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kikiswriting7 · 18 days ago

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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.

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

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kikiswriting7 · 19 days ago

Text

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

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