the room, fiddling with the straps of his bag, pretending to check his something in inside. But he’s watching.

It’s subtle, the way your body leans just a little toward Jimin. Like you're used to being near him. Like you want to be near him.

And Jungkook hates it.

Not because it’s wrong. Not because you’re doing anything bad.

But it makes him feel like he missed a moment he desperately wanted—like he blinked, and you drifted into someone else’s orbit, while he was still circling you like the moon to your planet.

He wants to tell himself it’s just protectiveness. That he’s just worried for you. That he knows how this world works, and it’s harsh, and it can break girls like you if you're not careful.

But the truth?

He just doesn’t like seeing you that way—with someone else. Even if that someone is Jimin.

Especially because it’s Jimin.

Saturday Evening 

6PM “So are you still seeing that Ji-a girl?”

Mingyu’s question lands casually. No agenda. No edge. And snaps him right back to reality.

But it still knocks the air out of Jungkook’s lungs like he wasn’t expecting it—even though he should’ve been.

Taehyung shifts in front of him, picking up his chopsticks again without looking up.

Jungkook leans back in his seat, nursing his glass, jaw tight.

“We weren’t really seeing each other,” he mutters.

Mingyu blinks. “But you were together the other night, no?”

“Not like that.” He exhales slowly. “She just... came by. It wasn’t planned.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “She found you outside the company at night with a perfect blowout?”

Jungkook glares at him. “I said it wasn’t planned.”

Taehyung doesn’t argue. He just flips the meat calmly and waits.

Jungkook downs the last of his drink and finally says, “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“What is?” Mingyu asks, completely missing the tension. “She’s hot. She’s obviously into you. You didn’t like her?”

Jungkook hesitates. He doesn’t answer right away.

“She’s fine.” Shrugging.

Taehyung snorts. “You say that like you’re talking about lukewarm ramen.”

“I don’t know” Jungkook says quietly. “It just felt... off.”

He taps his fingers restlessly against the table.

“I thought maybe it would help,” he adds. “To get my mind off—”

He stops.

Off what, exactly?

Taehyung looks up, his voice calmer now. “Off of her?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Instead he flips the meat that was sizzling on the grill.

Mingyu looks between them, eyes wide. “Wait, who? Are we talking about her-her now?”

“Y/N,” Taehyung says plainly.

Mingyu nods slowly. “Ohhh... right. Yeah. That makes more sense.”

“You’ve barely talked about her lately,” Tae adds. “But I’ve seen it. You’ve changed.”

Jungkook scoffs, and with a smile, plays it off. “I have not.”

“You don’t look at your phone. You stare at it. And when she’s around, it’s like you forget how to act normal.” Taehyung jokes and pokes Jungkook with his elbow.

“That’s not true,” Jungkook protests.

“Right. That’s why you barely speak when she walks in. Or why you always find a reason to hang around if she’s talking to Jimin.”

Jungkook groans, resting his head in his hand. “It’s not like that.”

Taehyung leans back, casual but deliberate. “Then what is it like?”

Mingyu’s grin returns. “Yeah, what is it like, Jeon?”

His smile now not reaching his eyes, Jungkook doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t want to say it. Not the way it’s been tangled in his head.

So instead, he says, “She’s... different. I don’t know… ”

“Different how?”

“Like...” he pauses. “Like, it matters what she thinks. Even though it shouldn’t” he pauses “Even when she’s not looking. Even when she’s not talking to me. Even if I screw up and pretend I didn’t recognize her from the airplane” He looks up. “I felt like shit after that.”

Taehyung nods, voice calm again, holding a smile. “Because you care.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Because I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

He goes quiet again.

He doesn’t know what really to say to you. He just knows he wants to be around. To hear you laugh. Or have a smug remark about something that they did. And that is driving him crazy. Even if he doesn’t want to fully admit it.

Mingyu, clearly trying to help, lifts his soju glass. “So... why don’t you just tell her?”

Jungkook lets out a short laugh. “Because she’s leaving. She’s just an intern. Because I don’t know if she even sees me like that. Because she’s close with Jimin, and I don’t want to make it weird. Because maybe I already messed up.”

Taehyung watches him with that same unreadable look he gets when he’s quietly judging you but also doesn’t want to kick you when you’re down.

“ It’s a lot what she has done to be here. It must be hard for her” he says carefully. “You know that.”

Jungkook swallows hard. “I know.”

“So if you want to show up for her, do it for real. Or don’t do it at all.”

He doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a friend. Like a brother.

And it hits even harder because of that.

Jungkook stares down at the half-empty plate in front of him and doesn’t say anything else for a while.

The sound of laughter from another table cuts into the silence for a beat, while the scent of grilled pork and sesame oil hangs warm in the air. Jungkook leans forward, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to loosen the pressure building behind his forehead.

“Can we change the subject?” he mutters.

“No,” Taehyung replies, cool and blunt.

Jungkook looks up. “Hyung.”

“I’m not saying this to mess with you.” Tae sits straighter now, expression serious. “But it’s you, Jungkook. You never hesitate like this. You either care or you don’t. You’re in or you’re not.”

“That’s not fair,” Jungkook says.

“It’s true though,” Mingyu throws in, mouth half-full. “Even back in the day, if a girl wasn’t your thing, you were just polite. If she was, you’d go for it. No second-guessing.”

Jungkook looks away.

It’s so different this time.

It’s not about liking you. It’s not even about attraction. That’s the easy part. And God knows hows he’s attracted to you. It feels like the moment you looked at him in the airplane his gravity shifted and he spent 90% of the day thinking about you. It’s the way you makes him feel like he’s seventeen again—like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like one wrong move will push you away.

“She’s... different,” he says again.

“You keep saying that,” Taehyung replies. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re acting like a toddler around her lately. Friendly one second. Ice cold the next. And after that night at the club, you think anyone didn’t notice?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens.

“She didn’t say anything.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t feel it,” Tae says simply.

There’s a pause, and then Mingyu asks, softer this time, like hes actually just trying to understand his friend. “What would you even want with her?”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

“Like—long term? You said she’s leaving. She’s not like other girls. And you’re not exactly the kind of guy who—” he stops, thinks better of it. “Well, I just mean, you’re always focused on work. Life’s complicated. Would you even want to deal with that kind of mess?”

Jungkook lets the question settle. He lets the buzz of the alcohol twist through his stomach a little.

“I don’t know” he says shrugging it off.

Taehyung glances up.

Mingyu raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“I think about it all the time.” He exhales. “What it would be like if she stays. What I’d say if I wasn’t such a coward. If I could just figure out how to fix what I already screwed up.”

Taehyung studies him closely now.

“What do you think she wants?”

Jungkook pauses.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Sometimes I think... probably nothing. Maybe I just want this more than she ever did. Maybe it’s just me. Good to point out the position we are all in” He motions slightly to the place around them.

Taehyung’s expression softens just a little, understanding his friend.

“You ever think she’s scared too?”

Jungkook swallows.

“I see it,” Tae continues, “in how she talks to you. She’s guarded, yeah. But she still lights up when you’re around—when you let her in. And she shuts down fast when she thinks she’s wrong about you.”

That last part lands like a weight in Jungkook’s chest.

Because it’s true. He saw it. After Ji-a. The way Y/N’s smile dropped. The way her eyes darted away. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg for clarity.

She just stepped back.

And he let her.

 Jungkook says quietly. “I just don’t know if it’s already too late.”

Mingyu finishes his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sound like you’re already losing something you never had.”

Ouch. That stings.

Taehyung raises a brow. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Jungkook looks down at his empty glass, fingers tightening slightly around it.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Then—

“But I think I need to stop pretending I don’t care.”

7:45 PM

They’re halfway into their third bottle of soju when Jimin finally shows up—hood up, cheeks slightly flushed from the jog over. He slides into the booth beside Taehyung like he’s always belonged there.

“You started without me,” Jimin whines and grins, reaching for a glass.

“You said ten minutes. It’s been forty,” Jungkook mumbles, but there’s no heat in his voice.

“Had to finish something,” Jimin shrugs, pouring himself a shot. “Besides, looks like the therapy circle’s already in full swing. Who cried first?”

“Who says we’re crying?” Jungkook muttered, leaning back, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

Taehyung gave him a look. “You might as well be.”

Jimin reached for a glass, pouring himself a drink. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing much. Therapy topic is Mingyu asked why everyone’s losing their minds over Y/N,” Taehyung said dryly.

Jimin’s expression shifted—but not too much. He took a slow sip, watching Jungkook from behind the rim of his glass.

“And?” he said. Casual.

Jungkook stayed quiet, staring at the table.

Mingyu, clueless in his own charming way, added, “I mean, I get it. She’s hot, chill to talk to, but like… is she secretly a princess or something? I didn’t know a girl could cause this much chaos without even doing anything.”

There was a short beat of silence.

“She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t have to do anything,” Taehyung said, almost gently. “She just is.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. He wanted to say something, anything. But the words stuck.

Jimin leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “She’s also the kind of girl who doesn’t know the effect she has,” he said, voice light but eyes a little too honest. “That’s part of it. You can tell when you talk to her she’s not playing games.”

Taehyung gave him a look—knowing, soft.

Jungkook finally spoke. “She’s not like the others. Staff might even be sweet and innocent but you know what they really feel”

Mingyu blinked and nodded. He has experienced that himself. “Damn. So it’s that serious?”

“It’s not,” Jungkook said too quickly.

Jimin raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. He just said, “Sure.”

“She saw me with Ji-a,” Jungkook added suddenly, like the words had been burning to get out. “The other night. She didn’t say anything, but… I know she saw.”

Now even Mingyu stayed quiet.

Jimin tilted his head, frowning slightly. “And?”

“She looked at me like…” Jungkook trailed off, searching for the word. “Like I wasn’t who she thought I was.”

“You aren’t,” Taehyung said. “Not when you’re with girls like Ji-a.”

Jungkook winced. “That’s not fair.”

Mingyu blinked between them, finally putting it together. “Wait, you too?”

Jimin looked at him with a lopsided smile. “What, me?”

“You like her.”

Jimin shrugged. “She’s easy to like.”

“But you’re not doing anything about it?”

There was a brief pause before Jimin replied, voice calm. “She doesn’t need me to make it harder.”

Taehyung’s mouth pulled into something almost proud. He nodded once.

Jungkook looked up at Jimin.

“She trusts you,” he said, and it wasn’t quite a question.

“She does,” Jimin agreed, no hint of competition in his voice. “That’s why I’m careful.”

Another beat of silence.

Mingyu raised his glass. “Okay, now I really feel like I walked into the middle of a drama.”

Jimin laughed, and even Jungkook cracked a tired smile.

But under the laughter, the looks lingered.

Taehyung looked between his friends and said nothing—but he saw everything.

Jimin watched the way Jungkook’s knee bounced restlessly, how his thumb kept tapping at his phone screen, even when there were no new messages. Messages Jungkook thought maybe if he willed them enough, they would show up.

10PM

They were well into their fifth bottle by the time the vibe mellowed into something lazy and warm. Laughter came easier, voices lowered with tired honesty. They moved their get-together to Tae’s apartment, since it was closer to where they were and neither of them wanted to get caught red in the face. Literally.

Jungkook hadn’t said much since Jimin’s comment. His phone was in his hand again, thumb hovering over the screen. Not messaging anyone—just checking. Always checking.

Taehyung noticed, of course. Jimin too. But neither said anything.

Mingyu, on the other hand, remained blissfully unaware of the invisible lines stretched between them all.

“You know what I think?” he said suddenly, tipping back the last of his drink and setting the glass down with a clink. “You’re overthinking it.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. “Overthinking what?”

“Her. Y/N.” Mingyu grinned. “She’s pretty, she’s cool, she’s nice to everyone—too nice maybe? But if it’s getting in your head that much, why not just… I don’t know. Fuck it off?”

Taehyung glanced up sharply. “Mingyu—”

“I’m serious!” Mingyu waved him off and points at Jungkook to make his point. “He’s young. He’s hot. He’s got Ji-a on the line. She’s fun, right? No pressure, no complications. If you’re gonna get all twisted over someone you can’t even date, why not stick with the one who’s actually into you and didn’t really cause trouble?”

That’s when Jungkook’s phone lit up.

Ji-a .

A video call.

All three boys saw it. Mingyu raised his eyebrows, like he’d just manifested it.

“See?” he said, laughing. “Perfect timing.”

Jungkook stared at the screen. The call kept ringing.

He didn’t move.

Taehyung shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“It might help,” Mingyu countered. “Blow off some steam. You’ve been weird for weeks, man.”

Jungkook hesitated. His jaw clenched, thumb hovering.

Then he swiped. He just wanted to know what it was about. Curiosity getting the best of him.

The screen lit up with Ji-a’s face. Pretty. Smiling. Tipsy from whatever party she was clearly at. Music thumped in the background.

“Kookie,” she drawled, eyes gleaming. “What are you doing?”

“Just out with the guys.”

“Aw. I miss your face.”

Jungkook forced a smile. “Yeah?”

“You should come over after,” she said without hesitation.

Taehyung looked away. Jimin’s mouth tightened.

Mingyu leaned back smugly.

“I’ll… think about it,” Jungkook muttered.

Ji-a winked. “Don’t think too hard. You know how you like it.”

The call ended with a giggle and a blown kiss.

Jungkook put his phone down slowly.

Silence.

“You don’t have to do that,” Taehyung said again, firmer this time.

“I know.”

Jimin said nothing, but he took another slow sip of his drink, eyes unreadable.

Mingyu finally caught on to the tension and blinked between them. “What?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His mind was already somewhere else.

Not at Ji-a’s apartment. Not on her voice or her deep sighs.

But on a flinch he’d seen when someone’s hand brushed your back earlier that week.

On the way your laughter always came after a pause—like you needed to be sure it was safe.

On the texts you sent him first friendly when you didn’t know you worked for him, he now wishes he could slap himself for not getting your number first and texting immediately after leaving that airplane. Your texts that turned purely practical and polished. Which even though was not even close to what he was actually craving, he wanted them all day long.

On the quiet nothings you said after catching him with Ji-a the first time.

He hated that you hadn’t said anything.

He hated even more that you probably never would.

Because you waren’t like Ji-a.

And you waren’t his.

By the time the apartment fell into that familiar post-drunken hush, it was past 1 AM. Mingyu was passed out with only one sock on, cradling a cushion like it owed him money. Jimin had tucked himself into the corner by the balcony, earbuds in but nothing playing—his chest rising and falling too evenly to be real. Taehyung had retreated to his room, door slightly ajar, low jazz humming through his speaker like a sigh no one could stop.

And Jungkook? He was still awake.

Phone screen dimly lit in his palm, thumb hesitating over the keyboard. Ji-a had been texting all night.

Ji-a [12:17 AM]: You ignoring me?

Ji-a [12:23 AM]: Come over, Kookie.

Ji-a [12:24 AM]: I can send a car for you.

Ji-a [12:31 AM]: We both know you’ll sleep better here.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Not really.

But he couldn’t stop reading them. Couldn’t stop thinking.

The more he tried to quiet it—you—the louder it all got. The image of you laughing with Seo-Jun at the bar, that bright, spontaneous sound that had cut through the haze of his thoughts like a spotlight. You flinching earlier that week when someone tapped you shoulder—so subtle he almost missed it, but enough to tangle him up. The way you always gave everyone else your full attention—but him, you kept at a polite distance, like he was a puzzle you had given up to solve.

He should’ve been grateful for that. He wasn’t.

He wanted more, and he hated that he did. He hated that wanting her made him feel so damn helpless.

So when Ji-a texted again—

Ji-a [01:04 AM]: I need you.

Ji-a [01:04 AM]: [photo]

His breath caught. He stared at it too long—her silhouetted against dim light, hair tumbling over one shoulder, expression both inviting and expectant. She was beautiful in a careless, confident way he used to like

And then he moved.

Just like that.

He grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch, slid his phone into his pocket, careful not to wake the others. He slipped on his sneakers quietly, the zip of his hoodie echoing too loudly in his ears. He paused by the mirror down the hall—half-expecting to see someone else’s determined eyes looking back. Instead, he saw his own gaze: sharp, restless, tinged with something he refused to name.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Ji-a’s apartment was barely a fifteen-minute ride away. He could feel the engine of the car before he even got in, that hum of metal and promise that she’d be waiting with lips curved into that same familiar smile.

He didn’t text her. He didn’t need to.

1:18am

Her place was warm. Smelled like jasmine and vodka and something artificial he couldn’t name. Maybe candle wax. Maybe perfume. Maybe the ghost of too many nights that started like this.

Ji-a opened the door in a satin robe, no bra, her smile curling like she’d been waiting for him all her life. “There you are,” she said, like he belonged there. Like this was where he should’ve been all along.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Just stepped in and let her pull him close, her mouth already brushing his jaw, fingers tugging at his hoodie like it offended her.

“You always take too long,” she murmured against his throat, her hand already sliding down his abdomen, like she’d done it before. Because she had. Too many times.

It was easy. Familiar. Fast. She was warm, soft, hungry in a way that made it impossible to think straight.

He let her drag him through the hallway, stumbling over his shoes that got kicked off beside the couch, the scent of jasmine thickening the farther they went. Her robe slipped from one shoulder, her thigh bare where it parted. She looked beautiful. He could admit that.

But halfway to her bedroom, something in him stalled.

His back hit the wall, her hands greedy as they pulled at his belt, mouth trailing kisses down his neck. “God, you taste the same,” she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur that might’ve worked—once. “Missed this.”

She moaned his name when he grabbed her waist. Clutched at him like she’d memorized every edge of him. It was all so smooth. Too smooth. Like they were checking boxes in a scene they’d both performed too many times.

His hands slid under her robe, fingers skating along her ribs, but there was a hollowness to it. A delay between touch and reaction. Like his body was here, but his head… it was somewhere else.

A pair of eyes he wasn’t supposed to remember so vividly. A laugh, unpolished and real.. The kind of connection that hadn’t needed rehearsal.

Ji-a pressed against him, her breath hot against his ear. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said, almost teasing. She tugged his jeans lower, her knee brushing between his legs. “Not like last time.”

He exhaled, closed his eyes.

He could do this. Could pretend.

But his brain— It was cruel. It kept searching.

Searching for skin that felt different. For a voice that didn’t try so hard to be seductive. For a softness that hadn't meant to tempt him, but did.

Ji-a’s lips trailed down his chest, fingers curling around him, making him close his eyes and lean back his head. “What is bothering you, baby?” she asked, low.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t lie either.

He just leaned into her. Put his mouth on hers, slow and deep. Gave her what she wanted—rhythm and friction, lips and hands and muscle memory.

But he couldn’t stop the name that almost slipped out. The thought of someone else’s breath hitching under his touch. Someone who wouldn’t have pulled him into this, but who he would’ve followed anyway.

And in the moment Ji-a tipped her head back as he was deep into her and gasped his name, he let himself imagine it was you instead.

4:04am

He left before she could ask him to stay.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t wait for her reaction.

Back at Tae’s apartment, the lights were still off. Mingyu snored. Jimin had rolled to the other side of the blanket. His pillow was cold again.

Jungkook tossed his jacket aside and collapsed on the couch like something deflated.

He pulled out his phone.

No new messages.

Nothing from you.

Not even a dumb update. Not even work. Why would you anyway? It’s the weekend and in the middle of the night.

He opened your contact, stared at it again.

The cursor blinked in the empty text box.

Hey.

He erased it.

Tried again.

Couldn’t sleep.

Deleted.

He tossed the phone onto the floor and dragged the blanket over his shoulders like it could protect him from the truth.

He'd tried forgetting you.

With hands. With skin. With someone else.

But he still ended up here.

Alone.

And wanting only one person who had no idea she was keeping him up at night.

Sunday Morning   7:02 AM

He hadn’t really slept.

Not after slipping out last night. Not after coming back and lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it could make sense of the mess inside his head.

Ji-a had said all the right things—worn all the right things too. She always did. Familiar in a way that made it easy to lose himself for a while. But nothing stuck.

Not when he walked away from her apartment and still found himself checking his phone like an idiot. Hoping for a message that wasn’t coming.

From someone who probably wasn’t even thinking about him.

He clenched his jaw and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the muted reflection in the black TV screen. Pathetic. Even his reflection looked like he didn’t want to deal with him either.

Footsteps broke the silence.

He didn’t need to look to know it was Taehyung.

That quiet, easy rhythm of someone who knew the space like his own thoughts.

“You good?”

Jungkook shrugged without looking back. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything right away. He just opened the fridge and tossed him a cold water bottle. Jungkook caught it one-handed, let the coolness sting against his palm.

“Thought you knocked out early,” Taehyung said, casually.

“I went out for a bit to clear my head.”

He didn’t say where. But he could feel the weight of Taehyung’s stare like it was physical.

“…and did you manage?” Jungkook knew Taehyung enough to know his friend clocked in to where he went but didn’t say anything.

Jungkook hesitated. Just long enough to give himself away.

“No.”

Silence.

He hated this part.

Not because of the judgment. There wasn’t any. Not from Taehyung. Just... disappointment? Concern? Understanding?

It was worse.

“She called,” Jungkook muttered. “Again.”

“You answered.”

“You know she wouldn’t stop.”

Taehyung came over and sat down next to him, back against the couch. Grounded and calm, like he was willing to wait all day for Jungkook to get it together.

“I thought if I saw her, maybe I’d stop thinking about it.”

“You mean Y/N.”

He didn’t even flinch at the name. It had been there in his chest all night anyway.

“I thought maybe I could forget her,” Jungkook admitted quietly.

“And did it work?”

“No.”

The word scraped out of him like it hurt. Because it did.

“She’s still very much there,” he said. “In my head. Every second. And I don’t even have anything with her. I’m this messed up over something that never even started.”

Taehyung gave a dry chuckle.

Jungkook looked down at his hands. “I thought I could distract myself. I tried to. But I walked out of Ji-a’s apartment and I felt worse than when I got there.”

“You’re gonna end up resenting both of them.”

“I already do.”

Taehyung let out a slow breath beside him. Not surprised.

Jungkook rubbed at his temple. “She hasn’t texted me.”

“You haven’t exactly opened the door either.Plus is the weekend.”

“She texts Jimin though.” He pouts slightly.

“You think she’s not reaching out because she doesn’t care?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she thinks I don’t.”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to tell.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, voice tight. “I was a dick. I know.”

“You’re being one to yourself, too.”

He stayed quiet for a second. Then, like a confession: “She’s not like Ji-a.”

“No. She’s not.”

“She’s not like anyone.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Jungkook sat back against the couch and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I’m losing it.”

“You’re feeling it,” Taehyung corrected gently. “Finally.”

Jungkook cracked a small, hollow smile. “Feels the same.”

Taehyung got up and stretched. “Come on. Let’s make coffee before Mingyu wakes up and says something dumb.”

The curve on Jungkooks lips went up and he nodded slowly.

He would never say it out loud—but part of him hoped she would text anything other then work. Just once. Even if she was mad. Even if it meant nothing.

Just so he’d know he hadn’t imagined everything.

Sunday

8PM

The city was unusually warm for a Sunday evening this time of year, the kind of humid warmth that stuck to your skin and made everything feel slower, lazier, heavier. The kind that wrapped around you like an unwanted second skin. Jungkook leaned back in the car, one hand resting loosely on his thigh, the other scrolling through his phone—not because he cared about anything he saw, but because he needed something to do with his hands. Something to distract from the low thrum of guilt that had been pounding in his head since morning.

Doom-scrolling was his best form of self-soothing these days. Especially after Ji-a had sent the location. A cozy but upscale izakaya tucked away in a quieter corner of Gangnam. She promised good food, cold drinks, and "no stress."

No stress.

That was the part that hooked him, and she knew it. He was exhausted. Not just physically, from the lack of sleep, but from the noise in his own head. Beating himself up over things that no longer had quick fixes.

When he arrived, she was already there, perched on the edge of a booth like she belonged in that dim lighting. Legs crossed. Drink half-finished. Lips curved into a coy smile that had always worked on him in the past.

"Hey, stranger," she said.

He slid into the seat across from her and offered a small smile, more polite than anything. "Hey."

Ji-a looked great. Objectively. She always did. Her makeup was minimal but perfect, skin glowing under the moody amber lighting. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose tie, framing her face with effortless elegance. She wore a cropped black top that hugged her waist, and it wasn’t a surprise if every man who passed glanced over. She leaned in a little, her elbows on the table.

"I wasn’t sure you’d actually come."

"I said I would."

"Still," she teased, "you’ve been so… inconsistent."

He shrugged, noncommittal. The waiter appeared, and they ordered—grilled skewers, fried chicken, a round of soju. The clinking of glasses and the low hum of laughter from surrounding tables filled the silences between them.

For the first twenty minutes, it wasn’t bad.

Ji-a talked about work, complained about her schedule, made sly jokes about idol life as if she weren’t halfway in the industry herself. Jungkook laughed in the right places. He asked questions when it seemed appropriate. He even smiled a few times—the kind of automatic smile he knew how to summon. There was a time, not too long ago, when being around her had been easy. Comforting. She was sharp and bold, with a knack for pulling him out of his shell just enough. She didn’t need coaxing, didn’t hesitate to touch his arm, lean close when she laughed.

But that comfort felt thinner now. Like cheap fabric. Stretching. Fraying. And he hated anything that felt forced.

She poured him another glass of soju, sliding it across the table with a smirk.

"So," she said, eyes scanning his face, "what’s got you so quiet lately? I mean, besides your usual introvert phase."

He stared at the glass for a second before meeting her eyes. "I’ve just been busy."

"Too busy to reply to me?" she asked. Her voice was still light, but the edge in it was sharper now, more noticeable.

He didn’t flinch just smiled politely. "I don’t like texting."

"I noticed," she said with a hollow laugh. Then, quieter, "You’ve been extra cold lately. Did I do something?"

"No. It’s not about you."

He meant it. God, he meant it.

She tilted her head, one perfectly shaped brow lifting. "But there is something."

Jungkook said nothing. He looked out the window instead, where city lights flickered off the rain-washed street and a couple crossed the road with fingers intertwined.

It wasn’t about Ji-a. Not even a little.

It was about the girl who wasn’t here. The girl who barely looked him in the eye this week. Who pulled away every time someone touched her now. The one who talked about her thesis and made it sound like poetry.Whose absence stung more than it should.

"You’re somewhere else again," Ji-a said, her voice softer now, but distant.

He turned to her slowly. "I’m here."

She reached under the table, her fingers brushing his hand, then curling around it. "Then prove it."

Classic Ji-a. Direct. Confident.

The food arrived, offering a break in the tension. He ate mechanically, his movements rehearsed, grateful for something to focus on other than the ache building behind his ribs. The taste of grilled meat and salty batter was dull on his tongue.

Ji-a finished her drink and then stood, sliding into his side of the booth without asking. Her thigh pressed against his. She smelled like jasmine and a perfume he recognized but couldn’t name. Her hand rested casually on his leg.

"Remember the last time we came here?" she murmured close to his ear. Her breath was warm. Her tone suggestive. "You were way more fun."

Jungkook offered a faint smirk. "We were drunk."

"Wanna fix that?" she asked, already refilling their glasses.

And so he drank again. Let her lean into him. Let her whisper into his neck and kiss his cheek. Let her pretend they were okay, that this was what he wanted. For a while, it was easier that way.

Because when he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was someone else.

Almost.

They stayed until the staff started wiping down tables. The night air had cooled slightly when they stepped outside. Ji-a looped her arm through his and leaned into his shoulder like they were something. Like they could still be something.

Maybe this was what normal looked like. Maybe this was what he needed. Someone easy. Someone who wanted him.

When they reached the curb, she looked up at him, her voice soft. "Come back to mine?"

Jungkook hesitated.

This was the part where he usually said yes. Let things unfold the way she wanted. Let himself be wanted, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.

"I have an early schedule," he lied, again.

Ji-a blinked, smile faltering before she forced it back. "Right. Of course."

He opened the cab door for her. Said goodbye. Walked away before she could say anything else. The silence of the ride home filled his lungs like cement. He didn’t scroll. Didn’t text. Just stared out the window as neon signs blurred past.

When he got home, everything felt too quiet. The hum of the fridge. The soft buzz of the lights. The faint creak of his floorboards as he toed off his shoes. He didn’t turn on the TV or music. Just tossed his jacket on the back of the couch and opened a bottle of water.

The moment he sat down, his body slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, water bottle untouched in his hand.

His phone buzzed.

For half a second, his heart kicked.

It could be you.

But why would it be?

Ji-a. Again. Her message was sweet. Suggestive. Asking if he changed his mind.

He didn’t reply.

Locked the screen.

Another buzz. He was ready to throw his phone out the window.

But this time, it was his manager.

Jungkook sat upright, pulse ticking.

“ Emergency meeting at the company. Come now. Someone took pictures tonight. ”

The air thinned. His chest tightened.

He unlocked the screen again. Two attached photos followed. Blurry, but clear enough. His back to the camera. Ji-a leaning into him. The kiss to his cheek. Her arm wrapped in his.

"Shit" he whispered.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8 Masterlist

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 1

Authors note: Been having a lot of fun writing this one. Hope you enjoy it too! :) Let me know what you think <3

Chapter 1 You are midway through your flight, almost getting back to Seoul after so long apart. You are going back to live there for your internship, which you got very last minute as one your best friends, and the one who was supposed to come, had a family emergency which didn’t allow her to come. You are Korean, spoke solely at home too with your parents as you imigrated to Europe when you were young, but this is the first time actually visiting the coutnry you heard so much about. You were a mere baby the last time you were in your home country, so you had to live your whole life through the telling of others.

The seats on this plane are set weird for business class. You definetly wouldn’t be able to afford to sit here normally, that’s for sure. So you are very thankfull the misterius company that works with your school is paying for everything during this internship.

You unfortunetly didn’t get a window seat and had to settle to following the plane in the small map screen as you are sure that is the best enterteinment on a flight anyway. The man sitting next you arrived late almost as the doors where closing to sit down and sink into his chair.

Suddently the plane starts shaking and you grasp your seat tighter. The signs in the cabin together with the annoucement of the pilot of “fastening seatbelts and put your chairs in upright position” make you more anxious as this means more is to come. You are not a terrible flyer but you definetly cannot handle turbulances very well.

You whine as brace again as the airplane shakes and your tension only rises.

The guy in nexy to you looked up and into your seat “You don’t have to worry about it. It always happens around this time of the flight”

“Yeah, I try to tell myself that but it’s a bit hard” you close your eyes again whining more “when the plane feels like this” I look at him as he takes his mask. his face is familiar but cannot quite place it. He feels bad for you, and understands your situation.

“I am arriving in seoul for the first time in a long timeand I really dont know where to go haha do you have any tips? I am a nervous flyer I talk a lot when im nervous sorry you seemed approachable”I blurt out fast as I try to look at him with a nervous smile forming on my lips

He is suprised that you didn't recognized him and as he thinks about how to answer, he finds it cute how nervous you are

"Oh, okay. Don't worry about it, I don't mind. To which area of Seoul do you go? There are many good hotels around."

“Uhh.. I’m not sure yet? I’m going there for an internship and I’m not familiar with the areas yet, not really had a lot of time to research it either.” I tell him. He nods and thinks for a moment*

"I see. Well, if you are looking for a good location, I would recommend Hongdae. It's a trendy district and is surrounded by many hip restaurants, bars, shops and all. The clubs there are actually quite nice.”

“Cool! I heard its full of fuckboys though” You immediately want to cover your mouth with your hand for speaking maybe too much but they are rather busy with you holding for your life

He laughs a little which surprises you and he shakes his head. "Yeah, you're not wrong. Hongdae are full of boys who love to flirt." He couldn't help but smile, he could tell that you were a nervous but he thought it’s cute.  “But, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll be popular there.” He’s smiling now, clearly entertained by your bluntness. "But I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ll probably be popular there."

You raise an eyebrow. "Thanks?" You’re not entirely sure if he means popular in Hongdae or just in Korea in general, but you chuckle anyway. For Jungkook, It’s rare for him to meet someone who talks to him so naturally, without hesitation. He finds it refreshing.

"I hope to make friends soon," you add, realizing you’ve been oversharing but unable to stop yourself. "It feels weird moving across the world, but I’m happy I did it."

"That’s a good mindset. It can be hard, but it’ll be worth it. You’re brave. I like that."

You smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sorry—I won’t interrupt your flight anymore."

He shakes his head. "It’s okay. Talking to you was… nice. If you need anything, you can text me." He pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to you.

You blink down at it. That was smooth.

"You’re not one of those Hongdae boys, are you?" You narrow your eyes playfully, waving the paper slightly. "Because this? This was a pro move."

He laughed again and shakes his head no, clearly amused. “No, I’m not.” He answered and found it funny that you questioned that. He was used to have girls swarming around him but he found you different and interesting.

“Good because I dont save number of” I do air quotes as I say this “boys who love to flirt with anything that moves”

He laughs at your behaviour since he thinks it’s adorable. “Is that so? Well, I’m glad I passed your test then.” He said jokingly and tilted his head.

I smirk “well see about that….?” I say with a tone waiting for his name at the end of the sentence.

He smirks as he realized what you’re trying to do, he couldn’t deny that it’s making him a little excited. You really didn’t know him?

He said in a low voice, making sure no one else could hear them “Well, my name is Jungkook.”

I smile and raise an eyebrow. Also whispering in reply “Nice to meet you Jungkook. Why are we whispering?”

“Nice to meet you too.” He said softly before he answered your question “Well, you see, if other people found out I’m giving my private number to someone… I’m going to get a lot of questions.”

“why would it matter?” Suddenly the plane goes through a rough patch of turbulence again and I shriek grasping the seat once more.

He couldn’t help but chuckle before gently putting a hand on your hand “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s just turbulence, it’s harmless.”

“Its like jelly right?” I try to laugh it off with a joke I saw on a video before boarding

He smiled as he heard your joke, clearly amused. “Yeah, that’s right.” He replied and chuckled before continuing “The plane is made to endure the turbulence as it's completely harmless. Although it can be scary at first, but you will get used to it.”

“Thanks Mr Aviation. Are you a pilot or something?” I sit back on my seat as the seat belt sign turns off and smile at him.

“No I just travel a lot” Jungkook says brushing it off.

“wow I wish I traveled a lot. I dont think I could ever get used to turbulence even if I flew every week”  you smile but get a bit shy. I wonder what he does to travel a lot

He nods and smiles at you, understanding your feelings, “It’s okay, not everyone enjoys flying and I understand, turbulence can still be intimidating even after you get used to it.” He notices that you seemed a bit shy, and he found that adorable.

“So, you said that you’re going to Seoul for an internship? What kind of internship is it, if I may ask?”

“Well I study management and” you lean closer to also make it sound like a secret like he did before “I will work for a big music label, don’t know which one yet cause they said we will get to know where we are assigned once we arrive. So I cannot give you any free concert tickets or anything” I say it whispering trying to sound nonchalant

He chuckled and shook his head at your attempt of sounding nonchalant. Also, he was a bit surprised that you don’t know which label you’re going to be assigned yet, since it was pretty unusual for companies to let the people they hire to work with them in the dark “Oh, you’re a management student? That’s great! But, I’ve never heard of labels hiring people before telling them what label they will be working for.”

I lean closer to say it in a low voice again “You see, the nature of my job will require top secrecy, and since I havent signed any documents yet as I need my korean IDs and all…so they haven’t said which one exactly I’m going to”  you shrug “I am sure they have it all arranged but we just dont know it yet”

He leans in as well, his curiosity piqued by your answer. He found it intriguing and even a bit exciting, his expression showing interest “Top secrecy? That sounds pretty interesting. I take it that it has to do with a big Kpop label then huh?”

“Uhum … but as I say no free concerts mister”  I laugh and lean back

He laughs and shakes his head, clearly amused by your response “Oh, come on, not even one ticket? Not even a single concert?” His big eyes sparkle, and pouting a little, making a show of being disappointed as he asks for a concert ticket and even though you know he is only playing your game your heart skips a beat for the beautiful man sitting next to you.

You am about to reply as a man approaches him and whispers something in his ear which I cannot understand. You take it as my cue to be silent again and stop bothering.

He nodded at the man who approached him and whispered something in his ear. His smile dropping and he looks a bit annoyed as the man was clearly informing him about something, he shook his head but said nothing to him. He then looked back at you and notices that you just went back to playing solitaire on your phone. He watches you for a second before continuing.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to be quiet, you weren’t bothering me.” He says, his eyes glued on you

“Oh no its ok! I mean you must be tired as well since you travel so much. I dont wanna interrupt anymore.”  You smile but I also know when its my turn to stop talking

“No, really, it’s fine. Traveling a lot can be exhausting, but honestly, talking to you has been a pleasant break for me. I feel more relaxed” Jungkook reassures you, his expression soft and his eyes never leaving your face

You smile and give a small reverence with your head “I’m glad I could be of service”

He laughed softly at your little bow, enjoying the casual conversation he has been able to enjoy with you. No photos or autographs or nervous chat.

“Thank you for your service.” *he replies jokingly and smirks at you, his gaze locked on you, he was beginning to feel drawn to you, something he didn’t often feel, specially to people he just meet.

You keep smiling. Also enjoying the way Jungkook has been sharp on his tongue when replying and playing it off with you. Also, doesn’t hurt that he is gorgeous.  “So, if you dont mind me asking what was james bond on about?” I ask again pointing for the few rows back where the man who came to talk to Jungkook came from

He laughs at your comment of the “james bond” nickname for the man who approached him, finding it witty. His bodyguard would probably laugh knowing that someone called him James Bond.

He leans a bit closer and replies in a low voice so only you could hear him “Well, it’s nothing really, just some management stuff about my job…” he shrugged, downplaying the issue, not wanting the conversation to take a more serious turn. Also hoping that you would not catch on to the fact that he is in Fact an Idol and suddently change.

“hmm I see… I hope everything is alright” You offer a small supportive smile  “When you are back in Seoul what do you normally do?”

*he can’t help but return your smile, appreciating your concern. He thinks for a moment before answering your question, trying hard not to give away his job. “When I’m back in Seoul, I just do normal things like anyone else. Hang out with friends, explore the city, visit the clubs…” he replied and instantly cringing for his reply, but he also couldn’t help but be curious about you as well

I didn’t take you as I a party animal, jungkook” You say raising an eyebrow in a playfull way, teasing him for“visiting the clubs”

He feigns an offended look and places a hand on his chest, pretending to be hurt, but still with the cheakiest grin playing on his lips as he looks your way unable to hide the amusement in his eyes  “Oh really? And why is that? Don’t I look like a party animal to you?”

You laugh “hmm no you dont really… something about “Im not like the other hongdae boys” really stuck with me”

He couldn’t help but laugh as well, clearly amused by your banter. He raised an eyebrow at your comment and leaned back in his seat, a playful glint in his eyes “Well, I stand by my words, I’m not like those Hongdae boys.” he says matter-of-factly, his smile still present as he looked at you, his gaze a little intense.

“I’m glad you are not because otherwise there would be a minus chance of me adding your phone number” You also say matter-of-factly. It feels like shameless flirting and Evi, your friend who could not come, would be kicking her feet if she would be here seeing this interaction.

He couldn't help but burst into laughter at your response, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. There was something undeniably charming about the way you said it—equal parts witty and endearing, making it impossible for him to resist a smile.

“Oh, I see, so my chances would have gone down the drain if I were one of those ‘players,’ huh?” he said, his voice filled with humor, he was surprised how easy it was for him to banter back and forth with you

“yup. but I also only know you for an hour so you can still -unfortunately- prove me wrong.” we lock eyes and we both smile. before he can reply the pilot asking the cabin crew to take their seats as we are landing soon

Both of you couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment, wishing the conversation could last just a little longer.

As he buckled his seatbelt, he glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting forward. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

"Looks like we’ll have to put our chat on hold for now. But don’t worry, I’ll try not to prove you wrong." he adds, still amused and clearly enjoying your company.  Jungkook couldn’t shake off the feeling of wanting to know more about you

You smile at his comment but stay quiet as the plane begins its descent, the familiar weightless sensation making my stomach twist. The turbulence doesn’t help.  Your fingers tighten around the armrest, knuckles turning white as you stare out the window, willing myself to focus on the glittering city lights below rather than the way the plane shudders.

Jungkook notices. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something reassuring about his presence beside you, like an unspoken understanding.

The moment the wheels touch the ground, he shifts. Gone is the relaxed, playful man you’d spent the flight talking to. Instead, he moves with quiet efficiency, reaching for his facemask just as a sharp-suited man—the one I’d mentally dubbed the James Bond type—steps into the aisle. Without a word, Jungkook nods, rises from his seat, and follows him.

No one else has even unbuckled yet.

And just like that, he’s gone.

A strange emptiness settles in my chest as you watch his retreating figure. It’s ridiculous—you only just met, barely spoke beyond a few hours, and yet… you already miss his company? There was something easy about talking to him, something warm. It would’ve been nice to have a friend in Seoul.

As you sit there, still processing the abruptness of it all, you feel it.

A fleeting moment.

Just before disappearing down the jet bridge, Jungkook glances back.

His dark eyes find yours across the cabin, unreadable yet lingering, like he wants to say something but knows he can’t.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he turns and walks away, shoulders squared, slipping effortlessly into whatever world he belongs to—one that, I suspect, is very different from yours.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time our paths will cross.

✈︎ Chapter 2

MASTERLIST